by Lori Snow
“Yes.” Isabeau nodded. The few years since Granya’s visit to Olivet had not been generous to her. Only her clothes and scarves seemed to be holding her skin to her bones, though she stood straight enough. Wisps of thin white hair strayed from her wimple to frame her apple-doll face. “I am happy to see you again Dame Granya. How are you?”
Granya ignored Isabeau’s proffered hand. She narrowed her dull eyes as she inspected Isabeau and found her lacking. “We are all still grieving.”
C hapter 16
The rain had stopped. Dry and clean once more, Donovan emerged from inspecting the blacksmith’s forge to breathe the cool outside air. The smithy’s skill pleased him. He thought the man would do well at recreating the tools and weapons Donovan had discovered in his travels for the king.
“You’ve understood what I want, Kermit,” Donovan assured the anxious man. “Take on a couple more apprentices and an additional fire boy. Bennington’s arsenal needs replenishing. Also, I have diagrams of farm implements, too.”
Kermit’s cheeks, made perpetually ruddy from standing over his fires, warmed scarlet. “My lord, I would be honored with any task you set for me. I know some young lads who could be suitably trained. There be another, a bit older than custom—but he has a touch that could be honed like an edge on a grindstone.”
“You know best. Should the need arise, I’ll speak to the fathers.”
“ ’Twon’t be n-necessary, to be sure. I-I’ll explain all. They all know the honor of becoming B-Bennington’s smithies.” Kermit stuttered in his excitement at his suddenly elevated status.
Whatever else Kermit said was lost to Donovan when he heard a melodic peal of laughter float over the outer bailey.
Donovan turned toward the sound -- much like a child following the piper, he thought ruefully. He watched as Isabeau – with her little maid -- entered behind Eldred and Maisie through the connecting arch. The little maid was now Isabeau’s companion, he corrected himself. He’d learned the girl had acquired a new position as well as her new name. Caitlin bounced close behind Isabeau’s heels.
Eldred waved his arms in an expansive gesture, which encompassed the grand space of the outer bailey. Donovan surmised the old man was currently explaining the weekly market day sponsored by the castle. Isabeau spoke with a smile and the old man laughed.
When the attack came, no warning heralded its arrival except a single cry.
“A moi!” The stringent command rang over the bustle of the people not in the fields. Donovan quickly searched and found the source. The hound’s keeper, Felix, was racing across the bailey losing ground to an enormous canine on direct course for—for Isabeau.
His hand on his hilt, Donovan began to run. He was not going to make it. He could see it—knew it -- felt the knowledge deep in his belly.
The distance was too great. The black and brown beast was almost upon her when Isabeau finally turned towards the danger. She held up her hands in front of her as her only protection but she did not run.
She did not run!
Did she instinctively know to run would only enrage a predator faster?
Why did everyone else seem frozen where they stood? Only he and the dog were moving and he was not moving fast enough.
“NO!”
Her scream echoed his as the animal leapt through the air. He noticed the macabre scene as the canine stretched through the air towards it prey. The dog matched Isabeau in size. When the beast hit her, his weight easily took her down to the muddy ground. Donovan saw her struggling ineffectually against the writhing bulk atop her. She braced her hands against the front haunches and valiantly tried to straighten her arms.
It was not enough.
Still several strides away, Donovan pulled his blade from the sheath. The edge sang as he cut through the air and prepared to impale the creature.
“Geoffrey, a moi!” The hound’s keeper screamed as he raced towards Isabeau, a bridle swinging in his hand. “A moi!”
“Geoffrey?” Isabeau squirmed beneath the onslaught, her face red and streaked with tears. “This is J-Jaffey?”
Suddenly, she threw her arms around the thick neck and pulled the animal closer. The black muzzle buried in the crook of her neck, Isabeau began to shake.
Donovan raised his sword, about to behead the dog but Felix pushed in front of him.
“No, my lord. Please. He means no harm.” The hound’s keeper pleaded for mercy. “He’s young. I will discipline him. Please do not kill him.”
