by Lori Snow
Isabeau submitted to their ministrations while she bristled inside. What made up the cache in the solar? Where was the solar? She could not imagine her few books and the portraits being so impressive as to have the label “treasure trove.”
She sat quietly in the tub while a maid washed her hair. Maisie fussed over the hearth and Caitlin served her an earthen mug of mulled wine. Isabeau could not remember the last time she had felt this pampered. Around the age of ten, she’d begun her duties as chatelaine of Olivet. With so many servants to manage, with menus and accounts, she did not have time to soak in a warm tub. She could not justify having the servants do for her when the daily tasks mounted to the sky.
Now, she would have dozens more.
Hundreds more.
Bennington Castle served as home to hundreds—warriors, farmers, servants and their families. She prayed she had the skill to do Donovan and his people justice as the lady of the castle.
A maid, Dorcus, worked Isabeau’s hair with a drying cloth before Caitlin began to brush out the tangles. When she made the mistake of assuring them she could brush her own hair, their grumbles greeted her. With no other choice, dressed in only a shift, she subsided onto a low stool. Caitlin began to slide the brush through Isabeau’s long damp hair in a soothing rhythm that made Isabeau momentarily forget about the solar.
“Caitlin?” Isabeau asked in low tones, trying to keep the same cadence in her voice as Caitlin’s brush strokes.
“Yes, milady?”
“Why do you wish to move to another chamber?” Isabeau tilted her head just enough to watch Caitlin. “Is it not to your liking in some way?”
A white line formed around the girl’s mouth as she tightened her lips.
“You might as well tell me the truth. My papa taught me the patience of a fisherman.”
Caitlin licked her lips before answering. “I’d not wanna be in the way.”
Isabeau straightened her back and twisted on the stool so she could look directly into Caitlin’s eyes. “How could you be in anyone’s way? You are my friend. I asked if you could be close—so you—could keep me company—could assist me in my duties.”
“I do not know how to help a countess.” Blotches of color formed on Caitlin’s cheeks. “I ne’er even met a countess afore.”
“Why should that matter?” Isabeau let a smile stretch her lips in an attempt to coax a smile from the trembling girl. “I have never been a countess before. I want you here because you are my friend.” She watched as tears glistened in Caitlin’s blue eyes. Something more was going on inside the child’s head.
“You should have Dame Granya guide you.” Caitlin licked then chewed on her lips before rushing into an explanation under Isabeau’s patience stare. “She knows what’s fittin’ for a proper countess. Knows what you should wear—how to talk. She was the dead countess’s trusted confi—confi…”
“Confidante?” Isabeau supplied the word for Caitlin.
“Oh, that one,” Maisie interrupted scornfully, not a wit bashful about eavesdropping on her future countess’s conversation. “Her heart is as rotten as an egg in an old robin’s nest.”
The maids murmured in agreement.
“But she’s a dame—a lady. She knows -- knows… The honor of sleeping next to the family is her due. I got no right to put her out of her family place.” Caitlin added emphatically.
“So that be her first cut.” Dorcus twisted her mouth in disgust. “She’s no more part of the earl’s family than a Saracen mummer—nor was she true kin to countess Marta.”
“Aye,” Maisie took up the tale. “She was just the one to change our little lord’s wet nappies and wonna let go, e’en then she was a’ready so dried up she resented the wet nurse.”
“But I took her room, the bed my lord gave her,” Caitlin added weakly.
“Nay,” Dorcus vehemently shook her curly brown head in denial. “She took the chamber the first time the countess refused to take her on a journey.”
“That wasp tried to sting you with her tongue, dinna she, sweetie?” Maisie patted Caitlin on the arm. “You take no ne’er mind; none o’ us do.”
If Maisie’s attitude reflected the majority, it explained why Dame Granya had not been at the head of the receiving line last night, Isabeau thought. Certain protocols were lax within the bastions of Bennington Castle.
Isabeau watched Caitlin closely to see how she accepted Maisie’s instructions. Would the girl accept the overtures extended by these women? Would she be content with her new home and the welcome? Isabeau hoped so with all of her heart because neither of them could return to Olivet.
