Betrothed
Page 24
How much harder was it going to be once they were married and she had to wave him off to the king’s business?
She took one blind step down the corridor she knew led to a back stair. Thank the Saints for Maisie and Glenys insisting she be quick to learn the keep’s design. As it was, Isabeau knew it would be too easy to get lost in the endless honeycomb of rooms and passageways.
She wrinkled her nose as a foul stench wafted passed her as if trying to escape out into the fresh air. Obviously, this back corner had been overlooked in the cleaning frenzy she had instituted while the earl was away. The smell could be mistaken for the jakes with a fetid odor hanging over it. She would speak to Maisie. Mayhap, a couple of the spit-turners would appreciate a cooler -- if stinking -- task?
Another step and Isabeau’s foot collided with something soft, yet unmoving. When she looked down she could not prevent the startled scream coming from her mouth.
A crumpled body lay in a heap in front of her. When she closed her mouth over a second scream, she caught her breath and concentrated. Even through the dim light streaming over her shoulder, she recognized Granya. Isabeau wanted to bend down to offer assistance but the old woman’s open eyes told her there was nothing to be done. The woman had met her fate at the foot of the stairs—much like her own mother nine years past.
“Isabeau?”
Donovan’s concerned voice flowed over Isabeau like a blanket of comfort. She turned to the source and flung herself into the arms of her betrothed.
“What has happened, sweetling?”
Still in the safety of his embrace, Isabeau turned and pointed a shaking hand towards the body. “She’s dead, is she not? She must have fallen down the stairs, poor soul.”
Others must have heard the scream. They crowded Donovan and Isabeau to the bloodied mess. Donovan pulled her arms from his waist and set her back. In a heartbeat, Eldred had guided her to the far wall, hushing her before handing her off to Maisie and Glenys. The older man then went to Donovan’s side. Isabeau took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart and tried to think clearly.
A tragedy had occurred. She watched Donovan, standing tall and proud, taking command of the situation. He soothed the bystanders with a small nod and simple explanation before sending one of the spit-boys to get Father Matthias. He was caring, yet she noticed he was also watchful; on guard.
Besides the deadly results of the accident, what did he see? She carefully looked around. Forcing herself to look at the body more thoroughly, Isabeau stared at Granya’s face. She had no liking for the cross bully but would not have wished such a fate on her worst enemy. Bloody injuries marred the wrinkled face with two straight lines. Were they caused as the old woman hit the edges of the stairs in her headlong decent?
Father Matthias pushed through the crowd, followed closely by two strong stablemen. He took in the situation with one glance and stepped to the earl’s side. Again Donovan conferred in a hushed tone too low for Isabeau to overhear.
“My place is by the earl.” Isabeau straightened her shoulders and looked Maisie in the eye. She brushed away the two women and moved to Donovan’s elbow. Donovan did not welcome her when she touched his arm. He merely looked down from his great height with the stoic air that could so easily turn her heart to ice.
“Isabeau,” he said on a soundless sigh, “ ’Twould be best if you went to your chamber. This is not for you to see.”
She shook her head once, stretching her palm flat on his forearm. “I will stand with you.” Then she looked pointedly at the gathered crowd. “I will not be seen as a weakling in front of your people. You deserve a strong countess.”
He looked at her, then shrugged and watched as Father Matthias gave rites for the dead woman. Then the two men who had come with the priest, straightened the body and lifted it easily.
“It will be as you say, my lord,” said Father Matthias as he readied to follow the men. “Dame Granya will be laid to rest after Vespers, next to countess Marta. Pray they find peace in their companionship.” The priest spoke with a voice meant to calm and console but Isabeau only shivered.
“Her ladyship and I will join you in prayer,” Donovan assured Father Matthias. He laid his palm on Isabeau’s hand where it still rested on his arm. “Is that not so, milady?”