Only then did Donovan realize the dog had not sunk his teeth in to tear out Isabeau neck, but instead had laved her face with his tongue and canine drool. Laughter caused her breathless shakes.
“This is Christian’s Jaffey?” Isabeau asked as she attempted to turn away from the wide pink tongue still baptizing her. “But he was just a puppy.”
“Aye, Milady. ‘Twas Lord Christian’s pup, right enough,” Felix answered absently as he continued to stand between Donovan’s sword arm and the frolicking duo.
Donovan slowly lowered his weapon and stared at his betrothed. The soft mud had cushioned her fall but now coated the back of her head and gown. Her front had faired no better. The substantial paws left their marks from neck to hem.
Even with her hair a tangled muddy mess, she chuckled as she gave a final heave. She pushed the enthusiastic canine hard enough to roll to her side and affect an escape. When she held her hand towards him, Donovan automatically reached out with his right. The widening of her eyes reminded him he still clutched his sword in a white-knuckled grip. He changed stance and clasped her wrist with his left one and yanked her to her feet.
The dog whined as Felix put the leather collar around his neck and then began to attach the leash. He hunkered down for another leap.
Isabeau continued to laugh but she scooted behind Donovan and peaked around his forearm.
“I am not a bone to gnaw, you naughty hulk,” she scolded the dog. “I have not dried out from our trip and now I have to change yet again. What will my betrothed think?”
“That you defended yourself against a vicious tongue lashing and successfully repelled the attack.” Donovan shook his head as he stared at her mud.
Isabeau looked down and groaned. “Is there a well or trough other than the moat?”
“Aye,” Donovan answered. “Why?”
“I can hardly traipse through the castle corridor in this condition.” She flared her skirts with dirty hands. “I’ll have Caitlin pour a couple of buckets over me to get the worst of the mess off. I should be put to right well before sexts and mid-day meal. Eldred and Maisie, we will have to postpone your delightful inspection. Now, the water?”
Donovan could not help the answering grin that widened his mouth. A snick echoed as he slid his blade home. Empty-handed, he offered his arm in formal invitation. She wiped her hand on her skirt before resting her fingers upon his with as much aplomb if gowned in gold cloth and about to curtsy before the king.
Jaffey whined and pulled against his lead. Isabeau looked back and ruefully shook her head.
“You might as well come along, you scoundrel,” she scolded, but she reached out to scratch the top of the black head. “You have more mud than fur and you were the cause. You are not escaping the cold bath.”
Isabeau strode towards the round water trough near the west gate with her shoulders thrown back and her chin lifted. Donovan became aware of the curious eyes carefully tracking their progress and the growing procession at their backs.
Forgetting she was no longer just a maid, Caitlin raced ahead to get a bucket. She had it ready on their arrival.
Isabeau stared at the bucket and sighed. “You might wish to step back, my lord. You could find yourself the victim of another deluge.”
Donovan took her advice and hastily stepped backwards. He wondered if she should retreat to her chambers and order a tub. As the future countess, should not she be displaying more decorum? More dignity?
Isabeau turned her back to Caitlin and st
ooped to be closer to the girl’s reach. “If I wait any longer it will only harden and turn me into a garden ornament.”
He causally glanced around at his people gathered around the trough. An interesting blend of expressions colored the many faces. Amusement and curiosity was predominantly lighting the countless pairs of eyes. He detected guarded suspicion but no evident hostility. In fact, as the water began to wash away the muck, so did even the wisps of suspicion seem to trickle to the soft ground.
Had she known such an easy and public resolution would have this affect on her acceptance as Bennington’s countess? He saw seen how Olivet’s people quietly remained steadfast to their lady in spite of the danger from the new master. Their loyalty to her certainly was founded on more than their dislike of her brother and sister-in-law.
Maisie stepped forward to aid Caitlin with a second bucket while Isabeau gallantly endured. Only her blue lips gave clue to the cold sluicing down over her head and shoulders.
