Reginald freed a long, slow sigh as he refolded the parchment. He came to his feet and seated himself on the corner of his cot. The sheepskin was smooth against his hands as he turned it over and over in his lap. Just as he expected Lady Freyne waited to hear of her son's death, Aymer's son being too weak to survive.
As for that babe who persisted in the widow's womb, once again his own sweet Clare offered him the opportunity to do murder. Aye, but if he took advantage of her and was exposed, it would surely destroy the love she gave him. Ah, but if he didn't take the advantage, there'd be no chance to own Freyne. He wanted both, not one or the other.
The fire leapt and danced on its stone, the crack and snap of flame loud in the quiet room as he battled with himself. From outside came the low moan of the wind, soughing around the comer of the hall. In its eerie tones he swore he heard his brother's voice, begging that he not give way to murder.
Reginald stiffened against that sound. Aymer should have held his ghostly tongue. A lifetime of doing naught but what was right and good for others only to be repaid with crumbs and disrespect burned in his gut. The decision coalesced more than was made.
There must be a way to finish the babe that would leave all concerned believing the birth had gone awry. Brows lifting in consideration, Reginald thought through the scenario. He doubted Lord Coudray had ever seen a birth and, although Clare might have, it had been at least ten years since she'd done so. As for the midwife, she'd already killed those of Aymer's bastards not wanted by their mothers. For the right number of coins she'd not flinch at another death.
He lay back upon the cot, his hand closing around the parchment. Clare's shirt lay on him like her body would. In only months Romeneye's daughter would be warm in his arms forever.
Yesterday, on the eve of Christmas, Geoff had returned to Crosswell for the first time in a month, tortured by the hope that Lady Freyne's magic had worked. Today, he drowned in disappointment. True, Cecilia now ate in the hall, slept in a bed, and played as a child should play, but she yet hated her sire. The moment she caught a glimpse of him, she was gone.
Thank God for Martin; he'd known Lady Freyne took Cecilia into the garden each day at the same hour. Desperate to see something of his child, Geoffrey concealed himself in the hedged quadrant of the garden, wagering the area was too small and dark to attract the women. Seated on the wooden bench that stood against the garden's back wall, Geoffrey pulled his cloak tightly to him against the day's bitter chill and glanced around him.
Until today he'd considered this spot wasted space. It was barely wide enough for him to stretch out his legs before him and was only a bit longer than he was tall. Although barren, the tangled network of fine twigs around him remained thick enough to prevent anyone from noticing him as long as he stayed still. Most importantly, once he’d broken a narrow gap in the wee branches he could see his daughter.
He watched as Cecilia spun past his opening. She was turning wide circles, her little bootsteps crunching through a thin skin of snow. Her cloak hood fell back and neat dark plaits flew wide, bright with the ribbons braided into them. Pale skin, a mirror of his own fair coloring, was burnished red against the cold day, but her face was alive with happiness. Then she was gone.
Geoffrey's heart tore between pain and pleasure as he recognized what she wore. The dark green gown and the gray mantle lined in fox fur were his Christmas gifts to her. He'd sent them to Lady Freyne's cottage, where his daughter now resided. With them went a note, asking the lady to make his daughter understand they were from him. Despite that he had touched them Cecilia still chose to wear his gifts.
In that moment love joined his hatred of the widow. It had been upon his return journey from Graistan, almost two months past, that Martin's message reached him. All that saved Elyssa of Freyne from death at Geoff's hand for stealing his daughter was that itinerary he and Martin had so carefully planned. Trapped by his shire's needs, Geoffrey hadn't breached Crosswell's gates until mid-November.
Yet, in the short weeks of his absence, Cecilia had shed her ragged gown and let her hair be combed, which was more progress than had been made in a year’s time. After that, not even his fear of what Cecilia might hold trapped within her could rein in his hope. Against all sense, he chose not to interfere and buried himself in his duties, praying that Cecilia would not just heal but forget all that had come before.
