Betrothed
Page 18
“Aye, my lord,” she answered, her eyes narrowed.
Donovan’s squire entered carrying drying cloths, closely followed the boy laden down with the weight of a sloshing bucket.
Donovan brooded until he happened to notice the boy’s slight limp.
“Did you get that limp carrying the water up from the kitchens?”
The boy started when he realized the earl was speaking directly to him.
“N-nay, my lord.” His freckled face -- that had lost the redness from his exertions --went brilliant again.
“Then how did you get hurt.”
“T’was when my lady had us lime the jakes. I fell.”
Donovan remained quiet all through the mid-day meal. He watched the faces of his people. He listened to the hum of their subdued conversations. He was left wondering how many grim faces were owed to the tragic news he had brought. Did resentment against Isabeau also color the cadence of the great hall? Something was different about the place. He searched the tables again.
Turning to Carstairs on his right, he asked, “Does it seem to be brighter in here? Have they lit more candles than usual?”
Carstairs swallowed down a gulp of wine before he replied. “The tapestries have been taken down. If I am not mistaken, I believe the walls have been white-washed and the hearth scrubbed free of soot.”
Donovan sat back in his chair and searched the great hall with a new perspective. Carstairs was correct. The walls, even the ceiling, had a fresh coat of white, obscuring from sight the years of accumulated smoke. He wondered how the ceiling had been reached with the brushes.
He had told her to keep the women busy. It had been one of his last orders before his departure. That thought reminded him of her parting words. They would wed when she carried his babe.
He pushed away from the table as if to push away the memories. The little murmurs flying around the great hall fluttered to silence as everyone watched his exit. He needed to think. He needed time away from the chatter—away from the speculative eyes.
Bennington’s congestion and cacophony added distractions. He found predicting his opponents’ next moves much easier than determining the motivations of these—his people.
And what of Isabeau? What was he to do about her? Carstairs had advised him to give her what she asked for. A babe! Did she understand what she asked?
In order to give her a babe, he would have to… The saint’s be praised, he wanted to… If he bedded her, by his honor he could not turn away from her. No matter what bug she got in her female brain—even one he planted with his own mouth -- he would not release her.
Would she find surcease at Bennington, if the people could not welcome her? In her unhappiness, would she not turn away from him as Marta had?
He stomped heavy-footed across the bailey towards the stables. Putting King’s Champion through his paces would go a long way in clearing his head. Already, he could feel the anticipated exhilaration of a good run. The mighty war horse would be ready for another jaunt.
When he entered the dim stables, Donovan went straight to Champion’s stall and stroked the animal’s nose. In low tones, he promised the horse they would take a very quick tour of the neighborhood.
He looked around for one of the boys before remembering he had left everyone at their meal. He could wait for someone or saddle the horse on his own. Urged on by the eager thrust of Champion’s nose under his hand; Donovan crossed to the tack room and easily found his saddle. It was on the center rack already cleaned from his recent travels.
Grunting, he hefted the saddle and hauled it to Champion’s stall. He would thankfully forgo any armor. What need did he have of it here at Bennington?
He slung the saddle onto the half wall of the stall and was just unlatching the door when he heard the rustle of straw. It came not from the line of stalls but from directly behind him. As he began to turn, he thought he caught a glimpse of gray clothing from the corner of his eye.
“Isabeau?”
Before he could finish her name, pain burst in his head like a bolt of lightning.
C hapter 27
Isabeau watched as Donovan strode from the great hall. She did her best to disguise her concern at his behavior. With as much aplomb as she could muster, she quietly finished her meal, though she had lost the taste for it. She wanted to quiz Carstairs about Donovan’s mood but words failed her.
After taking a final sip of wine, she gave the signal for her trencher to be cleared, offered Carstairs a respectful nod and escaped. She entered the bailey with the vague thought of following her betrothed but once in the sunshine she suddenly stopped. She had no idea of his whereabouts.
