Almost of their own volition, his hands rose. He glanced at the bed. Eloise hadn’t stirred; she lay curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her breathing was deep and steady; the light flush of sleep shaded her cheeks.
The sight of her face, the serene perfection of her features, hauled him back from the brink. Killing Elspeth in Eloise’s presence would be tantamount to sacrilege—he couldn’t contaminate their love with such an act.
Slowly, very slowly, he forced his hands to the carved knobs ornamenting the top of the chair, and gripped them tightly. Bowing his head, he breathed deeply, willing the killing urge away.
Elspeth heard his harsher breaths; she turned and saw him.
He raised his head—she smiled.
Inwardly, he shuddered. Why hadn’t he seen the taint so clearly visible in her pale eyes? Because he, like everyone else who knew her, had grown used to her abominations, and hadn’t been looking for the change that showed that she had passed beyond the pale. She had tried to kill—had felled Rovogatti simply because he stood in her way. And where was the robin?
But first, before he could consider anything else, he had to get Elspeth away from Eloise.
He forced himself to speak calmly. “Come, Elspeth—we’re shortly to leave for your home. You will need to pack.”
Her smile was delighted; she rose and turned to him. “I was just explaining it to her.”
He made no comment, but stepped back, gesturing to the door.
Elspeth walked toward him, talking rapidly, breathlessly, excitedly. “I told her I wouldn’t permit her to bear any babe of yours. I’m to be your lady, as everyone knows, and I will be mother to your heirs. You needn’t deny you’ve grown infatuated with her to the point of gifting her with your seed—I witnessed all last morn—but I will not permit it. I have told her that, as her potion proved insufficient to kill her, I will allow her to leave. I will not tolerate her presence here when we are wed.”
Smiling ingenuously, Elspeth halted before him. “Tis a pity for she is an excellent chatelaine, but we’ll find another. And you may take another mistress—one to whom you will not become attached—perhaps from the women in the castle? There are many whores here—the little French one is very inventive. You would probably enjoy her.”
To his intense relief, Elspeth stopped there. He stared down at her, horribly, unwillingly fascinated. Had she really crept in and watched them last morn? With the door as it was, she could have done so. Did she really imagine…such questions were pointless. He glanced at the bed.
Eloise was still asleep.
Inwardly sighing with relief, he waved to the door. “Come. We must hurry.”
He kept sufficient space between them so she couldn’t touch him; that he couldn’t have borne. He opened the door and she preceded him into the anteroom, much to Bilder’s consternation. Alaun signaled Bilder with his eyes; the squire came to attention, his gaze fixing on Elspeth.
“Elspeth, how did you get in there?” He asked the question in as calm and restrained a tone as he could manage.
Elspeth preened. “I had to talk to her so I used the service stair. I never knew it was there until I heard them clearing the bath while I was watching you last morn.”
“And where is my…chatelaine’s maid, the one who was sitting with her?”
“Oh, her.” Elspeth shrugged. “I called her to the bathing chamber and tied her up. She was no trouble.”
His temper very nearly broke free; he restrained it with difficulty. When he was sure he had it under control, he looked at Bilder, then at Elspeth. “I am giving you a direct order, Elspeth. Do you understand? You must not disobey. You will wait for me here.”
With that, he returned to the bedchamber. One glance sufficed to reassure him that Eloise hadn’t stirred. He strode to the bathing chamber, and found Jenni bundled in a corner, bound with towels and cords, bruised and frightened, tears streaking her small face.
“Tis all right,” he soothed, as he lifted her and cut the cords, then tugged at the knotted towels. “Your lady is all right.”
“That…that witch was here!” Jenni’s hissed words testified to a depth of hatred he hadn’t expected in one so timid.
“Aye—I have taken her out. Now listen, Jenni, for I must leave within minutes to take Mistress Davarost away. I’ll return tomorrow. Take care of your lady whilst I’m gone. Rovogatti…” Alaun paused, not wishing to frighten the robin more. “Rovogatti will be here, too, so he will help if there’s need.” It would take more than a knock on the head to put the rugged Genoese out of action.
