by Lori Snow
Isabeau felt prickles along her arms and a chill dance along her spine. “I had no idea you knew me so well. We have had so little time to visit since you arrived.”
“Oh, I know you.” She sidled closer. “I know everything. I know how you chatted up Bennington’s little messenger boy. Is that how you discovered when the earl was arriving so you could go out and meet him?”
Isabeau gasped. Even though Syllba had misinterpreted events, the amount she seemed to know disconcerted her. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Did you bed him?”
C hapter 9
Air whooshed from Isabeau as she grappled with the insulting question.
“Syllba!” she exclaimed in indignation.
“No? Did you just go to him with all of your pitiful little tales of woe?” Syllba moved menacingly closer. “Why did he return to the manor today? He was to be gone for hours on his tour with Porter.”
Isabeau shook her head. “I told him nothing. I’ve no notion of why he returned, nor why he left so soon after.”
Syllba stared at her through narrowed cold blue eyes. “Don’t you?” She tilted her head in consideration. “Mayhap not. You might be book smart, even know how to tally a column of numbers, but about some things—you are a decidedly stupid woman.”
“I have given you no cause to be insulting.” The unexpected verbal attack flamed Isabeau’s slowing rising anger. She had endured quite enough. “I have kept the house of Olivet running in good order. I have done all that was ordered of me and more. I am neither stupid nor do I carry tales. I have never understood your contempt of me. I have never tried to usurp your place but only to see to your comfort.”
Syllba only stared before tossing her head back in surprise. “Oh, but how amazing the transformation. Without even the betrothal vows exchanged. already the meek little kitten has changed into a wild cat with claws, no less. What a grand lady you will be when you are a countess. You will preen and prance and scratch with the best bitches of the high court. How long before you will be spreading your legs for more comely men than the scarred beast who will be coming to your bed on your wedding night?”
Isabeau sucked in her breath in disgust. “I would never…”
“Oh, you will.” Syllba’s smirk held an avaricious quality that sickened Isabeau. “You will need the respite from the ugly visage grunting over you in the dark of night. Marta shared all of her laments and the toils she was forced to endure as countess to Donovan d’Allyonshire. Had we known what the future was to bring, we would have invited you to share our—tête-à-têtes. You would have found that most edifying—and we, well, we may have found it most enjoyable.” Syllba’s laugh cut through the air like jagged glass. “Hindsight—most enjoyable.”
Isabeau shivered. She knew Syllba was double talking but she had no clue as to the deeper meaning—and no desire to decipher through the muck. Escape became her primary concern. Even if she had to leave behind her precious keepsakes.
She made to step around Syllba but her sister-in-law’s hand snaked out and clasped the soft part of her upper arm. Isabeau cried out as she felt Syllba’s sharp nails pierce her skin—through her sleeve yet. She made a futile attempt to disengage the grasp when the door opened without warning.
Syllba slowly turned to the two men entering the gallery before just as slowly releasing her hold.
“Begging your pardon, milady.” Carstairs cleared his throat as he motioned Porter to enter.
Isabeau covered the ache of her arm with her other hand. “What is it, Carstairs? Is my hour up already?”
Carstairs gently smiled at her. She had the feeling he missed very little. “Nay, milady. You’ve a half an hour yet before you must present yourself at the chapel. If you would point out your treasures we will see them secured in the wagon.”
“Thank you.” Isabeau uncomfortably glanced back at Syllba before indicating the two pictures and then pulling a few more volumes from the shelves to the small pile she had begun before Syllba’s arrival. Isabeau made her selections quickly though she hated to leave behind any of the precious tomes.
Carstairs merely nodded when she indicated the task completed. He turned to Isabeau’s smirking sister-in-law. “And now, Lady Syllba, I have a list of jewels from Lady Isabeau’s dowry which you have kept for safe-keeping. The earl is now relieving you of—the responsibility.”
“What?” Syllba shook with her outrage.
