Susan Spencer Paul

by The Bride Thief

  “I do not think Senet shares Odelyn’s interest,” he told her gently. “I realize she’s become enamored of him, but he has given no sign that he returns the feeling. He seems mostly to want to be left alone.”

  “Yes, I think that is so,” she said with a nod. “ I have spoken with Odelyn and received her promise to stop pursuing him as she does, but I was uncertain of Senet’s regard. He has seemed not himself so much since his disagreement with Kayne.”

  Justin chuckled at her use of the word disagreement. It hadn’t been a disagreement at all; it had been a full-out battle. He didn’t think Isabelle had yet forgiven him for not putting a stop to the fight at once and, more, for holding her back when she would have gotten between the two boys to put a stop to it herself. But they’d needed to sort the matter out. The boys had been friends, and were better friends now, but the fight had been brewing for a long time.

  Justin had seen it coming the first time that Senet unseated Kayne from his horse during jousting practice. No one but Justin had been able to unseat Kayne before, not even Aric, who was as skilled a fighter as many grown men Justin knew, and the sting of the insult had burned in Kayne’s eyes even as he stood and dusted himself off. By the tenth time Senet had unseated him, the burning had turned into a raging fire, and Kayne had launched himself at the other boy with, Justin assumed, every intention of teaching the usurper a few things about keeping his place in the line of rank. With both boys dressed in heavy full armor, the tussle hadn’t lasted more than a quarter of an hour, and had mostly been a farce of them swinging, knocking each other down by turns, then getting back up and starting all over again.

  He’d decided to let them wear themselves out first, before sending them to spend the night together in the keep’s jail, which was, Justin thought, a fitting punishment for breaking one of his strictest rules: no fighting without his permission. Isabelle hadn’t been very happy with him about that, either. She hadn’t shared a bed with him for a week, until she was assured that Senet hadn’t taken any harm from his one-night sojourn in the damp cell, from which both boys emerged the next morn, fully reconciled.

  “It may be that he is more himself now than he was before their…disagreement,” he told her, moving nearer and setting his fingers gently on the back of her neck, rubbing at the tenseness he found there in a soothing rhythm. “He is beginning to come out of his silence, and the anger he has kept brewing this while is rising to spill out. I warned you that it would come, in time, beloved. There is much for him to be rid of, and there will be moments—perhaps many—when he will be angered and unpleasant. But we must be patient and wait. When it has all gone out, he will begin to learn contentment. It was the same with Kayne and Eric and John. They were once as bitter as Senet is, but you see how they are now.”

  “I know you speak the truth,” she admitted, pressing her cheek against his chest and looping her arms about his waist. “But sometimes…he does not even seem like the boy I once knew. It is almost as if he is not my own brother, but some stranger. It is so hard.”

  “I know,” Justin murmured, kissing the top of her head, where her smooth hair felt like silk. “In truth, he is no longer that young boy who lived with you at Lomas. He will never be that boy again. But he will always be your brother. In time, you will come to know him once more.”

  Isabelle nodded silently, hugging him, and Justin felt the contentment that he had come to delight in stealing over him.

  “Come and have a cup of wine with me,” he said, “while I prepare the Yule log for its lighting. There is not much time before Meg will be calling us to table.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle lifted her head. “I must finish this before we begin the celebration. Sir Alexander’s courier will arrive on the morrow, from Siere, and I must have all of the instructions ready for him to take to London. Profits from the coal mine have made it necessary that we have another boat built right away to expand the trade.”

  Alexander’s couriers had become a weekly part of their lives. The men on horseback arrived with the sort of regularity that both Alexander and Isabelle insisted upon.

  “More boats,” Justin said with a smile. “You’ll be rivaling the Hansa soon.”

  “We will,” she replied with perfect seriousness. “Indeed, I mean to recommend to Sir Alexander and Sir Hugh that we make plans to build our own warehouse in London, bigger than the one Hansa has, and perhaps even one in Venice, if we can do so. There’s no good reason why the Germans and Venetians should make so much profit on their trade in London while the English merchants cannot do the same in their ports.”

  Except, perhaps, for the fact that the German and Venetian fleets wielded almost as much power as they did wealth, and would not welcome any more rivals for their commerce and trade. Isabelle wouldn’t think about the dangers of such an undertaking, Justin knew, but he hoped Alexander would. He didn’t want Isabelle drawing too much attention to herself, or gaining too many enemies. Sir Myles was yet causing more than enough trouble all by himself, with his continuous demands to have Isabelle returned to him. His latest efforts had involved beseeching John of Lancaster for help, but with the king’s regent so occupied in France, Justin doubted anything would come of the petition. Especially now that Isabelle was with child. The only recourse Sir Myles could hope for was that Isabelle herself would decide to return to him, for she still retained that right, since she had been taken against her will. But that, Justin knew, would never happen. She was content to be his wife, and content to live at Talwar. Whenever he gazed into her face, he could see her happiness shining up at him.

