by Lori Snow
“Aye, my lord,” the lad said as he pulled up his leggings and pushed his head into his tunic.
“With stealth, boy, as on a battlefield,” Donovan cautioned again. The boy nodded and raced down the corridor.
Isabeau stirred on the bed at Donovan’s return to her side. “I am much better,” she assured him from her cocoon of coverlets.
“I am sure you are,” he agreed with a tip of his head. “You will rest there until your appointment at prime.” For a while, he simply stroked her temple while she lay acquiescent. He heard the scuff of slippered feet and canine nails coming along the corridor before he broke the silence.
“Who drew the wine?” he asked casually.
“I did,” Isabeau answered.
“From what cask?”
“From your personal selection in the dungeon stores. Maisie and Eldred have traipsed me over leagues of halls and tunnels; acres of rooms.” She tried to prop herself up on her elbows but it took little force to keep her prone. “There was something wrong with the wine?”
“I just thought to take precautions,” Donovan countered coolly. “I want nothing to overset my babe.”
Before she could offer any more arguments, a disheveled Caitlin raced through the open door forgetting even to knock. An excited Jaffey clamored at her side.
After two loud barks, strangely enough directed towards the paneled wall, Jaffey obeyed Donovan’s ‘silent vigil’ command and settled on his haunches.
“You will tend to Lady Isabeau, Donovan instructed Caitlin. “No one beyond the three of us need know she took ill this eve,”
Caitlin bobbed her head, her blue eyes serious. By her expression, he knew there was no need to say more.
He sat on the edge of the bed and held Isabeau’s hand while he waited. She threaded her fingers between his and he could feel her returning strength. The four of them composed an interesting tableau. Even as this thought occurred to him, Isabeau broke the silence with a weak laugh.
“If only someone had an easel and the skill. We would make a classic mural. Me as the princess in the near repose of children’s tales, Sir Donovan, the knight errant, Caitlin, the faithful attendant and Jaffey, the great beast, guarding the tower.”
Donovan gave her an answering smile as he lifted her hand to his mouth. It was well the tension be waved away like a foul smell. ”And what token of devotion do you give me as I go to crusade?” he asked.
“Alas,” she blushed as she looked around. “I have naught but a kiss.”
Donovan grinned widely as he leaned closer. For her ears alone, he promised. “At prime I will take but the first from my countess.”
Three rapid raps on the wooden door sounded and Carstairs entered the room. Donovan could see two sentries take their position in the corridor at each side of the door. He kissed the back of Isabeau’s hand, this time touching his tongue to her skin. The rush of her indrawn breath and her wide eyes gratified him. She was not too weak to feel desire.
He grabbed the carafe before crossing to the door. The grin on his face quickly faded as Carstairs followed him into the corridor.
“I thought your taking the lady to bed would end our misery.” Carstairs tried to find a joke but his heart did not seem to be in it. “What has happened that pulls us from our sleep?”
Donovan held up the offending carafe, only then noticing his bruised knuckles from battling the wall. “The wine was tainted. Isabeau could have died.”
None of the jester remained on Carstairs’ face. His stance was of a warrior, his hand on the hilt of his blade.
“Who? How?”
“That is what I would know.” He started down the corridor, grabbing a lit sconce on the way. “She drew from the cache set aside for my use alone.” The two were silent as they made the trek to the bowels of the castle. They were on a campaign, with death as the only conclusion.
Donovan lifted the sconce higher so that both had a good view of the stack of casks.
“Only the one has been tapped,” Carstairs observed. “The wax seal is intact on the others.” He stood to the side as he tapped the open keg and let a stream of red wine trickle into his palm. Fine sediment settled and clung to his hand much as it had clung to the goblet. He sniffed it but declined a taste. Wiping his hand on his legging, he then broke the seal of another cask. He did the same test, running the wine into his hand, but nothing solid settled this time. He sniffed again and then stuck his tongue in the cup of his palm.