A shuddering breath escaped Caitlin before she resumed brushing Isabeau’s hair. To Isabeau, the sound too closely resembled that of a whipped dog ready to chance another outstretched hand—wanting a quick scratch behind the ear but ready for a striking blow.
Even as Isabeau reached out her hand to reassure Caitlin, someone flung open the wood door with startling force. Caitlin jolted at the crack as the door hit the wall. Isabeau instinctively jumped between the girl and the intruder, one arm held out to ward off danger, the other crossed protectively over her breasts. Her shift covered her modestly enough for the company of the women attending her but for no other.
With the force of the dramatic entrance, Isabeau expected to face the earl—his anger renewed—or perhaps one of his warriors carrying the alarm of invaders. No one else would have the audacity to enter the chambers of the future countess in such fashion.
She was wrong.
There was one who did have the effrontery to flaunt a lack of manners. One who now leaned on an ornately carved cane as if barely able to withstand the draft she had caused. With the sound of the door hitting the stone wall still echoing in Isabeau’s ear, she surmised the cane was an affectation rather than necessity.
Isabeau hid a wry smile. It seemed the old woman could not decide which tack to take when dealing with the new mistress of the castle; sympathy or intimidation. Old Granya was trying both approaches for size. Isabeau determined that neither would fit.
“Dame Granya, it was not necessary for you to push so hard on the door.” Isabeau kept her voice smooth though she bristled inside.
Granya waved the shriveled hand not gripping the knob of her cane. “I rested against the door, not realizing ‘t’weren’t latched. With these ol’ bones of mine, the stairs were as if a mountain were before me.”
“Next time.” Isabeau leveled her voice as she lowered her hands. “Next time you wish to enter a closed door to any of the private chambers, knock. The door may be opened for you. Now, would you be so good as to close the door? I feel a slight draft from the corridor and I am not yet dressed.”
Isabeau watched the old eyes narrow in speculation. They were fired with hatred; excessive for Isabeau’s mild scolding. Granya clutched the cane with both hands as she swayed just a bit.
“Caitlin.” Maliciousness crackled in the hard voice. “Close the door fur her ladyship.”
The girl automatically stepped away from Isabeau’s stool to do the hag’s bidding.
Isabeau rested her hand on Caitlin’s fingers that still clutched the hairbrush, stilling the other girl. “Caitlin is occupied—as are the others.”
She resumed her place on the stool facing the door and old Granya. After a moment’s hesitation, Caitlin began to rake the brush through Isabeau’s hair. The three other women—motionless throughout the confrontation—took the cue and busied themselves with miniscule tasks.
As much as she disliked confrontation, Isabeau could not allow Caitlin or any of the other women to be ground under the heel of another. If Dame Granya apparently felt no need of knocking before she entered Isabeau’s chambers, what other liberties might she take? Isabeau’s father had raised her to respect her elders but not at the cost of others. If this woman caused grief and strife among the household of Bennington, Isabeau had to show her that such behavior could not be tolerated.
Though they were care
ful not to stare, the others waited to see what transpired. Isabeau waited as well. Would the old woman accept or plunder the boundaries Isabeau had just issued?
Granya huffed but she hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on her cane. Just as she swung the door away from the wall, a black and brown whirlwind blew into the room. Though Isabeau was sure the dog never touched either the old woman or the door, Granya screeched and plastered her thin body against the door. “Auck!” she screamed.
“Jaffey! No!” Isabeau commanded firmly with one hand extended palm out. “Sit!”
Isabeau was as surprised as everyone else when the huge dog obeyed and sat quietly if not restfully at her feet. The expression in his eyes as he stared up at her made Isabeau melt under the warmth of adoration. How could a canine face hold such emotion? She could see the puppy now and remembered the afternoons spent gamboling the fields and paths with young Christian—a sturdy little boy with no fear, full of curiosity.
She leaned down—nose-to-nose—when she glimpsed a flurry of motion in the corner of her eye; a sight she had endured only days ago at the hands of her brother—one she thought to leave behind at Olivet.
She saw an arm welding a stick lifted high to strike a vicious blow. She sat back into time to see Granya about to bring her raised cane down across Jaffey’s back.
