The Rose Red Bride JK2

by Claire Delacroix

  There was a patina of sweat over Erik’s flesh when they reached the other side of the passage, and the sudden brightness of the sunlight made him blink. He looked back, shuddered to his very toes, and saw only a shadowed course of road behind him.

  “A mere stretch of road,” Vivienne said, her gaze revealing that she knew it to be otherwise.

  On impulse, Erik lifted Vivienne’s hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, knowing that her fortitude had seen him through that darkness.

  He could only hope that he could win the chance to have her fortitude beside him for all time.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon of the second day when Vivienne had her first glimpse of Blackleith. They stood a good dozen paces short of the lip of the forest, underbrush as high as their waists, the trees forming a canopy overhead as glorious as that of any cathedral. Ominous clouds crowded the sun, which had already begun its descent, but its rays touched the leaves overhead, gilding them to a glorious hue.

  Blackleith’s hall itself was an uncommon combination of Norman construction, local traditions and a measure of ingenuity. It certainly was not so glorious as the fortresses of the south, neither so massive as Ravensmuir nor as artfully designed as Kinfairlie, but it was doughty and of considerable size.

  It had been constructed with a square base, the lower part of the walls were wrought of cut stones fitted so tightly together that the wind probably could not whistle through them. The walls were thick, the better to keep heat within the building. There was only one portal near the ground and no windows below the second story.

  The stones continued to the height of two men. The walls above were made of smaller, rounder stones, stacked according to their shape and size, then sealed in place with wattle and daub.

  “The large stones were hewn further south,” Ruari informed her. “Upon the lands of the Earl of Sutherland. They were hauled up the river on barges when the water was low, pulled by ropes hauled by men upon the banks.”

  “But the stone changes,” Vivienne noted.

  “That is stone locally gathered, and time it took to collect them, to be sure.” Ruari nodded sagely, as if he had gathered the stones himself.

  “It would have been finer all wrought of the same stone,” Erik said, “but the cost became too much for me.”

  “You had this built?” she asked, before she recalled that detail of Ruari’s tale.

  “Such as it is.”

  Vivienne heard a warning in Erik’s tone, as if he would caution her that he was not overly affluent. She did not truly care, and if he did not realize as much, then she would not deign to tell him so.

  She was beginning to doubt the merit of her decision to join him. Though he had held fast to her hand in that place where he had been assaulted, though he had kissed her hand with what had seemed to be gratitude, he had then dropped her hand as if her very touch scorched his flesh. Vivienne could make no sense of Erik’s manner though she wondered yet again whether proximity to Blackleith made him recall the great love he had shared with his wife, Beatrice.

  She ignored his comment and looked upon the holding he meant to regain. The roof of the hall was thick thatch, and the windows had solid wood shutters that could be latched over the openings when the wind was fierce.

  Ruari seemed to have appointed himself as a guide of sorts, for he enthusiastically recounted the merits of Blackleith for Vivienne. She could feel Erik behind her, feel his gaze upon her, but she felt it time enough the he granted her a measure of encouragement.

  Ruari pointed to the stone structure. “Within the hall, the main floor is used as both great hall and accommodation for guests, and while we abided there, Erik always claimed the upper floor for himself and his family. The second floor is reached by a ladder, though it is sufficiently large to be divided into chambers, to be sure, and the chimney passes through the floor on one side. In this way, the heat of the fire is shared throughout the structure.”

  “Most clever,” Vivienne said.

  Ruari nodded. “Indeed. There is a single hole in the roof, where the smoke is emitted. And Blackleith is the first abode in all of Sutherland with a moat dug around the hall, one so deep that the water within it is always dark and cold. Why, the Earl himself thought it such a sound notion that he talked of adding one to Dunrobin after he had seen this keep.”

  Vivienne noted that the summit of Blackleith’s hall lacked a banner, like the heraldic ones that snapped in the wind above her family’s keeps. “Is that Blackleith village?” she asked, indicating the cluster of peasant cottages beyond.