Isabeau took a deep breath and nodded agreement. She could not quite comprehend the undertones in her betrothed’s voice. She had no abiding love for the bitter old woman, only pity—and, if she were being honest, anger at the old woman’s cruelty. But she would pray for mercy for the dead woman’s soul and forgiveness to her own lack of grief.
Isabeau looked down at the floor rather than let Donovan see the truth in her eyes. He had a disconcerting way of reading her thoughts. It was then she realized something was missing from the scene.
“Donovan?” she whispered as she turned her face up to his. “Where is her cane? I know she has no real need for it but she carried it everywhere. She twice tried to beat Jaffey with the thing and after she confessed to..”
“To what did she confess?” Donovan prompted.
Isabeau licked her lips then swallowed back the bitterness. It would do no harm now to reveal the old woman’s actions. She was beyond Donovan’s wrath and Christian was with God as well.
“She thrashed young Christian with it—she did not just confess, she bragged of it. I was tempted to consign the cursed wood to the fire. As I said, she did not need the aid to walk; merely as a handy weapon.”
“I came to much the same conclusion,” Donovan agreed, “That she could walk without it.”
“What was she doing on this back stair without it? Sneaking about the castle? Up to no good?”
“All excellent questions, sweetling.” Donovan patted her hand. “You have been putting Bennington through its paces since your arrival. Everyone is busy with the change. I would venture the woman was merely trying to escape work. She did not strike me as industrious.”
Isabeau tried to believe his conclusions but she still felt something was amiss. Searching his blue eyes, she realized that if he thought any different than his words, he would not confide in her.
Perhaps he thought death to be a man’s business. They were the ones who went to battle. They were the ones who wielded the swords. But was it not women who kept vigil over the dead until burial?
She mused the fragility of life, the possibility of sudden ends. A shiver raced through her. God offered no guarantees. Only the day before, she could have lost Donovan to his warhorse’s hooves. She glanced at the makeshift bandage on his bicep. Or today to the knife of a faceless assailant. Suddenly, heat flooded her cheeks, then as quickly receded. She might never have known the bliss of making love with Donovan.
As if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Donovan lifted her hand to his lips and rested a kiss on her fingers. He waited until she looked back into his bottomless blue eyes. “All will be well, Isabeau. You will see.”
She nodded and looked away, breaking the thrall he so easily cast. The stairs loomed up into the shadows, angled to the right out of sight. Even stairs offered death.
“You will have a care, milord.” She couldn’t help the plea though she had meant it as a command.
“Aye. I have much to live for these days.”
“Why does Bennington have to be so huge? Why so many stairs? If I did not see another, I would be happy. First my mother, then Dame Granya. I was but a child when she fell. Both she and her babe died. They tried to save my baby brother. Cut him from her womb, but it was too soon.”
“Jesu.” Donovan slipped his arms around her, offering her silent comfort. “I had no notion. I am sorry.”
Isabeau tried to shed the morose ghost of the past. “It happened a long time ago,” she reminded herself as much as Donovan. She could feel him motion to someone at her back.
“Her ladyship has suffered a shock. Please, help her to her chamber and stay with her will she rests.”
Isabeau pushed back from the comfor
t offered by Donovan’s solid arms. She was not a wilting flower, unable to withstand a late frost. She was about to loudly voice her protest when she caught the slight jerk of his chin. Turning slowly, she saw Caitlin at the edge of the crowd not two arm lengths away. The girl was a pale as milk and making a poor attempt at disguising her trembling hands by clasping the together at her front.
“I think you are not the only one to have a shock.” Donovan whispered for Isabeau’s hearing alone. “I think your wounded bird needs tending.”
“Aye,” Isabeau’s pique evaporated. “I see your point. Come, Caitlin.” Isabeau held out her hand as if she was indeed the one needing succor. “I think we will use another stair. I have no wish to tread these steps.”
Caitlin’s fingers were snow cold when she clutched Isabeau’s hand. She linked her arm with Caitlin’s and led her through the thinning curious crowd.