“Some of those items have already been secured from your chambers,” Carstairs continued calmly as if not interrupted.
“My chamber!” Syllba screeched. “How dare you think to put your filthy paws on my things?”
“The last few seem to be on your person,” he continued.
Syllba went into a rant, her fingers curling as she swiped at Carstairs. He handled the attack by simply grabbing the swinging arm and smoothly forcing Syllba into a nearby chair.
“Do you need assistance removing them, milady?”
Isabeau snapped her mouth shut when Carstairs winked at her over Syllba’s still raving head.
“Get your whoreson paws off of me,” Syllba hissed.
“Are you calm enough, milady?”
“Yes-s-s.”
“Very well.” Carstairs released his grip and wisely took a step back. “The choker, the broach and the chain and crucifix at your girdle are part of Lady Isabeau’s dowry. If you would be so kind as to give them to my custody, I will see that the earl secures them.”
Isabeau sucked in her breath in surprise. Even though she had worn a couple of the pieces when her father lived, she had had no idea they were to be hers. Simon had simply confiscated all of the jewels as well as other things he considered of value after her father’s funeral.
Syllba possessively covered the broach before she began to sputter. Any semblance of calm vanished. “You must be under a misapprehension. These were all wedding gifts from my husband.”
Carstairs shook his head with regret. “I am afraid not, milady. Lord Simon was never in a position to gift them to anyone. They have been part of Lady Isabeau’s dowry from the date of her birth.”
Slowly, with shaking fingers, Syllba began to unclasp the broach. Isabeau’s stomach twisted with her sister-in-law’s embarrassment. She knew personally, the emptiness of losing beloved tokens to the hand of Simon.
Syllba made to hand the bauble to Carstairs. He made a lightning move and avoided the vicious jab she directed at his outstretched palm. Carstairs said nothing but gripped her wrist in a tight hold while he relieved her of the pin with the other hand.
“Do you need any more help, milady?”
There was a bite to his words and Isabeau wondered how tightly he clenched her wrist when Syllba only shook her head in submission.
Syllba mustered a smidgen of control as she relinquished the last two bits and pieces. As Carstairs thanked her for her cooperation, Syllba stared at Isabeau over his shoulder.
The expression of hatred blazing in those iced blue eyes froze any remaining sympathy Isabeau might have harbored for the other woman. Syllba had no use for any of the gentler emotions.
As Carstairs stepped back to hand the pieces over to Porter, Syllba hissed for Isabeau alone. “You will pay dearly for each indignity. Wear them well for you won’t enjoy them long.”
“Did you say something, milady?”
Syllba exaggeratedly fanned her face with her long fingers. “I am unwell. I must retire to my chambers.”
“As you will.” Carstairs stepped back, clearing a path to the open door, but he made no offer of assistance as Syllba made her exit. He turned to Isabeau when she was out of sight. “Are you sure this is all you wish to take?”
Isabeau nodded distractedly. She wondered if any color remained in her cheeks. She would have rather endured another of Simon’s beatings than the drama which had just occurred. “Even though Simon has no appreciation for such things, I can hardly take all of Father’s books.”
She literally shook hersel
f before she turned to Porter. “I must see to the kitchens and speak to the housekeeper before I leave.”
Porter reached out and gave a couple of reassuring pats on her shoulder. “All will be well, milady. You see if it won’t. My lord has already promised to look out for us all. A man of his word, he is.”
Carstairs nodded. “That he is. Now, you had best be getting ready for the chapel. My lord appreciates punctuality.”
Isabeau raced back to her chamber. She discovered Blanche had already laid out a gown suitable for travel. She had chosen one from Isabeau’s meager wardrobe that was quite appropriate for a visit to the altar in Olivet’s chapel if not for Bennington’s stature. Already, Isabeau had cause to regret the earlier destruction of her amber satin gown. She could have worn the garment at the ducal castle with pride.
She shook her head and pulled the outer dress over her head. No use crying over spilt honey; at least, the ants would not starve.