It wasn’t as if he’d had the time to interfere, even if he’d wanted to. The justiciars arrived barely a day after his return from Graistan, and the remainder of November had been eaten by the needs of court. December took him on the road, aiding the royal appraisers along with his normal duties. Now, with Christmas come, the whole of England retreated behind their doors and settled before their hearths to celebrate. Even Crosswell's forges stilled, allowing the wind to carry away the reek of their fires. All of which left Geoffrey trapped in Crosswell until Twelfth Day was done.
This time when Cecilia raced past his opening, her dark locks reminded him of Gradinton. In the past months Baldwin had concentrated his energies away from Cecilia. Through those justiciars who'd sat in Crosswell's court, William of Hereford, both friend and bishop, sent word that Gradinton had an envoy in Rome petitioning the pope for an annulment of his marriage to Sibyl. Hope spiked within Geoffrey again. If Gradinton succeeded in remarrying and Lady Freyne healed Cecilia, he might truly regain the family Maud had stolen from him.
Again his lass whirled past, this time holding a wooden figure in her outstretched hand. Geoffrey’s heart twisted. Like Cecilia’s new clothing and her comb, the widow had aided his daughter in reclaiming this precious plaything, something his child had rejected since her dam's death. Hidden beyond the hedge, Lady Clare and Lady Freyne both laughed and clapped when his daughter dropped dizzily to the ground.
He shifted right and found he could still see Cecilia. Her pretty smile was worth his every possession. Lady Freyne appeared in his narrow field of vision. A gust of wind opened her cloak to show him the gentle curve of her expanding abdomen. It wasn’t much, but having seen most all of her on the morn her son departed Crosswell, this was proof of her fecund state.
Love for his daughter glowed in the lady's coppery eyes. Jealousy snapped at Geoffrey as the child who had once loved him went easily into this stranger's embrace. When his Cecilia threw her arms around Lady Freyne's neck, he turned his head aside, incapable of watching.
"Come, poppet," she said to his daughter as she bore the child to the garden gate. "It’s terrible cold out here. You've romped long enough, and there's a great feast to be had this night."
There was a pause. "Aye, there will be dancing and music. Now, what a shame it would be if you were to miss that because you'd played so hard you dropped to sleep."
Another pause. It was strange, their one-sided way of communicating.
"I know you are excited. Who will dance with you? Why, Tante Clare, of course. Tante Clare is quite the dancer."
"Oh Lyssa," her cousin laughed as the garden gate opened. "You know very well I can but stumble to a tune." The garden gate closed, and their voices faded into silence.
Geoffrey held his place on the bench, trying to breathe against the tangle of hurt and hope in him. His daughter was excited about participating in a noisy, crowded event. Aye, but if Cecilia was to enjoy the feast he'd need to keep himself from it. Where he was his daughter could not bear to be.
He could remain in his bedchamber for the whole evening. Memories of Christmas's long past raced through him, bittersweet when compared to his present isolation. It would be impossible to stay alone and listen to the revelers laughing and singing one floor below him.
The loneliness in him grew too great to bear. Just as had happened to his daughter, within Geoffrey grew the need to share this time with other folk. Ach, even if he wished to do so, he could not. Was he not the Devil's spawn? Such a demon would hardly be seen keeping Christmas.
He leaned his head against the wall behind him. It was cold and solid
, and no different than what was now trapped him. The corner of Geoff's mouth lifted against the irony of what he did to himself.
The sky above him was clearing, the morn's thick clouds torn to shreds by a high wind. Nightfall and the bitter chill would bring crystal clarity to the heavens. Here in the garden he wouldn’t be able to hear the music and laughter in the hall. Aye, the moon and stars would be his companions—high, cold, and out of reach. It suited him.
Well then, if he was to spend the evening out of doors, he'd be needing a fire for light. A blanket and a thick cloak would help as well. Geoffrey came slowly to his feet.
Still, his loneliness nagged at him, refusing to be assuaged by simple stars. A skin of wine would help as well. Nay, two would do the trick. Perhaps, if he drank until he dropped he could win an hour free of what ached in him.