  “Aye, and there is a small chapel, as well,” Ruari noted. “See the abode with the dark door? That is the home of the blacksmith, his skill so considerable that even the Earl sends his favored weapons to this smith for repair. There is also a mill, run by a miller who divides his fee with the laird.”

  Beyond the village, sheep grazed, white against the purple heather, and a few chickens pecked the earth. Fields spread to the west, along the north bank of the river, though they were falling fallow. Blackleith had the appearance of a holding that had once been more prosperous than it was presently.

  Children played on the edge of the fields and Vivienne turned to Erik. “Are your daughters among them?”

  He shook his head, for clearly he had already sought their familiar figures, and his expression was somber.

  Vivienne forced herself to sound cheerful. “Though they would scarcely play with the children of the peasants. Doubtless they are within the hall.”

  She saw Erik’s gaze slip toward the chapel. She followed his gaze and caught her breath when she saw the small cemetery beside the chapel. Surely, he did not think that Nicholas had killed such young innocents?

  “Nicholas is free with coin that is not his to spend, to be sure,” Ruari complained, pointing a heavy finger to a structure beyond the keep which might have been new. “Though there is no coin more easily spent than that for which a man owes no accounting, upon that you can rely. Why, I heard tell once of a man in the employ of the Earl who traveled all the way to London for a trio of cloves, the better to make hippocras for the Earl, then demanded that the Earl pay the sum of his expenses, the bills for the stabling of his steed and lodgings for himself, no less every morsel of food that crossed his lips and ale that filled his belly. Now, there was a man with audacity and to spare!”

  “It is a stable, and it is new,” Erik said. “But what need has Nicholas of a stable? There is only the old grey plough horse at Blackleith, and she is well accustomed to the shanty beside the smith’s cottage.”

  They all looked toward the smith’s cottage, but no grey horse was tethered there.

  “Where is the grey plough horse?” Ruari demanded with outrage. “What has he done with her? And how are the peasants to till the fields without her?”

  “I am not certain that they have,” Erik mused.

  Upon closer inspection, Vivienne saw his point. The fields might not have been even tilled this year. Certainly it was not a familiar crop to her eyes that grew within them.

  “There are not as many sheep as I might have expected, perhaps half as many as in former years,” Erik noted with evident displeasure. “And the children look to me to be thin.”

  The smith’s wife stepped out of their cottage to shout at the children and Ruari swore beneath his breath.

  “She is but half her former self,” he said, concern pulling his lips to a tight line.

  Vivienne could have guessed what had happened to the bounty of Blackleith for she recalled Nicholas’ fondness for fine garb.

  A trio of squires left the hall then, their silken tabards glinting in the sunlight. They were plump, these three, and they laughed loudly as they made their way to the new barn.

  The smith’s wife regarded them with undisguised hostility. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at them, after she summoned the children to her side. They scampered into the cottage, as if fearful of the proud young men.


  “Squires?” Ruari demanded with a wrinkled nose. “And what need has the Laird of Blackleith of squires? There are no tournaments hereabouts, upon that any thinking man can rely. Doubtless he has minstrels in his hall each night, and poets at the board! Perhaps there are pearls sewn in rows upon his chausses and gems ground into his ale each night!” Ruari flung out his hands. “While the people who labor beneath him are condemned to starve for lack of a plough horse. Doubtless he sold the old mare for a pittance! Your father must be turning within his grave at this, to be sure.”

  “Hush, Ruari, lest you be overheard.”

  Ruari snorted and might have said more despite Erik’s warning if the squires had not led six splendid steeds out of the barn in that very moment. Instead he exhaled in awe and exasperation, then muttered a curse and shoved a hand through his hair. “It is no marvel that the smith’s wife is so displeased. She was always a kindly one, but such abuses with coin as these would drive the sweetness from the ripest apple.”