She had not made it to the herb garden before one of her frequent shadows accosted her. Jaffey barked twice before galloping to her side.
“A moi,” Isabeau ordered with her hand extended, her finger pointing to a spot in front of her.
Better behaved than only a few days ago, the dog was content to plop his bottom on the ground in front of her feet and looked at her with hope in his gold eyes. She relented and rewarded his good behavior by scratching the patch between his ears.
Felix had been as good as his word. He had instructed her regarding many of his commands with the hounds, both verbal and hand. While Isabeau acknowledged she needed practice, she felt confident enough to deal with Jaffey without Felix’s constant assistance. If she stayed within the bailey, she not need bother with a leash.
She might have preferred no witnesses to her trailing after her betrothed. At least Jaffey was unable to carry tales. She looked into his expressive eyes and wondered again about the extent of the canine’s comprehension.
Could he sense her uncertainty? He had curled up on the rug in her room, his head propped on his front paws and followed her with those eyes as she paced. Did he understand her ramblings the night before after she has ushered everyone else to their beds?
She had fretted about the fussing she endured from Donovan’s people. She voiced her concerns regarding her ability to be a countess. She had also whispered about the astonishing things Donovan had made her feel.
She had needed to vent her feelings but she had no one to share such intimate thoughts. What transpired between her and Donovan needed to remain private; not only because he was the earl, but because the eruption of emotion he induced in her was too precious to share. She wanted to hold that close to her heart. Jaffey suited her dilemma.
“Let us see what we will see, Jaffey. She remembered that at Olivet, when the dark mood struck him, Donovan had headed straight for his warhorse. King’s Champion is almost as big as you,” she laughed. “Do you suppose he has done the same today?”
Jaffey whimpered and nudged her hand.
“No doubt, you are correct.” She patted him again. “He has had plenty of time to saddle King’s Champion and be on his way. We will just have to exhibit patience. Father Fredrick claims patience is a virtue. Let us parade around the bailey walls. By the time we make the circuit, the earl may have returned.”
She took two strides before making the hand signal to follow. When Jaffey immediately took his place at her side, she was inordinately pleased at the accomplishment. She thought to trace the perimeters but she could not resist drifting towards the stable area.
She shaded her eyes with her cupped hand as she looked up at the sentries watching the terrain for visitors or unwelcome intruders. She could ask them if he’d left the castle. They would know Donovan’s direction. Shaking her head, she denied herself the temptation. What would she do with the knowledge? Have Meadowlark saddled and follow him? Castle Bennington was not Olivet.
In spite of her many duties, or perhaps because of them, she was discovering she had had less freedom here than at Olivet. It was her new position. It was the greater number of people who watched her every move. Only the day before, the guard stopped her from walking to the nearby village. Apparently, not even Caitlin was sufficient chaperonage to leave the walls of Bennington.
&n
bsp; She would bide her time and wait for the appropriate moment to speak to her betrothed about this. In the meantime, other duties needed tending. Under her hand, the layers of neglect were slowly being pealed away from the heart of Bennington.
Isabeau veered her path slightly in order to return to the kitchens and stumbled against Jaffey. A soft rumble vibrated his chest as he blocked her way. When she tried to circumvent the huge dog, he shifted his stance.
Twice more she tried, and twice more he nudged her in the other direction. The sound and the dog’s insistence were beginning to frighten her. He butted his head against her and pushed her back towards their original destination.
“What are you doing?” Isabeau asked with a hint of impatience.
The dog gave a low pitched bark and nudged again.
“Was that your “a moi” command?” Humor began to warm her tones. She had thought the animal intelligent. Mayhap, she should fall to his heel.
“As you wish, dear sir,” she submitted. “I will go where you lead.”
Jaffey offered a sharp rumble as if to say “about time” before he set off directly for the stables. Isabeau followed curiously, a wry smile curving her lips.