***
Elyssa straightened the skirt of Cecilia's new green gown. It was a handsome garment, well made and decorated by a band of embroidery done in bright threads. The cloak to cover it was even more expensive. A touch of irritation woke in her.
There had been such loneliness in Cecilia's face when she learned these gifts had come from her sire. The wee poppet had run her hands over the gown as if she wished it was her father she touched. Was it because of Cecilia's voicelessness that Lord Coudray ignored her?
Elyssa freed a harsh breath. She knew better. It was because Cecilia was no son. Lord Coudray was but a normal man, who set little value on his female child. A gift once a year and his duty was done.
"There you are, poppet, ready for your evening." She smiled at Cecilia.
The daughter of her heart wrinkled her nose and smiled in return. Elyssa sighed. How beautiful she was, with her dark hair and pale eyes. Would that she could speak.
There was a feathery movement as the babe growing in her shifted. Instead of waking in her the promise of coming life, this only reminded her of what was to come. Her dread of dying during his birth not only set a longing in her to hear Cecilia's voice, but fed her ever-present sadness over Jocelyn. She'd hold her own child nevermore.
Cecilia lifted her brows, sensing more than seeing the pain in her borrowed Maman. Eloquent in her quiet she laid her hands on Elyssa's face in an attempt to soothe.
"Do not hurt for me, poppet," Elyssa said gently, pressing her lips to Cecilia's cheek. "Now, go with Tante Clare and dance until you can dance no more."
"Lyssa, you should come," Clare said for at least the hundredth time since Elyssa announced she wanted naught to do with this night's celebration. "It’s wrong that you should be alone."
Elyssa came slowly to her feet. "How can I feast and sing when my son sits in some forlorn place, keeping Christmas with strangers who are no blood to him?"
No doubt he ailed as well. December and January were ever a threat for Jocelyn. Twice, once when he was four and again when he was six, these most dangerous of winter months had nearly taken him.
"Lyssa, why must you think like that? You know nothing of how Jocelyn lives." There was a trace of impatience in Clare's voice.
She turned on her cousin. "You have never been without your family, but I have. Let me tell you of my first holiday away from home. I was but ten and four, a young bride taking the place of a woman who had ruled Ramshaw for twenty years. My stepson was ten years my senior and resented me, commanding the servants to ignore me. Ramshaw had bruised my face the day before because I had spoken boldly to him. They did not keep Christmas in the manner I knew. For them, the day meant nothing but a regular meal, without a single game, dance, or grain of gift giving. I wept the whole day through, so cold and lonely I thought I should die if I did not hear one kind word."
"But you did not die," Clare insisted. "You were strong and survived, as will Jocelyn. If there was aught amiss, you'd have heard, and you've had no message since that first one."
It was this lack of communication that was the backbone of Elyssa's misery. Although she wrote on a weekly basis, the only missive she had from her son dated from November's beginning. In it he wrote that he was feverish and coughing, but his new lord forced him out nevertheless, tromping through fields like a peasant. So too, had he said Ashby's lady was a vicious murderess who threatened to finish her husband and would as soon kill him as speak to him. His final words had been another plea for rescue before illness or his new mistress took him.
Hopelessness washed over Elyssa. She wanted her son. The thought of celebrating while he hurt made her eyes fill. "Clare, I cannot, I just cannot. Go, both of you. Dance for me where my heavy heart will not allow my feet to lift."
"As you will," Clare replied shortly, holding her hand out for Cecilia. "Come, poppet. Make merry with me, then."
Cecilia looked at Elyssa in a last request that she come. Elyssa only shook her head. With that, they were gone.
Setting the bar in the door, she seated herself on the stool before the hearth. Here, where the light was the greatest, stood her embroidery frame, the piece within it half worked. Clare's frame sat next to hers and between them was their basket of threads, brightly colored silk threads spilling from it.
Her gaze shifted to her bed. The piece was too big for the space and crowded them, leaving no room for a table, but Elyssa didn't care. It was finally and at long last hers. Just as she'd planned she'd scrubbed away all trace of the men who had owned her, burning the old mattress and refashioning the draperies into wall hangings. With this year’s profits from her mills she'd had a new mattress made and then, holding her breath against the expense, bought new material for draperies. Now each night she drew lengths of wool dyed a wondrous deep scarlet around herself, Clare, and Cecilia.
