Betrothed

by Lori Snow

  Though losing some fire under retreat, she tried to recover some of her authority with the slam of the door. She had not gotten enough momentum to be truly satisfactory. Waving her hand at her burning cheeks, she stood just outside the door.

  “Well, you heard Lady Isabeau.” She heard Hemrick through the wood. “Let us strip the earl down to the skin. Do you have a sleep shirt, my lord?”

  “No! I sleep as God made me,” Donovan growled.

  “Well, you have need of one today,” Hemrick answered in a sing-song voice. “You heard her ladyship. She will return soon enough. Would you be such a lout as to brandish your manly chest in front of her innocent eyes?”

  “Damnation.”

  Isabeau ran with the echo of Donovan’s curse still ringing in her ears.

  Breathless and flushed, she burst into the main kitchen. Her hand against her chest, she wheezed out a sentence on each exhale.

  “Lord Donovan has been hurt… They need fresh cloths --warm water -- in his chamber.”

  “Yes, milady.” A chorus of answers chimed back.

  She looked up. Kettles were already at the boil. Maisie held a stack of folded linen. A sea of concerned faces stared back at her.

  “He will be well,” she said in a rush of reassurance as she straightened her stance and searched for a shred of dignity. “He has a nasty gash in his head. Hemrick said it was nothing. He just needs to clean the wound.”

  She felt them all take her measure. A red-eyed Glenys, who had been stirring a pot over a fire, handed the wooden spoon to another woman and crossed to Isabeau. She patted Isabeau’s shoulder with a strong and capable hand. The gesture so resembled the one Isabeau had offered her only hours before that her eyes burned.

  “Now, now, my lady,” Glenys crooned in her scratchy voice. “Hemrick knows what he is about. Many a time, he has patched up a bump here and cut there.”

  “Hemrick is skilled enough,” Isabeau agreed firmly, as much to convince herself as those surrounding her. “Already Donovan has the strength to be fractious.”

  “There, you see?” Glenys nodded. “We will make him some broth and green pottage when he is ready. ‘Tis so rare we have the chance to pamper the earl. Once he has a taste he may not want to leave his bed.”

  Maisie elbowed Glenys in the ribs. “We might want to remind him to save his vigor. He is soon to wed.”

  “Then for a certain, he will be most reluctant to leave his aerie.”

  “Aye, all those steps up to heaven, the earl’s mother used to say.”

  Both women awarded Isabeau with ribald chuckles along with their jests.

  “Enough of your cackles, you two old partlets.” Eldred scolded as he entered the kitchen from the opposite door. “Watch your tongue in front of her ladyship.”

  Maisie only laughed as she crossed to him. “I have heard many a bawdy word come from your mouth.”

  He only harrumphed when she tapped his leathered cheek. Isabeau blinked when she thought she saw him wink at the housekeeper. He turned his gaze back to her before she had the chance to disguise her surprise.

  “Lady Isabeau, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention,” Eldred addressed her formally.

  “The earl?” She asked with renewed worry.

  “Nay, the dog.”

  “Jaffey?”

  “I believe that is what he is now called,” Eldred nodded. “They had to drag him from the earl’s chamber but they can get him no further than the door. I am surprised you can not hear his howl from here. The clamor is paining the earl’s head.”

  “I will see to the matter,” Isabeau assured him even as she pivoted.

  She retraced her steps. Jaffey was as Eldred had said; standing sentry outside Donovan’s door. Occasionally he punctuated his menacing growl with a fierce bark. Already several scratches on the door gave evidence of his attempts to claw through the wood barrier.

  “Jaffey!” she called in the firm tone Felix had taught her. “Stand down. Silence.”

  The well-trained animal complied, but as he sat on his haunches, he stared at her with knowing eyes.

  “I am assured he will be fine,” Isabeau told the dog as she approached it. She stroked the black head, absently noticing Jaffey’s tail thumped the floor in rhythm with her caresses. “We owe it all to you, my brave protector. What if you had not pushed me to the stables? King’s Champion might have done more damage. You saved Donovan. You will receive a just reward.”