On the way, Maisie nodded to them and said she would be sending up some mint tea. The two remained quiet all the way to the countess’s chamber. Isabeau hoped the privacy would inspire wisdom. Granya’s death had greatly affected the girl. Or perhaps it was death in general.
Isabeau wanted privacy. She needed to think. At times Isabeau had felt the air vibrate as if the ground had just been struck by lightning. Was she feeling only the repercussions of the castle’s recent tragedies—the losses of the countess and the heir—or did Isabeau sense a coming storm? Yet she kept her own counsel for Caitlin’s sake.
“You should rest Milady,” Caitlin suggested in a thread voice. “Let us pull chairs in front of the window. I think we would both benefit from a breeze.” She suited her actions to words and started dragging one of the chairs closer to the window, careful to stay in the shade. When Caitlin settled her own chair in the slanted sunlight, Isabeau shook her head and moved it into the shadows as well.
“If I have to act the part of lady then so shall you,” Isabeau stated, wishing to distract her companion.
“Milady?”
“We will start by keeping you out of the sun. Then walking.” When she knew she had drawn the girl’s attention away from her fear, Isabeau focused on the immediate. “What has frightened you? Granya’s death, horrible as it was, is not all that troubles you.”
How Isabeau was sure of this, she could not be certain. Caitlin had endured so much. Why would the death of someone the girl disliked cause such grief? Not unless…
“Carrie?” The answer was so urgent, Isabeau forgot for a moment her plans for the girl. “You had nothing to do with Granya’s fall, did you?”
“Oh no, milady!” Caitlin gripped the chair back. “I swear by all the Saints, since the day you gave me her sleeping room, I made sure to stay away from the w-w-w… From the lady.”
Isabeau had only a moment to ascertain the veracity of Caitlin’s claim but she thought she saw the truth. Whatever frightened the girl, it was not guilt over death of Dame Granya.
The door from the corridor opened after a staccato tap sounded. Glenys led the way, closely followed by one maid carrying a tray laden with mugs and a linen covered basket. Maisie trailed after Dorcas who carried a huge pewter pitcher with a lone ribbon of steam coiling over the rim.
Isabeau sensed the other women needed to talk. Though they had no love for Granya, they had still lost one of their own to a careless accident. It could have claimed any one of them.
Glenys fussed over both Isabeau and Caitlin as a mother duck over her ducklings. Isabeau abruptly remembered Glenys had recently suffered a very personal loss, one that affected her future as well as her family.
Everyone was soon settled, a mug of warm liquid cupped in hands that ranged from white and supple to wrinkled and spattered with age spots. Isabeau observed these women who now were, and would continue to be an important part of her life. They each in turn had welcomed and counseled her when they could have easily treated her as a pariah.
They were good women, proud to be in service to the Earl of Bennington.
“Glenys?”
“Aye, milady.” The older woman looked up from her deep contemplation of the green liquid in her mug.
“A party from the Abbey will be arriving shortly. The earl has charged you with a certain decision.”
The older woman’s head bobbed once, tears forming in her blue eyes.
“I have a suggestion for your consideration. The earl believed young Sam deserved mercy—an opportunity to atone for falling in with the true villains.”
“My Zeke and Tessa; their two babes? What mercy did they get?”
“I know you fret over what will happen in future years. After you have spoken to young Sam, heard the story from Sam’s mouth, I would that you think on this. You might see fit to put Sam to work on Zeke’s farm. Sam could tend it and when need arises, see to your comfort.” Isabeau intentionally repeated the man’s name. She wanted Glenys to start seeing Sam as a person, not as one who kept company with greedy monsters.
“ ’Tis something to think on, Glenys.” Maisie spoke with the level voice of one not ready to pass judgment. “You will meet this Sam soon. If he knows nothing ‘bout farming, there are those who would teach him for your sake.”