Perhaps to provide a distraction to her discomfort, Isabeau focused on the whining, black and brown dog. The animal still strained against his restraint apparently trying to get to his lady. He pulled so hard towards Isabeau he dragged his keeper until he could sit in front of her.
She bent down—she did not have to bend far—to frame his big face in her small white hands. Face to face, almost nose to nose she spoke to the dog as if to a child.
“If we are to continue being friends, you will bathe and learn not to knock me about like fresh game. You will behave in an appropriate manner as befits Bennington Castle. Do you understand?”
Much to Donovan’s surprise the dog answered with a short clipped woof as if he actually understood her demands. A couple of short barks followed, accented with thumps of a great tail on the ground.
Isabeau nodded sagely, smoothed a caress over a pointed ear and curled her hand around to scratch the brown throat. “Oh, Jaffey, I miss him as well.”
Donovan’s throat tightened as he realized she was offering the dog her condolences on the loss of his own son. He stepped back—one step, then two.
This creature had started as the puppy he brought across the water as a gift to Christian. How had Isabeau… Then he recalled the tale she told him only a few days hence. Christian had willfully insisted—as only a child could—on taking his beloved puppy with him when Marta had dragged their son across the countryside.
“You had best finish your own bath in front of a fire, my lady.” Donovan commanded as he stepped back again and then turned away. When he saw the amusement fade from Maisie’s face he knew he sounded gruff rather than concerned. He could not stay to explain. He was not ready to explain.
He had just reached the inner bailey when the old crone, Dame Granya, toddled into his path. Today, she bent over her cane, her boney shoulders hunched. He had discerned ages ago, that she only used the prop when she wanted an audience.
“Good morn, Dame Granya.” He moved to circumvent the woman but she reached out with one of her crooked claws to catch his sleeve.
“Oh, my lord,” Her scratchy voice rattled out, as brittle as her frame. She shook her head balefully. “ ’Tis such a disaster my lord. You poor man.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the girl’s behavior, of course.” Her grip curled tighter on his sleeve. “Her actions do no credit to your house. My Marta would not think of making such a spectacle with an animal, nor would she have further sullied your reputation by making a game of being drenched in the middle of the open bailey. She has no sense. She will never fit in—never take Marta’s beloved place in the heart of Bennington.”
“You do not think Bennington will welcome a new countess—not even one as young and beautiful as Lady Isabeau?”
“Well, obviously she is young -- beautiful. But without Marta’s comportment, my lord.”
“She does not have much in common with Marta,” Donovan agreed bitterly, but the sarcasm slipped by Granya.
“Dare I ask if yours was an arranged betrothal? Was she prepared to become countess? She seemed quite burdened last eve while settling down for bed. I do not think she wished to be here.”
“Do you not?” What was the old woman aiming at?
“How soon do you plan to wed? If I were you, I would have the gamekeeper get a good supply of sparrow eggs. Perhaps the healer has a few shells in her hoard.” She uncurled her fingers to pat his arm in a false conciliatory fashion. “You will need something to ease the hazardous road to her marital bed. But you know best.”
He nodded and slipped away from the aged wretch. Had the old woman been aiming a bow, she would have scored a kill to the heart. The shells of sparrow eggs were the main ingredients of many aphrodisiacs. Had she mixed the potion and poured it down Marta’s throat those years ago? What had the old woman heard? Was Isabeau a reluctant bride?
Isabeau was not Marta. That, Donovan felt -- knew -- of a certainty. But how could he be sure his scarred body or the act itself would not repulse her? She would honor her vows, but would she sob even before he left her?
C hapter 17
Isabeau stopped between the kitchens and the great hall. She could feel the warmth of the cooking hearth as well as delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. She fought the temptation of that warmth after her cold drenching. She really needed to do more than get warm.
Her sparse wardrobe needed evaluation if she was to make a presentable appearance at the mid-day meal—the first meal shared before Donovan’s people. Perhaps Caitlin could help her salvage a gown.
Isabeau bit the inside of her cheek to prevent a frown as she tried to wring more water from her skirts. She had gone through three gowns in fewer days. She would forgive Donovan should he confuse her with the frogs in his moat.