  “Reward?” Granya’s derogatory cackle breached the corner in front of Isabeau. “How fitting that one of your ilk should think to reward lack of discipline. I suppose you were the one who encouraged such willfulness in Bennington’s get. It took many a lash to tame the wildness out of that one, after a visit to Olivet.”

  “You beat Christian? Why you miserable old—old bitch!” Isabeau snatched the old woman’s cane with one hand and slammed her open palm across the wrinkled face with the other. She did not feel the burning in her hand as the woman staggered back against the corridor wall. “You beat Christian and have the audacity to brag to me of the deed. How does that feel?”

  Isabeau stepped closer, Jaffey at her heels. She towered over the cowering woman. The cane gripped tightly, her arm raised to strike.

  The bump of Jaffey’s warm body on her thigh brought Isabeau to her senses. She looked at her hand—at the cane, and let out a sob. With all her might, she threw the cane down the corridor before she turned her gaze back to the old besom.

  “Get out of my sight. If I see you again, I just might throw you off the highest parapet.”

  She watched as Granya pushed away from the wall and walked down the long corridor. Nary a misstep and without the support of that evil cane.

  When the old woman came even with the stick, she paused a moment before bending over to pick it up. She did so with a slow precision which belied her age.

  She stood and turned to face Isabeau.

  “Remember this, you little slut,” the old voice carried loudly down the hall, “You are not the countess d’Allyonshire, yet.”

  C hapter 28

  Donovan heard Isabeau hush Jaffey when he barked one more time. Passion still quivered in her voice as she lowered it to sooth the dog’s continued agitation. Controlling his own rage over the confrontation in the hallway, he barely heard the one-sided conversation continuing on the other side of the door.

  “Yes, she is a witch,” Isabeau said agreeably, “A vicious one at that. If she has the brains of a slug she will stay out of our paths. If you promise to be on your best behavior, I will let you peek in on our earl. He must be told of your heroics.”

  There was a soft knock on the door. Carstairs opened it before Donovan could bid Isabeau enter. Patches of red colored from temper colored her otherwise snow-white face.

  Isabeau’s palm lay flat on the big furry head of her canine escort. She surveyed the crowded room. Her attention immediately focused on Donovan. “I was hoping to ask a boon. Jaffey is anxious to see the earl.”

  “Damn, Carstairs. Get out of Isabeau’s way and let her in.”

  Carstairs bowed Isabeau into the room with a sweep of his arm. Donovan bit back another curse.

  “Are you well, my lord?” Isabeau asked as she approached the bed with the dog at her side. The huge animal came to Isabeau’s waist and made her appear even more delicate.

  “Well enough to be done with this fuss. As soon as I can get my clothes, I will be back about my business.” He cast an irritated look toward Hemrick. “I am not a babe, nor have I been run through.”

  “Oh no, you must stay quiet at least until the morn.” Isabeau rushed up the dais and put her hand against his chest as if she could force him back against the pillows. He wore the nightshirt Hemrick had foisted on him. “You took a severe blow to the head. You must not rush your recovery.”

  “I am rushing nothing. Hemrick will tell you.”

  Isabeau shook her head. “My father’s stallion kicked his squire. All thought he w
ould be fine but by the next bells he fell dead as he walked across the bailey. You must stay abed.”

  She lifted her hand from the dog’s head as she turned beseeching eyes towards Hemrick. The dog immediately left her side and pushed through the earl’s men to sniff around one of the marquetry mural panels decorating the stone walls.

  “How is he, Hemrick?”

  “Well, milady.” Hemrick swallowed as he cast a nervous eye Donovan’s way. “He is still dizzy but he saw only one of me when I asked.”

  “But you agree he should rest until morn?” she pleaded.

  “I tolds ya, he has a hard head.”

  “The earl needs to rest.” Isabeau tapped her slippered foot on the stair, her hands on her hips.

  Donovan blinked as she stubbornly lifted her chin in the air. He should have known she had courage when he found her disguised as his messenger.

  “He will stay in bed,” she insisted again. “He must be nursed through the night. What if he should take a turn in the dark hours?”