C hapter 18
Isabeau reared up in rage, thinking of pain from bruises and welts; of Caitlin’s bloodied back. “Stop!” Even as Isabeau called out, Maisie grabbed the witch’s arm and Dorcus blocked the dog with her body.
Granya railed against the restraining arms. “That vile creature has no business to be in the castle, let alone Countess Marta’s rooms. The evil beast should be destroyed! It should not have been allowed near the boy.”
When Jaffey turned a snarl on the struggle, Isabeau dropped to her knees and flung her arms around his shoulders, providing protection from Jaffey’s retaliation for more than his own sake. “Quiet.” Isabeau snarled at the straining woman and then repeated the command in a softer tone to the dog. “Quiet, there’s a good boy.” She stroked the shiny black ruff under his chin as she found her own peace.
When her shaking knees could hold her, she stood. Her palm spread atop the black head, she offered Jaffey a few scratches behind his ears. Even sitting on his haunches, his head came above her waist. Isabeau shook her head. Granya seemed to have no concept of the damage Jaffey’s jaws could have wrought. Had the old woman behaved outrageously for such a long time that she knew no borders?
“These chambers no longer belong to Countess Marta, may God shelter her soul,” Isabeau started in a controlled voice. She could feel tightness in her throat but fought against the knot. “The earl brought Jaffey from across the channel as a gift to his beloved son, Lord Christian. He is not evil nor is he a beast. He shall come and go within the castle as he wishes. If he wants to sleep at my feet he is welcome. If Caitlin wants to sing from the foremost tower, she is free to do as she wishes. She can make her home in any room in the castle as is her pleasure. Do you understand, Granya?”
Granya merely glared with her little gimlet stare, her eyes almost disappearing in her wrinkles. Isabeau quirked her eyebrow at the mutinous turn of Granya’s thin lips.
“Dame Granya, do you understand?” Isabeau stood as tall as her bare feet allowed, as commanding as she could be, clothed only in her linen shift. “If you wish to continue to wallow in your bitterness and grief, then by all means do so. However—and I mean this—you will do so without raised voice or raised hand. If you can not live by the Bennington rules, then I am sure the earl can be persuaded to find other accommodations for you.” She was not sure of any such thing but she was prepared to weld any threat as a weapon against the old woman’s maliciousness. “You may go, Dame Granya.”
“Jeffrey?” The masculine sing-song hail floated into the room, breaking the heavy silence. “Jeffrey, a moi.” The chant grew louder.
“Caitlin?”
“Yes, milady.” The girl even bobbed in a curtsy.
Isabeau winced. She had not meant to frighten everyone. “Would you mind intercepting Felix before he gets here? Inform him Jaffey will be keeping us company. I will speak with him directly when I am more presentable.”
Still holding the brush, the girl nodded before moving towards the door.
“Oh, Caitlin, sweetie,” Isabeau called with an afterthought, “See that Dame Granya closes the door as she leaves. I trust you to handle the task.”
She watched as a smile twitched over Caitlin’s lips and Maisie valiantly suppressed a snigger. She seemed to have acquired an ally along with the enemy. She would have to wait to see how deep the sword of the enemy could cut.
Granya made no move to leave. They could all hear Felix approaching.
“Dorcus, could you assist Granya to her new chamber?” Isabeau asked after letting out a deep breath. She needed to continue as she started. “The excitement of defending me from Jaffey has exhausted her. She needs to rest until the evening meal. If she had not recovered by then mayhap a green pottage could be sent to her? A woman of her advanced years should be treated with the respect she has earned.”
When Granya began to sputter in protest, Isabeau tilted her head in mock consideration. “Perhaps your strength has failed you, Granya? Shall I have a man called to carry you? I am sure Felix is within hearing.”
“I’ll just go see.” Dorcus volunteered.
“I do not think that will be necessary.” Isabeau shook her head. “Do you think it necessary, Granya?”
The only answer was the repeated heavy clunk of Granya’s cane tip on the floor as Dorcus led her to the door where Caitlin now waited in the corridor, a strip of leather in her hand.