On the way to the chapel, she stopped in the kitchens to dispense final instructions and issue farewell hugs. Smiles mixed with tears greeted her. She tried to ignore the glints of fear reflected in a few eyes. She could do nothing to ease their anxiety. Afraid she would burst into tears of her own, she rushed to the chapel.
Even with her detours, she was the first to arrive. She sighed in relief and absorbed the serenity of the holy sanctuary as she took her place on the family pew. She dropped to her knees on the prayer cushion and of habit, offered up a litany of prayers. Then for good measure, she added a list of her own.
She genuflected, kissed her simple gold crucifix, and returned it safely under her neckline when the earl’s deep voice washed over her.
“Will you grieve for the convent?”
Isabeau grabbed the wooden railing for balance as she stood. “My lord?”
“Only yesterday, you were bound for the convent. Will you regret making vows to a man and not to Christ?”
Isabeau licked her lips.
Why do I suddenly feel like I am traveling a cliff’s edge?
“Only God knows if I am now on His chosen path for me. I hope to do His will no matter the road I take. I promise to work as hard at being a good countess to your people as I would have served within the walls of the Sisters of Saint Ignatius.”
“I guess we will all see the veracity of your promises,” Donovan commented quietly. “The priest is here to witness your signature to the betrothal contract as well as your avowal that you sign without duress.”
He held out his hand to guide her to the altar. Before Father Fredrich could begin the ritual, Carstairs entered and cleared his throat.
“Begging your pardon, my lord -- Father...”
The earl turned to his lieutenant almost eagerly. “What is it? The good Father has not gotten to that part of his speech as of yet.”
Carstairs widened his mouth in a big mischievous grin. “No objections, my lord. Only felicitations. A few people would like to witness your betrothal vows. May they enter?”
The earl sighed. “Beg them join us.”
Carstairs threw open the double doors, gave a swooping wave and bellowed, “Donovan d’Allyonshire, Earl of Bennington, begs your presence at his betrothal to the Lady Isabeau d’Olivet.”
The people of Olivet swarmed in through the doors three at a time. In minutes, the chapel filled to capacity with more pressing to get into the sanctuary. The rush of enthusiastic well-wishers overwhelmed Isabeau. Her eyes began to burn with tears.
She would miss these people who had shared her childhood and shared her grief when she had lost her mother and then her father. Over the years they had weathered harsh winters, droughts and fevers. Together they had triumphed over enemies and celebrated abundant harvests.
Soundlessly, she thanked them before turning back to the altar. Bemusement twisted a mild grimace on the earl’s mouth but it was her concern about the light in Father Fredrich’s eyes which dried her tears. She recognized his expression.
The priest was hastily reformulating his simple service. She could read it on his face as his mouth silently rehearsed the sermon he would soon trumpet over the filled pews. He had a large portion of his flock as a willing captive audience and he was going to take advantage of the unexpected blessing.
Isabeau shook her head and warned in a whisper, “His Lordship wishes to be on the road before the Compline bells. Keep his wishes in mind.”
Father Fredrich’s mouth thinned and he huffed out his disappointment. He didn’t scold her in front of the earl for her audacity as he would have under normal circumstances. She was grateful for his restrain; also his restraint in the length of the ceremony and the sermon he couldn’t quite surrender. Thankfully, he only took three minutes to remind the people of Olivet to frequently attend more Masses.
Before she truly realized what at happened, she was being led down the center aisle through the throng of well-wishers, her betrothed’s firm hand at her elbow. She wanted to dig in her heels and protest the speed of events. She needed time to think—to accustom her wits to this new path.
There was no gainsaying her betrothed as they left the chapel and he led her to his men—ready and waiting in the bailey. She was signed, sealed and delivered. Her betrothed was lifting her into Meadowlark’s side saddle when she finally found her voice.
“I need a word with the housekeeper.”