“I cannot discern the herb, but it appears a poor choice of poison,” he informed Donovan. “It seems to have reacted to the wine and turned it rancid. ‘Tis lucky. One would not get down more than one sip before knowing something was wrong. Since no one would expect Lady Isabeau to drink your wine first, you are the likely target. Your enemy earnestly wishes you dead. Be glad he is lacking in skill.” Carstairs glanced around the storeroom before turning back to Donovan. “This makes three,” he added grimly.
“This makes three,” Donovan agreed. Then a minute reflection of light by the entrance caught his eye. A quick stride brought him to the curious item. The light had bounced off a polished piece of wood. It was longer and larger than he expected.
“What ho!” Carstairs exclaimed over the find. “This answers the question about the old bitch’s cane. Now, the question is—did she accidentally discover the culprit or was she an expendable accomplice?
C hapter 37
Isabeau stood proud at Donovan’s side. She wore her green gown with flowing skirts and equally flowing sleeves that touched to the floor. A gold embroidered kirtle, with fitted sleeves to her wrists, concealed her throat. Her hair draped down her back in two long braids, held in place with delicate jeweled and gold clasps, gifts from her betrothed as was also the circlet of gold that banded her forehead.
She might have baulked at wearing the green as it was not her best color, especially after a night of illness, but Caitlin had confided that wearing the dress had been Donovan’s suggestion. She had looked at the deep emerald-colored fabric and thought of their moss bed in the forest—the leafy canopy sheltering them from the sun. After such a simple memory caused a shiver to run down her spine, Isabeau easily set aside her qualms. If the green evoked such thoughts in Donovan, she would wear the dress every day until her last breath.
Father Matthias’s Latin echoed through the chapel’s rafters as he prayed over her head. While she kept her head bowed reverently, Isabeau could not stop her side glances in Donovan’s direction. He seemed larger than life in his resplendent burgundy velvet tunic and black leggings. His shoulders appeared broader and his expression more austere than she had ever seen him before. She hid the tremor caused by the stark glint in his midnight blue eyes.
Contrary to his promise—or threat—he had not needed to carry her to the chapel. Her knees might tremble but she made the journey on her own two feet. She did not think that reminding him would bring any lightness to his countenance. Marriage was a serious business, especially for an earl. But was business all it was for Donovan? Or was it revenge? Marta’s betrayal had cut deep. Isabeau understood more than she wished about Donovan’s seizure of her dowry.
The whys of her marriage mattered little—the deed was done and could not be undone. She tilted her head as her husband angled the ornate band of gold ring with an emerald so she could read the Latin etched on the smooth center.
“What is mine,” he whispered for her hearing alone.
Then he slid the ornate band over the middle finger of her left hand. Deep in her belly, she felt the weight of the piece on her finger. Swallowing, she licked her dry lips as she stared at her white hand captured in his huge callused ones. The ring marked her—branded her as his alone. His wife.
She was wed.
Isabeau could not quite believe the deed was done. Only the five—Father Matthias, Caitlin, Sir Carstairs, she and Donovan—had known what would happen when they entered the chapel at prime. Caitlin and Carstairs stood beside them but the only other wit
nesses to the ceremony were those who normally attended the prime services. No banns declared, no announcements made of the occasion. She read confusion mixed with pleasure on many faces.
She herself wondered at Donovan’s reasons for the speed and secrecy. Saturday was but a few days hence.
She wondered about a lot of things but voiced none of them -- until they stepped from the chapel into the early morning light.
They stopped at the top of the chapel steps and looked down at the gathering crowd milling at the bottom. Word of their wedding had begun to spread and Isabeau could see Maisie and Glenys pushing to the front, using their elbows when a friend did not move fast enough. Grins split the two weathered faces as they linked arms and started the hurrahs.
Isabeau felt a lump form in her throat as the welcome washed over her. An exile from her brother’s house, she had found a home at Bennington. She looked up at her husband and swallowed down the knot. She had almost everything.