“Do not worry, lord. I will watch over her.” Rubbing her chafed wrists, Jenni bustled through the doorway into the main chamber. She peeked at the bed. “She still sleeps—did the witch disturb her?”
“I think not.” He looked long and hard at the slender figure in the bed, then glanced down at the robin. “I must leave now, Jenni.”
“Aye, lord. Fare you well and may the saints send you swiftly home.”
He nodded. And forced himself to go.
In one respect, his prediction fell false. Rovogatti was not incapacitated, yet neither was he staying behind. One look at the Genoese’s set face, and Alaun didn’t order him to do so. With Rovogatti in such a mood, Elspeth would have no chance of serving them any tricks.
He didn’t take any chances on the ride. Their departure from castle and town was watched by many—in unnatural silence. If Elspeth had possessed any normal sensitivity, she would have cringed from the threat implicit in the quiet crowds—one reason he was determined to get her away without delay.
The twenty miles to Davarost Manor were covered at a furious pace, much to the discomfort of Sir Howell and Mistress Martin. The former warbled complaints to which no one gave heed; the latter bore it stoically. On her flighty mare, Elspeth was wedged between the troop’s mounts, a burly sergeant before her and Rovogatti directly behind; when she pertly tried to insist on riding at the head of the column next to Alaun, he refused her so curtly she instinctively recoiled.
Thereafter she kept silent, until they were cantering into the courtyard of Davarost Manor. Then, from her prattle, it became abundantly clear that she believed they’d returned to her home to be wed. Alaun left her with her father and Mistress Martin and strode in to see his godmother.
Lucilla, Lady Davarost, had little in common with her husband. A handsome woman, she managed the manor and Sir Howell’s interests with an eagle eye, and otherwise devoted her attention to her ever-increasing brood.
Alaun laid the matter of Elspeth’s transgressions plainly before her. Lucilla was deeply shocked, and manifestly remorseful and apologetic. Alaun accepted her regrets, tendered to himself, Eloise, and his people. Without quibble, Lucilla accepted his edict banishing Elspeth from his lands, assuring him that Elspeth would be confined, and would cause no further trouble. After assuring Lucilla in return that she and the rest of her offspring would always be welcome at Montisfryn, Alaun took his leave.
His visit with his uncle, the Bishop of Worcester, was a more relaxing affair. Alaun and his men arrived late, but, always keen for news, the bishop made them most welcome. Restricting himself to recounting the events surrounding the fall of Calais while they supped, surrounded by his uncle’s servitors, Alaun waited until they retired to the privacy his uncle’s sanctum to broach the real purpose of his visit.
His uncle grimaced as he considered Alaun’s question. “Legally, you need not. Politically, however, I believe you should. Edward’s unlikely to be thrillingly happy with you if you do not, despite his edict.”
Alaun heaved a disgusted sigh. “Aye—so I thought.”
“Mind you,” his uncle continued, “as there’s no impediment to this marriage, if there was any reasonable reason, twould not be untoward for you to go ahead without the king’s assent, given he has not forbidden the match outright.”
“He’ll not do that. He’s beholden to both myself and the de Versallets over this last campaig
n, and will be keen to keep our support. Tis the likelihood of extended negotiations I like not—you know how Edward and his treasurer think. And the lady is exceedingly well-dowered.”
“Oh, I quite see your point. You would rather marry her this year than two years hence.”
“Exactly.” Alaun eyed his uncle squarely. “So what constitutes a ‘reasonable reason’?”
The bishop rolled the thought around as he savored his mead. “The easiest way would be to get the lady pregnant—that would certainly constitute reasonable reason. The Church would then support you—we’re very keen to have as many legitimate souls in our cure as possible.”
Alaun felt his lips lift for the first time that day, his usual confidence resurfacing. “That matter is already in hand. How far along does this reasonable reason have to be?”