His mouth flattened, causing the scar on his jaw to whiten. “You are no longer chatelaine to this place—nor will you continue the duties. If it is work you want, you will have plenty at Bennington.”
He handed her the reins and turned away to swing up onto his own mount. With a click of his tongue and a twitch of his bridle, he began their journey.
The huge procession had gone but a few yards when a young girl cried out. “Lord Donovan! Halt, I beg you!”
A single fluid motion of his hand and everyone stilled. All stared at the young girl who dared to impede the path of the liege lord. The blonde girl stood as tall as her trembling form would allow. Isabeau thought she recognized Carrie under the puffy eyes and white cheeks.
“Speak,” commanded the earl briskly.
Isabeau shivered at the deep resonance in his voice.
Carrie stepped closer to the dancing hooves of the earl’s beast. “Please, milord, might I go with you.”
Isabeau wondered at the desperation in the girl’s voice. Was she too, tired of being Simon’s whipping girl or was there something more behind this bold action?
The earl stared at the maid intently. She had pulled her blonde hair tightly back and secured the plait with a leather thong. She clutched a bundle wrapped in a blanket to her chest and Isabeau thought she was wearing several layers of clothing. Carrie had come prepared.
“What is your name?” the earl asked evenly, perhaps even kindly.
“C-C-Carrie, milord.”
“Are you free or are you indentured to Olivet?”
“I’m free.”
“What of your family, Carrie? Bennington is of a distance that you would not be able to travel freely. You would not see your mother often.”
She looked back at the manor and Isabeau followed her gaze where Simon and Syllba stood sentinel atop the stairs at the grand doors.
“It matters not.” Carrie returned her gaze to the liege. “I canna’ stay here.”
The earl’s eyes flickered in the same direction before nodding. “Very well. While in my home, do not speak of those in this place.”
The girl nodded and dropped into a grateful curtsey. “I vow. You have my undying fealty, My Lord Donovan.”
“You have my protection. So be it.” He turned to Carstairs at his right. “Make room on one of the wagons for Carrie. She goes with us. She will attend to the Lady Isabeau on the road and at Bennington.” After a slight hesitation, as his man dismounted, Donovan added in a loud voice. “Make it known that she is under my protection.”
Carstairs took the girl’s burden and led her to the rear of the convoy. He assist
ed Carrie onto one of the wagons loaded with provisions. Isabeau didn’t remember these wagon springs quite so burdened on the way to Olivet. In fact she frowned as she tried to remember their arrival. She could only recall one wagon. Her single chest and few selections from the library couldn’t possibly take so much room.
Isabeau watched Carrie as she made a place in the corner of the wagon and settled down with her bundle as a pillow. The color had begun to return to her pale cheeks.
“Isabeau.” The earl interrupted her musings as he and Carstairs remounted. “You will ride next to me, as is your place.”
He motioned the party to begin the journey, and they were on their way. Isabeau sat as tall in the side saddle as was possible while still being prudent. Olivet would remember her leaving proudly at their liege’s side.
A last look at the manor and Isabeau relaxed a shade more as she faced forward—towards the road to Bennington.
C hapter 10
Simon stood on the stair and watched as the procession of the mighty Donovan, Earl of Bennington filed out of the outer bailey gate. He simmered like a hag’s cauldron. His gaze focused on the first wagon. The wagon hauling Carrie, the traitorous little bitch, was laden down with the weight of Simon’s gold and jewels. All of the valuables his miserable father had deemed Isabeau’s dowry should have been his.
May the old man rot in hell!
Simon had been so close to recovering a fraction of profit after his last setback. Now, his machinations had been for naught.
How had they fallen apart? Again!
“What happened? I was gone but two days,” he growled at his bitch of a wife. He would rather be free of the slut but she had her uses, and her proclivities did occasionally amuse him. She had even afforded him his previous opportunity. Had the scheme come to fruition, he would finally have been given his due.
“Where were you, husband?” Syllba asked in her silky voice.