  “Isabeau, I will be fine,” Donovan assured her. “I am fine. There is no need for your worry.” He sat up and lifted the blankets draped over him. The dizziness still hovered, he acknowledged with a silent curse. He would have swung his legs from the bed but he remembered in time his lack of leggings.

  “The earl has had some difficulty in remembering what happened,” Carstairs interrupted.

  This seemed to immediately fuel Isabeau’s concern and Donovan could have knocked his friend’s teeth down his throat.

  “You see. He needs to remain in bed. What other memories have been knocked from his head?” Isabeau stepped higher on the dais and gently combed his hair back with her fingers.

  “Mayhap, you could tell him what happened?” Carstairs prompted.

  “King’s Champion kicked him in the head,” Isabeau answered, though her attention still seemed focused on Donovan.

  “Impossible,” Donovan said impatiently.

  “Impossible.” Carstairs echoed, much to Donovan’s satisfaction.

  Isabeau scowled—a pretty scowl—a scowl none the less. Bodies shifted. A quiet murmur had filtered around the room.

  “You said that in the stables. Why is it impossible? It is obvious what happened. It was a hoof which left that dent, was it not?”

  “Did you see Champion kick Donovan?”

  “No.” The left side of Isabeau’s pink mouth crooked. “I found Donovan on the floor under the horse.”

  “How did you come to be in the stable?”

  Isabeau smiled as she looked over at the hound still snuffling at the paneling. “You can thank Jaffey for that bit of fortune. He herded me like a sheep towards the stable. Once inside, he could not push me fast enough to Champion’s stall.”

  “When I saw you—and the blood…” She turned back to Donovan and for a moment her eyes held him spellbound. “I thought you were dead. You did not move and you were too heavy for me to shift even a little.” Donovan’s men-at-arms stirred restlessly.

  “You tried to move Donovan?” Carstairs asked, an edge in his curiosity that pulled Donovan’s attention away from Isabeau.

  “Yes. I could not just leave him there while I went for help. I was afraid the horse would stomp him again. I opened the stall and grabbed his ankles and tried to pull. When I could not move Donovan, I moved Champion to the next stall so he could do no more damage.”

  Donovan’s heart raced as he comprehended the significance of Isabeau’s accounting. He grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her attention back to him.

  “You moved Champion?”

  “Aye. I told you, I could not leave him there.”

  “You opened the stall door?” He waited for her nod while his gut tightened. “You went into Champion’s stall—while he was in it?”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You led him out of the stall and into another?” Donovan could feel a knot forming at the hinge of his jaw as he clamped his teeth together.

  “Why are you so upset?” Isabeau asked impatiently. “I was careful to always keep myself between you and Champion so he would not accidentally stomp on you again.”

  “Carstairs?”

  Donovan’s lieutenant merely shrugged, though the concern on his face mirrored Donovan’s own. “When I arrived, Lady Isabeau had the situation well in hand. You were sprawled in manure while Champion seemed content enough in the next stall.”

  Donovan put a hand to his aching head.

  “Isabeau, do you know what you did?”

  “Well, of course. I just told you.”

  He shook his head with immediate regret as pain arrowed in back of his eyes. The words seemed locked in his throat. He wanted to pull her into his arms and squeeze the life from her in gratitude that she still lived. Or should he pull her over his knees and paddle her?

  “No one enters Champion’s stall,” Donovan said through clenched teeth, “No one but my squire and myself.”

  “But…” Isabeau pulled back as if burnt. She must have felt the heated ball of rage building inside his gut.

  “No one!” he repeated empathically.

  Isabeau backed off the steps. He could read the hurt mixed with confusion on her face but could not find the calm to soothe her.

  “Isabeau, King’s Champion is a large and powerful warhorse and somewhat temperamental.”

  “Anyone could see that,” Isabeau said. A hint of sarcasm marred her attempted prim response.

  “Mayhap temperamental is not quite accurate,” Carstairs corrected. “Vicious is more to the mark. While Champion will allow Sean, Donovan’s squire, to tend to him on occasion, he has been tamed to only one hand.”

  “Me.” Donovan stated flatly.

  “Oh.”