The bishop waved airily. “Not far at all. Enough to be obvious. Once that much reason exists, tisn’t likely to go away, so there’s no call to hang back—the wedding can go ahead, and little matters like Edward’s consent can be sorted out later.”
“Good!” The tension—the fear, the panic, the chill terror he could not name—that had gripped him for the past twenty-four hours receded even further. Eloise would be his—legally, morally—as much his as his lands and equally under his protection, in a month, two at the worst. Hopefully sooner.
The bishop smiled benignly. “Is that all you wanted to know?”
“Aye.” Alaun reached for his goblet. “My other questions have all been answered.”
*
When the door closed behind Montisfryn, and Jenni resumed her seat, Eloise finally allowed her senses to sink back into the billowing clouds that beckoned. Her mind was able to function, yet her body would not awake. It had required a huge effort to lift her lids when she’d heard Elspeth’s voice—fear had lent her the strength to do so.
The sight that had met her wavering gaze had hardly been reassuring. The scrawny witch had been sitting in Alaun’s carved chair, where previously Eloise had sensed Jenni’s soothing presence. Her robin had disappeared—which was probably as well considering some of the things Elspeth had said. Eloise had closed her eyes, but her mind had listened, appalled by Elspeth’s depravity. Even more appalling had been the witch’s vision of the future. Thankfully, Alaun had come and had taken Elspeth away, and had brought Jenni back.
It was safe to sleep again.
Eloise awoke in mid-afternoon, fully restored, well-rested and ravenous. While she satisfied her hunger, doing justice to the feast Cook had instantly sent up on being informed of her need, she quizzed Jenni on what had occurred. “The last I remember was feeling ill and going out onto the keep steps.”
“You swooned, lady, and would have fallen down the steps, but the lord reached you just in time. He caught you up and brought you in. Twas very shocking for us all.”
“Hmm, yes.” The mists parted; she recalled Montisfryn’s face as he’d run toward her. “He brought me up here?”
“Aye—and stayed with you all night. He didn’t leave until it was clear you were on the mend.”
“Ah.” She had a dim memory of being held in his arms not so long ago. Frowning, she picked up a sliver of apple. “What happened between?” Elspeth had said she had poisoned her, and when Eloise had awakened, she’d tasted rosemary on her tongue.
Jenni shifted on the stool. “I can’t rightly say, lady. The lord was here, and Lady de Montisfryth, too, until late. They didn’t call for me till morning.”
Eloise nodded and let the matter slide—she would learn the truth when Montisfryn returned. Until then, Lanella could no doubt ease her curiosity.
But, “She’s not well, lady,” Jenni informed her. “Maud said the strain of yesterday, and this morn when she farewelled Mistress Elspeth, fair brought her low. She’s laid up, and Maud said as she hoped she’d stay quiet until tomorrow.”
“Aye—I’ll not disturb her. Who else is here?”
When Jenni told her, Eloise did not hold back her grimace. Not even Roland. She felt close enough to Edmund to question him on most subjects, but Jenni had said he hadn’t been present through the evening and night, and she didn’t wish to pry in ways that might strain his loyalty.
So she would have to bear her questions in patience.
Giving orders for the bedchamber to be aired and freshened, she doffed the heavy bed-robe in favor of a fresh scarlet cote and surcote, and went up to the top of the keep.
The servants she passed smiled hugely, nodding politely, clearly delighted to see her recovered. On the battlements, the guards saluted her. Her smile broad, she paced the walks, the brisk breeze blowing the last remnants of sleep from her mind. She leaned on the battlements and looked out over the fields and forests.
And remembered leaning thus on her father’s battlements and thinking of her dreams. Dreams she’d lost all hope of realizing until Montisfryn had arrived and proved her wrong.
He’d vanquished her memories and laid them to rest.
He had made her the lady of a large and prosperous establishment; he would be back tomorrow to stand, strong and protective, by her side. As for children, with time, by the saints’ grace, they, too, would come.
And, to crown all, the last vital ingredient—the one that would breathe life into her dreams and protect them against the chill winds of fortune—was theirs.