Almost running to keep pace, Isabeau followed Jaffey at his heel. He seemed happiest when she kept her palm on his back. They crossed the bailey and entered the stable before she could catch her breath. In the shadows of the stables, as her eyes adjusted, Isabeau trusted the dog to lead her true. She pushed down lightly on his back and he seemed to know to slow but he continued forward. The vibration under her hand grew more pronounced as they ventured deeper into the building.
Horses filled only a few of the stalls. She knew some were out to pasture while others were working. Donovan and his men had probably taken these animals when they tracked Zeke’s killers.
A few of the large animals whinnied, pranced and a couple kicked at their walls as Jaffey and Isabeau passed. When she would have stopped to offer a soothing pat or nuzzle, Jaffey urged her forward. He had a specific destination.
He stopped directly in front of one of the occupied stalls. Isabeau instantly recognized Donovan’s King’s Champion prancing with even more agitation than the other stable residents. She scowled as she realized that unless her betrothed had taken another horse, he had not ridden out of the castle. His saddle was still draped over the wall.
Then she saw him.
Sprawled inelegantly in the straw, dangerously close to the hooves of his mount that stood over him, Donovan lay unconscious. Even through the shadows, she could see the glint of blood in his black hair. Had the war horse attacked him?
Her first instinct was to run for help but even as she took a step back, she knew she could not leave Donovan as he was, under the horse. King’s Champion might strike again.
“Steady, Champion,” she crooned, “You don’t want to step on him.” She signaled Jaffey to be quiet before she released the latch on the stall and eased inside. Extending her hand, she edged cautiously towards Donovan. Bending down, she grabbed his ankles and gave a tug. He did not budge. She used all her strength to no avail. She was not going to move Donovan without assistance.
But she could not leave him with King’s Champion. The other alternative meant she would have to get King’s Champion out of the stall.
She stood and took a deep breath. Horse, leather and manure assailed her senses but she looked up at the giant animal and licked her dry lips. “Well boy, it is you and me. I know you do not appreciate others taking your reins but I know you would not intentionally harm your master either. I promise not to get on your back. We are just going next door.”
Her throat parched with fear, she continued her litany as she approached his head and reached for his bridle. The muscles in her arm bunched as she firmly brought his head down so he could snuffle her hair. Champion snorted and bobbed his head. Forcing back her fear, Isabeau placed her other hand on the bridle and blew gently into his face. “Now you know me. We are friends.” When he seemed calm enough, she began slowly leading him to the exit. The short distance seemed to last for leagues but eventually the spirited stallion entered his new home.
After securing the latch, Isabeau’s shaky knees threatened to buckle. She sagged back against the stall door, as she attempted to slow her racing heart. Wiping sweat and tears from her burning eyes, she did not need Jaffey’s wet nose pushing against her to know more needed doing.
Ashamed at her momentary weakness, she pushed away from the stall to rush to Donovan’s side. She had just dropped to her knees when she heard a distressed cry from behind her. Barely looking at the stable-boy, she smoothed Donovan’s black hair from his temple and snapped, “Get Carstairs! Get Hemrick! The earl has been injured.”
Only injured, she prayed soundlessly. “Please, God. Do not let him die.” She felt the beat of his heart, the lift and fall of his chest.
“What happened?” Carstairs demanded as he pushed his way through the crowd now forming around the stall door. Isabeau wiped tears from her cheeks before looking up at Donovan’s lieutenant. “King’s Champion must have kicked him.”
“Impossible,” Carstairs barked. He looked around. “Where is Champion?”
“In the next stall.”
“How did Donovan get here then?” he demanded.
“He was here. Champion was standing over him, when I found him.”
“Who moved Champion?”
“I had no choice. I could not leave him with Donovan.” Isabeau smoothed her hand on Donovan’s hair cautiously avoiding the wound. “Where is Hemrick? Tell me he will live.”