  He watched her right hand flutter over her heart. A strong rat-a-tat sounded at the door, disrupting the conversation and forcing Donovan to swallow further admonitions.

  Carstairs’ stilted movements as he crossed to the door gratified Donovan. He had not been the only one to comprehend how close Isabeau had come to being savaged beneath Champion’s sharp hooves.

  The castle triumvirate—Maisie, Glenys and Eldred—with Father Matthias close on their heels entered Donovan’s chamber.

  “We have come to tend to the earl,” said Eldred, spokesman of the group. They stepped from the hall and briskly edged Carstairs out of their way. Some protector he proved to be—allowing an old man to push him aside.

  Donovan looked around the room at the other people already taking up space—his squire, the stable master, two of his stable-hands, Hemrick and three of his own men-at-arms. Not to mention, Isabeau and Carstairs—and now these four?

  “By the Saints!” He flopped back against the bolster and instantly rued the bit of temper as his head throbbed. “Is there anyone left to defend Bennington or has everyone crowded in here? Bloody hell! I am not at death’s door so I have no need for so many to mop my fevered brow nor do I need the services of a priest.”

  Donovan sat up as an idea occurred to him.

  “On second thought. I do need your services Father Matthias. I wish to wed. How soon could it be arranged?” Damn and blast but he could no longer give Isabeau the freedom to choose. The girl needed protection. His name would be a start.

  Father Matthias ambled forward, his ever-present small volume of scriptures clutched against his round belly. “Why now, if my lord so wishes.”

  Donovan understood the irony in the priest’s voice. He was d’Allyonshire. He could do as he wished with none save the king to gainsay him.

  “Provided the bride is willing, you could be married in a thrice,” the priest added scrupulously.

  “No!” Isabeau shook her head as she took a step back, one hand in front of her, palm out, the other still on her heart. She offered a lame explanation. “You are not well enough to take such rash action.”

  Donovan turned his gaze on her as she continued her retreat. The color of her blush spread down her throat to her neck
line. Would the warmth reach her sweet pink nipples? He thought it might. He also thought of a couple of stratagems whereas he could test his theory.

  “You must rest, my lord.” Isabeau stood there, defiance in the set of her shoulders, the skirt of her gray gown streaked with stable gore, her bodice streaked with his blood.

  She could not have been more beautiful—except as she had been that night—naked in his arms, flushed with her first release.

  “You were right,” she continued to ramble. “This room is much too crowded. Everyone must leave so you can rest. You will be more rational in the morning.”

  “On the morrow then,” Donovan pushed as he searched her shiny eyes. They appeared more green than hazel.

  “Nay,” she whispered, her hand dropping from her heart to her belly. “Not until…”

  Her voice trailed away as she must have remembered the crowded room.

  He watched her. Everyone continued to watch her. The avid curiosity in the room was palatable. But rather than shrivel under the scrutiny, she pushed back her shoulders, then smoothed a stray tendril of chestnut hair from her temple.

  “A fortnight,” she offered.

  “A sennight,” Donovan countered quickly as he scented weakness. He hoped the jolt of triumph in his belly did not reflect on his face -- though he felt like crowing.

  “A sennight,” Isabeau agreed softly as she nodded slowly. “But you must promise to rest. Maisie will have a light supper brought here for us. I will sit with you while you sleep.”

  The housekeeper bustled to Isabeau’s side before he could make a comment and further his betrothed’s embarrassment.

  “’Tis not seemly,” Maisie fussed. “You will not spend the night in the earl’s chamber. Least’ways, not till you are wed.”

  “But…”

  “Now, my lady, you listen to Maisie.” Glenys rushed to Isabeau’s other side and patted her shoulder. “She and I will be honored to watch over his lordship’s slumber to ease your worries. I will see to a proper sickbed repast for the earl. If you wish, the three of us will join him in his meal.”

  Donovan rolled his eyes at this perpetuation of a fictional illness but he could see some of the rigidity leave Isabeau’s shoulders. She either prepared to surrender or she truly worried about his hard head. The notion she cared for him generated a foreign weight in his chest. Did she feel a measure of affection for him? Something beyond that of a female for her lord—an affianced woman for the stranger who was now her betrothed?