She loved him—and she knew he loved her.
Triumphant, her spirits soaring, she breathed deeply of the crisp autumnal air. The last rays of the setting sun lingered gently on her face, reminding her of his gaze.
Tomorrow, when he rode in, she would not let him distract her—not until after she had called him husband.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Triumphant anticipation held Eloise in thrall—up until the moment a messenger in the de Versallet livery stood before her in the hall and declared: “I bear greetings from your father, lady. He, together with your brothers William and John, lies west of Gloucester in company with the king. They’re much engaged in chasing outlaws, but your sire sees an end to that in two or three days. He would visit with you, lady, and sends word the king accompanies him. Our sovereign is much inclined to visit with his vassal and late comrade-in-arms, the Earl of Montisfryn.”
Eloise simply stared as the glorious scene she’d spent all afternoon rehearsing faded from her mind, consigned to oblivion by grim reality. She blinked; the hall, and the expectant faces of her new household, all seated for supper, crowded in.
Suppressing the almost overwhelming urge to curse her father, she forced a smile and waved the messenger, one of William’s squires, to a position in the hall.
“Tis a great honor, lady.” Edmund, seated beside her, was all gratified anticipation. “Edward’s not visited for many years, not since the lady’s illness came on.”
“Aye.” She tried to sound enthusiastic. “But there’s much work involved.” Her mind was racing, weighing possibilities, likelihoods, and certainties. The urge to curse her father grew. She turned to Edmund. “Tis very likely that with the aftermath of my illness, while I may be awake through the night, I will need my rest tomorrow. Think you, if I write instructions for what needs doing for the king’s visit, you could relay them to my people on the morrow?”
“Assuredly, lady.”
One point settled. There was much yet to organize.
After all she’d been through—Raoul and the years of loneliness—she was not about to let her sire ruin her one great scene.
*
She left before dawn, passing through the barbican the instant the drawbridges were lowered and the gates swung wide. The flickering torchlight worked to her advantage, allowing her to pass as a maid sent into town on an urgent errand. Exiting the town gates was easy, the town guards having no responsibility for castlefolk.
After a night spent with parchment and ink, drawing up a long list of orders for the household, then slaving over the letter she’d left for Montisfryn, she was ready to let the strong l
ittle cob she’d extracted from the stables play out his friskiness in a lively gallop. The road leading south lay before them, empty at present; she kept to the well-beaten surface as long as she dared—only when the sun was well up and the walls of Leominster rose ahead did she leave the road to cut southwestward.
A few comfortable nights and peaceful days at Claerwhen would see them clear of Edward and her father. She had suggested Montisfryn explain her absence on the grounds of an urgent summons to attend the deathbed of one of her more august teachers—a weak excuse on which to absent oneself from one’s sovereign’s presence, but it would have to do. There was no reason Edward should have any burning desire to meet her, after all.
The cob coped well with the rougher terrain; she congratulated herself on having chosen him. Jacquenta was too well-known; if she had taken the mare, Montisfryn’s guards would have stopped her and, albeit with the greatest deference, would have checked with Humphrey before letting her through. And Humphrey would not have let her leave. He would have insisted, terribly politely, that she wait for Montisfryn himself. And, of course, pigheadedly arrogant male that he was, he would definitely not have let her go.
From her point of view, it was impossible to stay.
If she did, Edward and her father would insist she marry Montisfryn the minute they learned that she was sharing his bed. Given the normal standards of castle gossip, that meant approximately an hour after they arrived. As Montisfryn was already under edict to wed, the chances of refusing were nil. Not that he would balk.
But if she allowed such an event to come about, he would never believe that she, of her own will and desire, had agreed to call him husband. And if he didn’t believe that, she would never hear the words she was determined, someday, to wring from him.
Even should he return to the castle before the king arrived, and she told him then, there was no way to hide her knowledge of Edward’s impending arrival. Montisfryn would think she had agreed solely to avert Edward’s otherwise inevitable reaction.
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