She stood on tip-toe, resting her hand over his heart. “Do you think?” she asked through stiff lips, “Do you think that one day you might come to l-l- have some tender feelings for me?”
When he only stared down at her for a heartbeat, she was glad she had lost her courage at the last. Imagine if she had said ‘love’ and he had remained silent. Though her question could not have carried over the rising cacophony of the growing crowd, the shame of his public rejection would have driven her into the ground. Better no real question. Better no answer.
She brushed a kiss along Donovan’s jaw to the cheers of the crowd. A wave of excitement swept them into crowd below, the people of Bennington.
Hours later, after the bells of sexts, Isabeau still wondered over the morning’s events. Breaking their fast had been a festive occasion with many jests at the earl’s impatience for his bride. He had taken the ribald ribbing with humor and threw out his own ripostes. The day suddenly transformed into one where labors were forgotten as the ale and wine flowed freely.
Games followed the meal and Donovan was carried off to participate.
Isabeau couldn’t quite believe it. She looked down at the circlet of gold and emeralds now adorning her finger; a lasting symbol of the vows spoken in the chapel as the first of the morning’s rays had showered their glory upon the altar.
So much had happened in such a short time. A fortnight ago she had been planning her escape to the convent. She had been prepared to take vows as a celibate bride of Christ.
What if she had gotten an earlier start on the morning of her attempted escape; hadn’t stopped to give Meadowlark a drink, herself a rest from the saddle, and made it to the crossroads before Donovan and his party? What if her path had not crossed with Donovan’s?
She might not know the sweetness of a man’s kiss—Donovan’s. The pleasure of his touch. The ecstasy his body could give to hers. She might never have known the exquisite knowledge of his babe nestled in her womb.
Donovan said he had planted his babe. She glanced down at her splayed fingers covering her belly. Donovan, had given her so much. Was what she could give him of equal worth?
She carried Donovan’s child—a possible son—an heir to Bennington. She silently repeated the words in her heart as a prayer. Please, God, make it so. By next spring, she would have the child in her arms. She hugged herself in anticipation and Donovan, distracted by his people’s celebration, squeezed her shoulder without looking at her.
A babe to love. Donovan’s heir. She promised herself she would raise her husband’s child to be fair and honest and… Brave. Yes, brave. Life was too uncertain. Wise, too. A lot to teach hi before she must hand over her son -- or daughter -- to another for education…
My child will love me unconditionally – whether his father does or not.
She could not quite ignore a twinge at that thought. Donovan must have felt it for he turned to her, a question in his eyes. She smiled at him as if to say ‘all is well’ and prayed again in her heart, “Let Donovan love me...”
The sun climbed the sky on her wedding day, and then started the downward journey. Isabeau remembered her success at pleasing Donovan the previous night. Aye, she had an uneasy moment or two. That wine… But overall? Overall, the earl had appeared very satisfied with what she offered.
Isabeau swallowed hard and licked her lips, remembering their tryst by the brook, resting with their bodies entwined. Donovan had spoken of his marriage; Marta’s rejection, the closed door. Only after the loss of his son had he realized his time away from his cold wife had forfeited any chance to know the boy.
A slow smile curved Isabeau’s mouth. She suddenly knew what she could give her husband who, though a living legend, was also a man who had been wounded in many ways. She could throw open a door and welcome him home. Surely her latest machinations would please him. Grabbing an apron to cover her wedding gown, Isabeau beckoned. “Caitlin! We have work.”
Isabeau she would not give Donovan cause to take another to his bed. She would welcome him into her embrace, give whatever he desired—and reap her own pleasure. She was sure her husband had the wherewithal to teach her all manner of things about marital desire.
“All of my belongings must be moved to the earl’s room.” Isabeau spoke aloud to Caitlin as she opened the massive door to the master’s chamber. “My marriage will not begin with any doors closed between us. From this day on, my husband will know he is welcome. He will have reason to remain home where he will be safe from his sword. He will know the challenge of running his own estates instead of battling with his sword arm.