  Vivienne watched as hooded falcons were brought on gloved fists, and the sumptuous saddles that were put upon the horses. The coats of these steeds gleamed, so well did they eat, and their necks arched proudly. They were fine steeds, to be sure, but it was clear how Nicholas had managed to afford them.

  The miller’s wife stepped out of her cottage, spared a glance for the smith’s wife, then regarded the steeds with disdain. “We should demand that the laird grant us one of his horses,” she called to the other woman. The squires pretended not to notice her, but Vivienne had no doubt they could hear her words. “Lest our children starve this winter.”

  “I know not what he thinks we shall eat,” the smith’s wife retorted. “Since the lambs are taken for the laird’s own table and a man lose a hand for taking so much as a squirrel from the forest. A child does not grow strong and tall upon onions, to be sure.”

  “I hear horseflesh is fine to eat,” the first woman replied. “Though truly, hunger does make the best sauce.”

  The squires glared at the women and did not deign to reply.

  “He would slaughter them all for such a crime,” Ruari muttered and Erik did not doubt as much. “It is clear these steeds are prized beyond all else.”

  “How long will a woman watch her children go hungry?” Vivienne asked. “They may so desperate that they do not care what his retaliation might be.”

  A fanfare sounded and a minstrel leapt out of the portal to the keep proper, sounding his horn as he did so. He too was dressed in fine silken garments of bright hues and he bowed low as he glanced back to that portal.

  The women sneered, but their expressions became impassive as soon as a party of four nobles stepped through the doorway. Vivienne realized that they were not prepared to fully tempt the laird’s wrath.

  For it was none other than Nicholas Sinclair, garbed richly from head to toe, who strode across the bridge over the moat. His hair gleamed in the sunlight, the gems upon his fingers flashed. He laughed at some comment made by the other man who strolled with him, the handsome group making their way toward the saddled steeds.

  The women wore clothing so ornate as to have cost a king’s ransom, their tightly laced vests trimmed with ermine, their sleeves hanging to the very ground, their skirts and sleeves hemmed with deep golden embroidery thick with gems. Both wore gloves of colored leather, both wore their hair curled up beneath elaborate caps adorned with massive feathers. Two maids scampered behind the group, giggling with each other and grimacing at the mud underfoot.

  Vivienne turned to her companions, intending to make some comment about the women’s rich garb, but the shocked expressions upon the men’s’ voices stole whatever she might have said. Erik seemingly could not look beyond the woman who took his brother’s elbow. “What is amiss?” she asked. “You must have expected to see Nicholas here.”

  Erik swallowed and bowed his head.

  Ruari looked to Vivienne with sympathy in his eyes. “The woman who walks with Nicholas.”

  “She is garbed as richly as a queen and looks most delighted with herself.” Vivienne said, not understanding the reason for their dismay. “You must have seen such fine garb in your journey. To be sure, the peasants have contributed the coin and that is shocking, but...”

  “She is Beatrice,” Ruari said grimly.

  Vivienne looked between the two men in dismay, but Erik’s features might have been wrought of stone. “Not Erik’s wife, Beatrice. She is dead.”

  Ruari shook his head. “She appears most hale.”

  And Vivienne understood then the fullness of the challenge before her. No wonder Erik looked like a man struck to stone! His beloved yet lived!

  She turned back to watch Erik’s wife, tears blurring her vision. She had erred in truth, for not only did Erik love his wife, but his wife still drew breath.

  Which meant that Vivienne could never win his regard for her own.

  Impulse had steered her false.

  * * *

  Beatrice was alive!

  Erik could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. Several matters which had always confused him, however, began to make a dreadful sense.

  Why had there been no hint of her presence when he had returned to Blackleith in the Earl’s company? Why had no one been willing to tell the Earl outright about her fate? Erik suspected that even Nicholas knew that the Earl of Sutherland would not be hasty to endorse an immediate match with his late brother’s wife.