The wiry surgeon elbowed Carstairs aside. “Of course, he will live, milady. The earl has got the head of a rock. ‘Tis been conked offin' enough to prove it. His own horse cannot dent it.”
Hemrick carefully parted Donovan’s hair before putting a folded cloth over the wound. “I have a right good hand at mendin’ bodies. He ‘ill be up and yellin’ his displeasure soon enough.”
Even as he offered his assurances, Donovan moaned and tried to lift his head.
“Isabeau?” He groaned as he attempted to rise and failed. He dropped back down to the hay.
“I am here, my lord.” She touched her fingers to his cheek. “Hemrick says you have a thick skull. Praise God. Now, be still.”
Not looking away from his face, Isabeau began to issue orders. “He will have to be carried to his chamber. Carstairs, get two saddle blankets. Spread them next to Donovan; one at his shoulders, one at his legs. Now, since he is awake, we can roll him with his help.” When no one moved she glanced over her shoulder. “Carstairs?”
“Milady?” He stared at her with surprise.
“The blankets?” she firmly reminded.
“Yes, milady.” He looked toward the stable door and waved his hand. “Get a couple of blankets.”
Isabeau continued to smooth her hand along Donovan’s back. She knew she probably gained more comfort than she gave but she could not stop. Maintaining the simple contact soothed her nerves. Once the blankets were in place, she leaned over to speak softly in his ear. “We are going to roll you onto the blankets. Do you have any other injuries?”
“Nay.” His whisper warmed her cheek.
“Can you help us?”
“I am not a babe.” His grumpy complaint came out stronger and she was glad of it.
“Best do as she says, my lord,” Carstairs advised, then added with a touch of humor. “I have the feeling you would take the worst of it, if she angered.”
Isabeau felt some of the tension leach from her shoulders. If Carstairs could find amusement in the situation then it was not grave. She braced her hands against Donovan’s side and nodded to both Hemrick and Carstairs. “Ready? Roll.”
Donovan groaned as he settled squarely on the blankets and she winced in sympathy. “Do you feel pain besides your head?” she asked.
“Is that not enough? Do you wish to cause more?”
Ignoring his complaint, she checked the edges
of the blankets before turning to Carstairs. “He is a large man. We will need four or six men to carry him to his bed.”
Carstairs looked at the spectators and started pointing to largest men. “You, you, you, and you. Do as the lady asks.”
“Hemrick, what will you need?” Isabeau asked.
“Warm water and clean cloths, milady,” Hemrick assured her. “I got the rest.”
“Have care,” she ordered. “Ready? Lift.”
The maneuver went much smoother than she expected and she expelled a breath. Donovan stirred as they reached the warmth of the sun. Jaffey nuzzled Donovan’s trailing arm.
“Be gone, dog!. Put me down. I can bloody well walk on my own.” He tried to sit up but she pushed at his shoulder.
“Be still.” Isabeau put all the authority she could muster in the order.
“I said I could walk.”
“Put your tongue in your mouth and close your teeth.” Isabeau commanded. “If you insist on wiggling, they are sure to drop you on your cracked head.”
At the top of the stairs, she raced down the corridor. After lifting the latch, she gave the door such a hard push, it slammed into the wall. She moved so fast she had crossed the room, climbed the dais and thrown back the bed covers before they carried Donovan into the room. “Get him out of those clothes. I will not have him continue to wallow in blood and manure.”
“Milady?” Hemrick asked as the men gingerly settled Donovan on a bench in front of the empty hearth.
“We need a fire.”
“Milady?” Hemrick repeated.
“What? Why are you not getting those foul clothes off of him?” She wanted to ignore the man. Things needed doing.
“I can handle the business from here.”
“I am sure you are quite capable.”
“What he means, sweetling,” Donovan interrupted in a crisp voice. “Get out of here and close the door. Tis not the place for a woman yet unwed.”
“Oh.” She blinked in surprise and then the heat rose in her face. “Well, yes. Of course. I will return shortly so be quick.”