Breathless, her cheeks flushed, she nipped in as soon as the others had cleared the sill. She pulled the door almost shut. “Dame Granya? Lady Isabeau asked you to close the door.”
The old woman separated Dorcus and herself from those in the room, shutting the door with a less resounding noise than when she entered.
Caitlin she gave Isabeau the leather strip, realizing she still held the brush in her other hand.
“What’s this?” Isabeau asked as she looked from the leather up to Caitlin’s face. She had noticed how the girl had skipped sprightly across the room. The verbal battle with Granya was worth the smile that was almost curving Caitlin’s lips.
“’Tis Jeffrey’s…”
“Jaffey,” Isabeau corrected firmly. “His name is Jaffey, the name Christian gave him. It is the name he will be called by from here on.”
“ ’Tis Jaffey’s lead.” Caitlin carefully recited. “Felix said ‘t’will come in handy when it comes time to take him for a run.”
Isabeau laughed. “I’m sure it will. He’ll run and he’ll drag me anywhere he likes.”
“Felix said J – Jaffey is well trained to the leash and he will teach you the commands when you wish but…”
“But, what?” Isabeau plopped down on the stool.
“It has been many months since the last time Jaffey was in the castle proper. Felix worried he would piss on your floor.”
“Oh,” Isabeau giggled. “Jaffey is much bigger now than when Christian brought him to Olivet. I imagine his messes are much—bigger. Oh, well.” She shrugged as she turned to Caitlin with a wry grin. “Will you help me be vigilant now that I have given Jaffey the run of the castle?”
Caitlin nodded, her eyes sparkling. A smile almost curved her lips. For her full grin, Isabeau would gladly clean up any number of Jaffey’s puddles.
Isabeau patted the dog on his head. “Father Fredrich would say mopping up Jaffey’s messes would be just penance for my temper tantrum.”
Laughter rolled out of Maisie. “There be plenty willin’ to tend to the hound’s needs for yer ladyship. Ya don’ let it worry ya. Let the little lass finish brushin’ yer curls. The bells will be ringing sexts ‘fore we turn ‘round.”
Maisie’s words proved prophetic. The bells marking
midday sounded not long after Isabeau emerged from her chamber with a small procession close at her heels. If not for the tugs Jaffey gave his lead, she would have felt like a mother duck leading her brood.
She found Felix nervously pacing the path between the great hall and the kitchens. After assuring the man no harm had been done, she repeated her declaration to allow Jaffey free run of the castle -- with the exception of the kitchens. She did not think it would be a good idea to have the giant animal under foot or close to the temptation of food.
Isabeau chewed her lip. Should she have asked Donovan before giving Jaffey run of his home? No, she needed to begin to act as a countess if she was ever to be happy at Bennington. After her bedraggled arrival and very public disaster that morning she had much ground to recover to successfully take over the reins of the castle.
Then she remembered the ‘treasures.’
C hapter 19
Simon and his man Arneau rode into the yard of the inn, the Broken Wheel, at mid-day. He still seethed at Bennington’s treatment of him. It had been a miserable ride. The rain had greeted him part way through their journey. It had dripped down his back, making his clothes clammy and dank.
Arneau stabled their horses while Simon splashed through puddles to reach the roaring fire inside. Smoke belched from the open fireplace. Dropping his sodden cloak he shouted for a warm posset. Cursing, he hoped they had something decent to drink. His anger had continued to build as he suffered the discomfort of weather and the poor inn.
His bitch of a wife would suffer for whining to Kirney about Isabeau.
Kirney need not have known the situation. He would have dealt with the problem in his own time. Now he was setting in this God forsaken inn waiting for Forrester, Kirney’s messenger. Simon knew of Forrester’s arrogance. Kirney’s lackey thought he was better than the lord d/Olivet. In time he would bring that man to his rightful place.
This was all Donovan’s fault. Syllba was fast enough suggesting plans, but she wasn’t the one waiting here. It was easy enough for her to say ‘kidnap Isabeau and deliver her to Kirney,’ but he was the one expected to do it. Simon had planned to deal with Donovan first, but now that Kirney was involved he would have to change his plans.