  But Beatrice’s survival had tremendous import. Erik had committed adultery with Vivienne, albeit unknowingly. He had sinned, and he did not imagine that any judge would grant him clemency for his ignorance. How diligently had he sought Beatrice, after all?

  So, he had soiled Vivienne twice: once in the claiming of her maidenhead, then again in committing adultery. There was no question of his embracing her again, not until he could be certain of how matters would be resolved.

  Erik urged Ruari and Vivienne further back into the shadows as he considered the best course. The foursome at Blackleith’s hall, meanwhile, mounted their steeds and accepted hunting hawks upon their fists. The three squires mounted three fine palfreys and the nine steeds made no haste toward the distant forest.

  “Do you think the laird will cast alms from his hall if he takes a hart?” the smith’s wife demanded.

  The miller’s wife shrugged. “He will eat it all, or cast it to his dogs before he grants charity to those beneath his hand, upon that you can rely.”

  “Aye, you speak the truth in that.” The two women exchanged a look of resignation, then returned to their cottages with drooping shoulders.

  Erik barely glanced at Vivienne. “You will remain hidden here,” he said tersely, unwilling to risk her life. He had already led her to sin and thus endangered her very soul. He could not bring himself to look at her fully, so ridden with guilt was he. “And I will hear no protest on this matter.”

  “Of course,” Vivienne said, so demure that she might have been another woman.

  Erik looked at her then and was shaken by her pallor. She stood dejected, as never he had seen her, the bright sparkle of her eyes dimmed to naught. She sighed and sat down, apparently so burdened with patience that she had not the urge to do any deed at all.

  Guilt stabbed through him. Clearly, she felt the weight of their sinful deed as fully as he did.

  Erik did not know what to say. At the same time, he could not leave without a consoling word, for he knew not whether he would return. He took a step toward her and she averted her face, though still he saw the shimmer of her unshed tears. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I did not know.”

  “I know,” Vivienne whispered and the first of her tears fell. “I know, just as I know that I have only my foolish trust to blame.”

  “You may be many things, Vivienne Lammergeier, but you are no fool.”

  She looked up through her tears and managed a tremulous smile. “I thank you for that courtesy, though I fear you see more merit than I truly poss
ess.”

  “Impossible,” Erik said and their gazes held for a potent moment. He saw her hope, he guessed what she desired of him, and he was sorely tempted to grant it to her.

  But he would pledge love when he could act upon it honorably, not merely to halt a woman’s tears.

  He inclined his head once in silent salute, then turned away, summoning Ruari with a flick of his fingers. “We will seize the maid’s horses, for they do not look to be competent riders,” he said. “Then I will pursue Nicholas, wheresoever he might flee.”

  The older man nodded and grunted, sparing Vivienne a fatherly glance. He stepped to her side and laid a hand upon her shoulder and Erik heard his gruff words. “This tale is not over, lass, upon that you can rely. You know as well as I that the sole folly that can do a soul injury is to lose hope when success is deceptively close at hand. All looks most dire just before matters turn in one’s favor, just as the night is most black before the dawn.”

  “I thank you, Ruari, for your sound counsel,” Vivienne said and the older man puffed with pride.

  “And a good portent it is that someone thinks my opinion worthy of merit, to be sure,” he said with forced cheer. He then strode past Erik with marked impatience, as if he had been waiting upon the younger man. He even snapped his fingers. “Come along, lad, the hunt is not begun while one lingers in conversation.”

  Vivienne and Erik exchanged a glance that warmed Erik’s heart before he turned to Ruari. The two men broke into a run then, circling around the meadow while staying within the protective shadows of the forest.

  A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and the sun was swallowed finally by the dark clouds. Those clouds built ever higher and blacker in the sky overhead, and the thunder sounded again, as if it would warn Nicholas Sinclair that his reckoning came due.