A shiver snuck by her guard though she locked her jaw to prevent her teeth from rattling. She twisted another portion of her skirt before turning towards the great hall door. She had chosen to enter through the side entrance rather than leave a trail of dripping water behind her.
Maisie met her at the stairs.
“There ya be.” Maisie greeted with a wide smile. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if ya gone and jumped in the trough. There be a bright fire in yer chamber and the kitchen lads have drawn the water for a warm bath. Come along.”
Maisie turned on the stairs and dashed ahead. Isabeau followed at a slower pace. The water squishing in her slippers tickled her toes. At least she could still feel them—they had not frozen and fallen off. She glanced over at Car—Caitlin who trailed quietly at her side.
“What troubles you, Caitlin?”
“Mayhaps, ‘t'would be better if I moved to another chamber.” Caitlin answered reluctantly.
Isabeau stopped on the stair, ignoring the breeze ruffling her drooping skirts. “Is the room—the bed—not to your liking.”
“ ’Tis nothin’, milady.” Caitlin shook her head as she resumed her climb of the stone stairs.
“Caitlin?” Isabeau called after the retreating swish of hem but Caitlin paid no heed. Isabeau lifted her own skirts so she would not trip and raced after her friend. She followed Caitlin into the chamber intending to chip away at the sudden ice but discovered the room bustling with activity.
Maisie rode herd over her flock, nipping at their heels if they did not move to her satisfaction. In the process of ordering two boys to pour steaming water into the wooden tub, she still found time to oversee the maids smoothing out the skirts of Isabeau’s best gown. She flashed a smile towards Isabeau before waving the boys from the room.
“Get yourself stripped, Milady,” The housekeeper ordered as she closed the door. She scurried back to Isabeau and began to work the sodden ties before Isabeau could do anything herself. “That’s a good girl. We’ll have ya right as rain—sorry milady—we’ll have you as dry and toasty as ol’ Nattie’s bannock buns in no time.”
A maid laughed at the apparent joke as Isabeau snapped her mouth shut in astonishment. Maisie just cackled delightedly befo
re explaining. “Ol’ Nattie makes rather tasty bannock buns but she bakes them rock hard. Course, we all know why she does it.”
“Why?” Isabeau blinked as her curiosity grabbed hold.
“Raise yer arms and I’ll just slip this over yer head,” Maisie instructed before she continued. “She needs to soak it in a bit of mead or mulled wine. That ‘tis what she likes. Now, ya’ve been in mournin’ have ya not?”
Amazed, Isabeau whirled to face her. “However did you know that? Did Caitlin tell you of my papa’s death?”
“Why no, wee countess.” As the older woman continued fussing over Isabeau, her accent seemed to be falling into a relaxed cadence. “‘Tis yer gowns what are telling the tale. Ya’ve got a treasure trove in the countess’s solar but yer chests got not a bit of color.”
Isabeau’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment. Though she still grieved, the official period of mourning had long passed. She could not explain that the condition of her wardrobe had naught to do with mourning but with her brother’s tyranny. Once upon a time, she’d had a rainbow of colors at her fingertips. She opened her mouth to explain when the first part of Maisie’s comment reached her comprehension.
“Maisie, did you say treasure trove? What did you mean?”
“Sir Carstairs directed all yer keepsakes be toted to the solar ‘til you could display them as ya wish.” The older woman’s head bobbed as she added shrewdly. “A new bride always settles better when she can decorate her own nest.”
“But I only chose a few…” Isabeau’s voice trailed off.
“A few?” Maisie chuckled and patted Isabeau’s cheek. “Oh, my.”
“What does she mean?” Isabeau asked Caitlin.
Caitlin shrugged. “Everyone was helpin’ load the wagons.”
“I have to see what they put in the wagons.” Isabeau said urgently. She took only one step before Maisie tugged on her wet shift.
“Ya would not be goin’ ‘til yer dry and might be better if yer dressed.” She reminded Isabeau good naturedly.