“We will get a couple of stout shoulders to lug my chests into this room. However, I want to see what chests the earl has in place. When he opens the lid, I want him to see my belongings snug against his.”
As she would be snug against him in his bed. She hugged the thought to herself.
Inside the room, Isabeau took a moment to survey the immense space. Everything about the room was big, from the bed to the wood panels that decorated two of the stone walls.
She crossed to the long chest at the foot of the raised bed. It held nothing but neatly folded blankets and furs for the bed. Isabeau left the lid propped up and moved to the next. She inspected all the chests, thinking as to how she would shift Donovan’s belongings to make room for hers. When all the chests were open, Isabeau stood in the middle of the room and made a circle. She smiled with approval at her plan. There was plenty of room for her clothing and other personal items without dragging in her chests. She might bring them in later, when over the course of their married life they accumulated more belongings.
She realized how few personal items her husband had acquired in his travels. Granted, he did have finery suitable for audience with the king, but very little, considering all he had done for His Majesty. She concluded that his service to the king was not frequently spent at court. Most of what she found in his—their—chests was well and truly battle worn.
She chewed on her bottom lip. The situation would change, she vowed with silent determination. Not that she was anxious to be at court, but her husband should begin to enjoy the comforts he earned. She would be happiest if they remained at Bennington.
“I will take nothing out of these chests. While you make the first trip to my chamber to bring my belongings, I will stack the earl’s clothing on the right side of each and leave the left empty. Mine will go on the left. Then we can both bring my things here. “
With a heart full of hope, Isabeau instructed Caitlin, “It seems our job will not be difficult. With a few trips by the two us, we will have no need of other shoulders. You are missing today’s games, but I promise to make it up to you for giving you this extra work. I should not have deprived you of the gaieties, but I so want to surprise the earl.”
As she adjusted the contents of the chests, Isabeau considered trip from Donovan’s chamber to her own. The trek seemed much shorter now than the first time she had followed the path. On that evening, fear had gripped her. Fear of the Earl of Benn
ington. Fear of the unknown. She had known it was a test. She had feared failure. On her return that same night, while still in wonder of Donovan’s magical touch, she had feared discovery.
Now she felt only excitement.
Caitlin brought one bundle from Isabeau’s room.
“Just put them on the bed,” Isabeau instructed. “I’ll fold them and put them where I wish. Go bring some more! And close the door. I want this to be a surprise.”
As Caitlin left, Isabeau smiled as she explored Donovan’s reaction to these changes. As she bent to scoop up the load of garments, a masculine arm looped around her neck. The arm yanked her against a solid chest, cutting off her air in the process. The elbow tightened and Isabeau saw starbursts in front of her eyes. She clutched at the arm and he released slightly.
“You do exactly what I tell you—and maybe—just maybe—you will see another sunrise.”
Isabeau recognized her brother’s voice. She heard a note of madness in his threat. Was it not madness to assault her—today of all days? She was wed, to the Earl of Bennington, Simon’s liege lord. She had her husband’s protection. She should fear nothing from her half-brother now.
“Simon? What are you doing here?” She tried to wriggle from her brother’s clammy, gritty grasp. Ordinary questions would bring him back from madness. “How did you get here so quickly?”
“Silence, bitch!” Simon tightened the arm again, cutting off her air. “Understand?”
She could only gasp and nod when he loosened his grip slightly.
“You have always been above yourself.” He spat out his accusation. “Now, you are going to obey my every order as you ever did at Olivet.” He squeezed again, this time showing the blade he held in his free hand. “Obey my every command. You will beg to obey.”
Simon’s arm curved around her throat closing off her air. The knife was pointed against her chin.
“Make a mistake, bitch, and God will be welcoming another virgin bride into his keeping.” Simon laughed at his own jest. Isabeau could hear no merriment in the sound, just a chord of desperation.