  “Finish your work then, good lady wife,” he said, bending to kiss her lovely mouth. “And then we will begin our Christmas celebration.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The grand Christmas feast that Meg had prepared was long over, the Yule log had been lit with much ceremony, the games Isabelle and Odelyn had arranged had just ended, and now, as Meg and Gytha passed out goblets of hot spiced wine, everyone in the great room grew silent, waiting for the lord of Talwar to begin his yearly giving of Christmas gifts.

  Isabelle watched with growing anticipation as Justin opened the large wooden chest he had earlier placed near the fire. She already knew what was inside, for she had helped him to fill it during the past month, adding each gift with care and smiles as they spoke of how the receiver would like it. Because he had no vassals of his own, borrowing workers from Briarstone to work Talwar’s fields each season, Justin had made a habit of giving gifts to the boys, instead, as well as to his household servants, much to the delight of everyone involved.

  Murmurs of appreciation and delight filled the room as Justin presented each gift, one by one. There were sharp new daggers set with real jewels for each of his “lads,” all made by Justin’s own skilled hands, and lovely, fine Scottish wool cloth for Meg, Gytha and Odelyn. There were new clothes and shoes for every member of the household, ordered and made to fit by the finest tailors and shoemakers Briarstone had to offer. Finally, Justin handed out little leather bags, each holding six gold coins.

  “Oh, thank you, my lord,” Gytha said, hugging her gifts against her chest. “God bless you.”

  The others joined in with thanks, and Isabelle thought that a few of the boys looked nearly overcome. Senet, she saw, was gazing at his new dagger as if it were the most beautiful, stunning thing he’d ever seen, turning it over in his hands to look at it from all sides and blinking his eyes rapidly.

  “I am the one who is thankful,” Justin said. “For all the blessings that God has given me, most especially for the fine women who keep my home and care for all of us. It is little enough to repay you in such a small way only once each year. And—” he winked at Isabelle “—I am not yet done with my gift giving yet.”

  “My lord!” Isabelle exclaimed as he reached into the chest once more. She hadn’t expected him to give her a gift. He had already given her so much; surely she could not deserve anything more.

  He lifted something lar
ge out of the chest, something wrapped in dark blue velvet and tied with gold silk cords, then he carefully carried it to where she sat, placing it upon her lap.

  “I have waited a long time to see you open this, my lady,” he said, kneeling beside her. With a brief caress of her cheek, he murmured, “See what it is.”

  She untied the cords with shaking fingers and pushed the velvet aside. And then, lifting a hand to her lips, she whispered, “Oh.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she said again, “Oh.”

  Her mother’s books. All of her mother’s books. She blinked to see if they would disappear, but when she opened her eyes again, the books were still there. Right on her lap.

  “You are pleased, Isabelle?”

  “Oh, aye. Aye.” She couldn’t seem to stop the tears. They were streaming down her face now. “Oh, Justin. How did you—?” A sob stopped the words, and she ran a hand over the leather binding of the first book, the Almagest.

  “I wrote Alexander and asked him to do whatever he must, use his every power, to find them for you. He was glad to do so when I told him how much your mother’s books meant to you.”

  She sobbed again, then uttered a teary chuckle. “The lord of Gyer has been a busy man, it seems. Senet.” She lifted her head to gaze at her brother, who was frowning at the books in her lap. “Go into my working chamber, please, and open the chest where I keep my accounts. Bring me what you find there. It is wrapped in a velvet darker than this is.”

  With a curt nod, Senet pushed away from the wall against which he’d been leaning and went into her chamber.

  “Look,” Isabelle said when he had gone, opening the Almagest to the first page. “Have you seen the paintings, yet? This is my mother. Oh, Justin…”

  Justin smiled down at the illustration of a beautiful, fair woman whose hair and dress were skillfully drawn to represent an elegant number one. “That is your mother, Isabelle? I thought she would have dark hair.” He lifted a hand to wipe the tears from her cheeks, and when she looked at him, the expression of love shining in her eyes made his heart thump painfully in his chest.

  “Nay, she was very fair, like an angel. Senet and I have our coloring from my father. We all thought she was so beautiful. I cannot tell you how good it is to see her again, to have her books. Thank you, my lord.” She caught his hand and pulled it to her mouth, kissing his palm fervently. “Thank you.”

  “Isabelle.” The strange sound of Senet’s voice caused everyone to turn toward him. He stood at the door of her working chamber, his face as pale as the snow that fell outside, holding something long and slender and wrapped in purple velvet.

  She smiled at him encouragingly, and held out her hand. “Bring it here, Senet. If you have guessed what it is, I know that you, like me, will want Sir Justin to have it.”

  “Aye,” he murmured as he strode toward her. “I do.”

  He placed the object in Justin’s hands and stood back, watching as Justin unwrapped the velvet to reveal a finely crafted sword, ornamented at the hilt with seven large sapphires forming the shape of a cross.

  “God’s mercy,” Justin said reverently, and the rest of the boys drew around with awe.

  “’Tis beautiful,” John whispered.

  “’Tis very fine,” Kayne agreed.