She picked her needle out of the linen. This would be a piece for the abbot of Nalder's monastery, a gift meant to repay him for his years of interest in Jocelyn. As she worked, turning creamy linen into the brown-and-green attire of huntsmen, her thoughts ebbed and flowed but ever turning back to Jocelyn’s absence. After an hour of torturing herself, the desire to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and weep filled her. Setting her needle back into the fabric, she unwound her wimple and loosened her hair in preparation for retiring.
There was a quiet tap on the door. Thinking Clare and Cecilia returned early, Elyssa opened the panel without a challenge. A strange man stood in the doorway, his face chapped by travel and his clothing stained with mud. "Lady Freyne, dam to Jocelyn of Freyne?"
"Aye," she murmured in surprise.
"I come to you this night from Ashby manor," he said with a tentative smile.
Elyssa gasped. Jocelyn was dead. The thought went through her like a spear, and she crossed her arms to hold herself together. "From the hall or from Jocelyn of Freyne?" she asked sharply.
The man's smile faltered at her fearful tone. "Why both, my lady. Your son sends you this," he handed her a thin leather pouch. "I'm to return to Ashby on the morrow with your reply."
Elyssa took the weighty packet, her soul steadying in her. If it came from Jocelyn, then he could not be dead.
"Might I visit the hall?" the man prodded.
Startled, she looked up, having forgotten him. "Aye, of course. Make merry with the residents of Crosswell's hall. Good Christmas to you."
"And to you, my lady," he said, backing away and eyeing her as if he thought her strange.
Elyssa closed the door and dropped to sit on her stool. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the strings that tied the packet shut. Inside the leather cover was a single scrap of parchment. She lifted it out, then eased closer to the firelight to read.
My dearest Maman, her son had scrawled.
What had happened to the neatness she'd taught him to use?
Greetings from Ashby and good Christmas.
’Tis a fine place, Ashby, and I have many new friends. Maman, I have learned I am not sickly at all, but healthy and strong. Lord Gilliam is proud of my many accomplishments, especially that of throwing the pig's bladder. You were wrong; it’s not only a sport of commoners
as Lord Gilliam takes great enjoyment in it. I have but once beaten my lord in a race with his destrier. I can do no better until I have a stronger steed. When I skate on the millpond, I rarely fall anymore.
Lady Nicola and I ask that you seek out Lord Coudray, reminding him he must send us six kennet pups for Lord Gilliam. We fear he has forgotten as they have not yet arrived. Maman, they must come before the twelfth night, as they are my lord's final gift.
Your loving son, Jocelyn, heir to Freyne.
Elyssa stared at the sheet. He was hale and strong, not ailing at all. He was playing at sports and games, just as his father had. He signed his missive as Freyne's heir. Gone was his desire for the safety of the Church.
Then anger roared through her. Two months she had eaten her heart in worry, and he was enjoying himself?!
The need to scream out her frustration and hurt grew so strong she choked on it. Not here. With the hall filled with outsiders, the guard remained at the gate. If she made noise, the men would come running. She needed privacy for her rage.
Leaping to her feet, the parchment still caught in her hand, she threw her mantle over her shoulders. Shutting the door behind her, Elyssa raced for the garden. Within this private enclave, she needed no such caution.
Once inside the garden enclosure, she slammed the gate with all her might. It made such a noise when it struck the latch she thought it a miracle the thing did not fall to pieces.
"He skates on the millpond? He throws a pig's bladder and races horses? How can he be so callous as to leave me suffering in worry over him, while he enjoys himself?" she shouted.
She stared up at the moon, naught but a cold disc, silver against icy blackness. The stars thrust their sharp edges into the darkness much like the tears cutting at her eyes.
"Mother of God, here I am, so fearful for him that I cannot celebrate Christmas, while he is enjoying himself! He is loving it at Ashby. Do you hear me, Lady Mary?"
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