“Those two others what the earl hanged, did they not sin against Sam by causing him to sin?” Surprised, Isabeau turned to Caitlin who sat with banners of scarlet coloring her white cheeks. The girl’s words had an edgy quality and Isabeau wondered if a deeper meaning ran through them.
“Just so, Caitlin.” Isabeau nodded softly.
“If a sinner touches one, is that one painted with the black of sin as well?”
Caitlin’s question fired a lively discussion among the women, lasting until the church bells rang. Only then were the mugs and bread crumbs whisked away to the kitchens.
Isabeau found herself alone, as even Caitlin scurried off to attend to her list of duties. How simply life rolled back into its natural rhythm. In God’s wisdom, the ordinary had the power to heal a tear.
Did she have it in her to heal Donovan’s wounds? She wanted so to be the one who gave him peace.
Restless, Isabeau stood and took a step towards the chest at the foot of her bed. The twinge between her thighs reminded her she wanted to give her betrothed more than peace; she also wanted to give him passion; to give him so much that he would never again forget to keep up his guard. She needed to be the reason he would always rush home—in one piece. But how could she accomplish this?
Bed play was new to her. All she had learned, Donovan had taught her. He had found satisfaction in her body, but was it enough? Her body flushed at remembered caresses. Her heart pounded with anticipation.
Isabeau could again hear Donovan’s voice when he found his release. She wanted to be more than just a vessel for his seed. But, if needs be, she would start with that.
She also remembered the passion in his voice when he speculated on unwrapping her body. The idea blossomed in full flower. She was fully prepared to gift Donovan anything he wished.
Why? The insidious question lashed through her glow of anticipation. Why was she so determined to give Donovan d’Allyonshire happiness? From childhood, she had been trained to run a large household, to make the keep a haven for her father, all in preparation for a misty future with some vague husband. Was every woman ready to please her husband as Isabeau was willing to please Donovan?
Isabeau moved the short distance to her chest. She pulled the iron peg in the latch and lifted the lid, contemplating the clothes as she fished for answers.
She had only vague memories of her mother, who had seemed happy tending to her lord. Syllba certainly had not been strong enough to care for Simon’s house, yet she seemed to be willing enough to keep trying to give him an heir. Perhaps her brother and his wife were not the best examples to mimic?
Shaking off the dark thoughts, Isabeau offered a prayer skyward that she would have little or no dealings with Simon in the future. Donovan’s attitude assured that he would not seek out Simon’s companionship.
She loved him!
No reason to dig any further.
She loved her betrothed; so much that should she be unable to give him the all important heir, she would hove herself off to the convent so he could find a wife who could give him everything he needed. He said she was already with child. Was she?
It would kill her. To be separated from the man who had rescued her from her brother’s plans—who had introduced her to the passions of her body— it would stomp her soul into the ground.
C hapter 36
Donovan watched Isabeau leave the crowded hallway. He caught Carstairs’ eye and gave him a silent signal. Without a word, his lieutenant followed him to his solar.
“The men need to be kept on alert,” Donovan said as soon as Carstairs closed the door behind them.
“Does your latest bandage have anything to do with this need or has your clumsiness continued?” asked Carstairs with a touch of irony in his voice.
Donovan looked down at his arm. He had forgotten the knife wound, the pain was negligible. His concern was Isabeau’s vulnerability. Pulling the knife from the woods out of his belt, he held out the blade for Carstairs’ perusal.
“ ’Tis of fine quality steel,” Carstairs observed aloud. He took the weapon, weighing it in his hand, then tossed it in the air, catching it with smooth skill. “A well-balanced throwing knife. Where did you get such a treasure?”
“Plucked from a tree in the woods.”
“Interesting fruit in this part of the country.”
“The damned thing was embedded in the bark of an elm after glancing off my arm.”
Carstairs whistled through his teeth as his gaze flew from the blade to Donovan’s wound and back again. “You are a man with many enemies but none so stealthy. Twice in as many days. Is there not a wives’ tale about three? If I were you, I’d be wearing my full mail.”