  “’Tis the finest sword I’ve ever set sight on,” Justin said, lifting the heavy, elegant weapon into the air. “I have never before seen its like.”

  “It was our father’s,” Isabelle said softly. “And his father’s before him. I knew where my uncle had sold it, and asked Sir Alexander to use the profits that were my part from the coal mine to find it and buy it back. I thought, with your own love of making weapons, that you would like to have it.”

  “Like?” he repeated, gazing at the sword with disbelief, then shaking his head as if to clear it. “But Senet should have it. It was his father’s.”

  “Nay,” Senet stated flatly. “I do not want it. Isabelle is right. If it is any of mine, then with a full heart I join her in giving it to you, my lord.”

  “I will cherish it,” Justin replied solemnly. “I will cherish it every day that I live.”

  “Just as I will cherish having my mother’s books,” Isabelle told him. “I have never had so fine a gift before. Senet, look. Do you remember?”

  Senet knelt and leaned forward to look at the illustration she pointed to. He was silent, staring, and at last lifted a finger to touch the tiny face on the parchment.

  “Mother,” he whispered, then drew in a shaking breath. “I remember. I—” He drew in another breath, sharper this time, and surged to his feet.

  “Senet!” Isabelle called after him, but Justin set a hand on her arm to silence her as the boy strode toward the passageway that joined the manor house to the keep.

  He didn’t care about the snow. It felt good on his hot skin, soothing. He gripped the icy stones of the low parapet wall and leaned forward, striving to calm his breathing and the strange, aching sounds that were fighting their way out of his chest despite his efforts to subdue them. Streams of wet heat streaked down his face, and he wiped them away with a punishing hand.

  I remember.

  One sob managed to escape, burning, sharpening the ache.

  Isabelle, I remember.

  He bent his head low, letting the agony in. He hadn’t wished for his parents since after the first week of his servitude at Sir Howton’s. They had laughed at him when he wept during the first few days that followed his father’s conviction, and then had beaten him until the tears stopped. He’d spent every waking moment in his cell praying for his parents, wanting them so badly. On the day that his father was executed, they had dressed him in women’s clothing and made him dance in the great hall for the entertainment of everyone present, while they laughed and threw coins. But he hadn’t smiled while he danced, as they insisted he do, and Sir Howton had taken out his whip, ready to force him to it. He had not given way. After the tenth strike on his bare back, he had finally, mercifully, fainted. When he awoke in his dirty cell, he discovered that he could no longer remember his parents’ faces. Or anything about Isabelle, save her name. And not remembering them had been a blessing, for he’d no longer had any reason to weep.

  But now, at last, he remembered. His mother, and his father, and Isabelle. He embraced them in his thoughts with all the same longing that he’d felt during that first miserable week so long ago.

  Turning, he slid against the parapet into the-snow, resting his face against his indrawn knees. And he let himself weep. The heat of his tears soaked his knees, a biting contrast to the numb chill of the rest of his body.

  “Senet?”

  He groaned at the sound of Odelyn’s soft voice. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Not like this.

  “Senet.” She sounded closer, more concerned. He heard her footsteps crunching through the snow as she crossed the rooftop. “You should not be here,” she murmured. “’Tis so cold.”

  The heat of her body enveloped him as she knelt and put her arms around his stiff form. “’Tis so cold,” she repeated. Her hands pulled him closer, and he went unresistingly into her warm embrace, uncurling and gripping her fiercely, pulling her nearly into his lap, pushing his face against her neck.

  She held him, murmuring and stroking his hair, and he loved her so much in that moment that he couldn’t even think of the words to tell her. She’d spent the past five months pursuing him, heaven only knew why, and he’d spent the past five months running, because Odelyn was beautiful and good and he wasn’t He was only ugly, with his scars and his violence, and he knew that he would hurt her if she didn’t stay away from him, no matter how sweet and gentle she was. He would hurt her.

  He tried to say her name, but it came out only as “Oh—” before a sob cut off the rest. Then, shuddering, he pushed her away, gulping for air and struggling to his feet.

  Odelyn stood, too, still holding him, her whole body pressing against him. Senet let her do it, though he didn’t return the embrac
e. He stood very still, looking over the parapet into the outer bailey, trying to calm enough to tell her to go away. But somehow, even when the tears had stopped and the sobs had ceased, he didn’t tell her anything, and they stood thus, together, listening to each other’s breathing while the silently falling snow gathered on their hair and lashes.

  It was the muffled sound of horses approaching that brought Senet to his senses, and he realized that his arms had somehow slipped about Odelyn’s waist to hold her to him, that he had rested his head against the top of hers.

  “What is it?” she asked when he suddenly straightened.

  “Listen,” he said. “Horses.”

  “In this darkness? And snowfall?”

  “There. Look.” He pointed over the parapet to where three riders stood outside Talwar’s gates, one of them ringing the bell. The sound of it echoed loudly across the empty bailey.

  “Who could it be?” Odelyn asked.

  “I do not know, but there is no good reason for any man to be out on such a night. We had best return to the manor.” He took hold of her hand. “Come.”