Turning, she cast up a sunny glance only to meet with his somber expression, a touch of sadness in his face. Her smile faltered.
“Ailénor — ” He hesitated, then his gaze traveled over her face, as if tracing her features to memory. “My business in Rouen is at an end.” Again he paused, seeming to search for words. A muscle leapt in his jaw. “On the morrow I must sail at first light.”
Ailénor’s smile slipped from her lips and fell to the floor of her heart. All gladness left her. She bit the inside of her cheek against a sudden rush of emotion.
“‘Twould seem you are to leave my life as abruptly as you entered it,” she offered in a small, dry voice, attempting a smile but failing miserably.
“Not by choice.” Garreth lifted a hand to stroke back a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. “Ailénor, I would not leave so soon if matters were otherwise. Believe that.”
She caught her bottom lip with her teeth, the hopes and fantasies concealed in her maiden’s heart crumbling. “There is only this day left to us, then?”
Garreth bowed his head. “Not even that. I must arrange my passage and make the necessary preparations. I regret I shall be unable to join you in the hall this eve.”
An unseen hand squeezed her heart, “Am I never to see you again?” Unexpected tears pricked the back of her eyes.
Garreth closed the space between them and pressed a finger to her lips. “Never is a harsh word, fair Ailénor, and one I refuse to use where it concerns the two of us.”
She trembled beneath his touch and wondered at his words. His hand dropped and enclosed hers in its warmth. He began to speak again, but the children’s voices sounded their approach — Adelis’s, Michan’s, and Ena’s — reminding them they were not alone.
Garreth drew Ailénor over to one of the church’s lofty columns. He could not give her up to the others yet. Their time was near to an end. One last moment must be theirs. He continued to enfold her hand in his own, his other arm still encumbered with the heavy Psalter. His gaze poured over her, hot, consuming.
“The children . . .” Ailénor fretted as they neared.
“Here. Look to examine this.” Garreth placed the Psalter in her hands, unable to think of aught else he might do. Aiding Ailénor, he helped brace the book’s weight from beneath, but did not move to withdraw the leather wrappings.
Again his gaze spilled over her. How could he leave her when everything in him clamored to stay? And yet he must. He could not reveal those things yet hidden about himself. Not at this time.
Beneath the Psalter, Garreth’s hand slipped over Ailénor’s. He believed her discontent to be as great as his, for she wore her heart in her eyes.
“‘Tis my most ardent wish to return to you, sweet Ailénor. I vow, to that end I shall faithfully strive.”
Mayhap ‘twas the moisture that glistened in her eyes and so tore at his heart, or mayhap the brothers’ fine brandy that prompted him to boldness, but he knew he could not depart Normandy without seeing her again.
“If ‘tis in your heart, then meet me on the morrow, before I sail.” His mind rapidly cast about for a place where they might do so, near to the keep.
Ailénor’s free hand sought his beneath the book. “Oui, Garreth. At the stone bench in the rose garden.”
“The stone bench,” he repeated, the corners of his mouth lifting. “‘Twould please me greatly if you would grant me your token then. I shall carry it with me, until again we meet.”
Ailénor nodded, a single tear slipping from her eye. His heart compressed, stirring Garreth to draw one of her hands from beneath the Psalter and press his lips against its back.
Ailénor swayed toward him, pressing into the edge of the book, a cumbersome barrier. He raised his head to gaze on her, but heard a shuffling accompanied by a distinctive “mew” nearby.
Garreth and Ailénor glanced down in unison to find young Michan sitting on the floor next to the stand of candles, his hand tucked inside the pouch at his waist where white fur and a small pink nose peeked out. How long the child had watched them, he could not guess, but Garreth pulled Ailénor along with him, behind the column and out of sight.
“Wait for me, Ailénor.” He spoke in a rush, knowing their time had run dry. “I pray God returns me swiftly to your arms. Know I will do all in my power to hasten that day.”
Encircling her with his arm, he drew her to him, the Psalter folding between them. He covered her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, urgently. His fingers pressed against her spine, then slid upward to tangle in her hair and send her veil askew.
Beneath Garreth’s searing lips, Ailénor felt a fire ignite inside her and flame upward, bright and white-hot. She met his passion and answered it fully, her mouth parting beneath his. She jolted momentarily at the invasion of his tongue, then welcomed its questing, silken warmth. Their breaths mingled, their tongues mated and danced, scandalously, passionately, their fervid kiss becoming one of longing and parting and bittersweet anguish.
Footsteps echoed across the nave, rupturing their passion-clogged haze. Garreth released her, and they panted for breath.
“Until the dawn, my heart. His dark eyes shone with unspoken emotion.
Seizing a final kiss, hard and swift, he unloosed his hold on her, pivoted, and left, leaving her tottery and groping for the solidity of the column.
Garreth crossed the nave in long, rapid strides, nodding tersely to the monk and Felise whose brows flew upward at his sudden appearance, while the children chittered amongst themselves.
Ailénor watched Garreth pass out of the church, her heart pounding, her lips burning. The force of her newly awakened desires and her hunger for Garreth startled her. No promise lay beyond tomorrow, yet she knew she would wait for him.
“Until the dawn,” she whispered after him as he disappeared from sight.
»«
Ailénor rose in the early-morning dark.
Drawing on her gown and slippers, she made her way around the pallets of her cousins and retrieved her mantle from its peg on the wall.
Cloaking herself, she moved into the outer chamber where Felise slept deeply with the young ones, her soft snores filling the air. Soundlessly Ailénor crossed to the door and emerged onto the upper gallery that overlooked the Great Hall.
Following the passageway to the far end, she gained the stairs and began her descent. Torches blazed in their iron brackets, spilling gamboling pools of light over the steps and distending shadows to dance upon the walls.
Reaching the bottom, she paused in the alcove and peered through the archway, into the Great Hall. Her heart beat high in her chest. With so many guests at the palace, she feared some might sleep in the hall. Unable to distinguish forms in the inky darkness there, and not wishing to chance discovery, she continued on toward the entrance end, keeping close to the wall.
She hesitated. Never had she wandered the keep at night, but guessed there to be guards posted throughout. Likely before the portal to the Great Hall itself. Certainly on the level below that quartered the high-ranking chevaliers. And without doubt, outside, securing the main stairway to the keep.
Diverting her course, Ailénor followed the partition of curtained columns, paused long enough to look about for men-at-arms, then, finding none, dashed the distance to the entrance of the kitchen passage.
With a sigh of relief, she quickened her pace along the corridor and closed on two sets of stairs, one leading to the wine cellar, the other to the kitchens that lay just outside the tower keep. She hastened down the latter, her anticipation mounting. ‘Twould be a matter of minutes before she reached the garden and Garreth.
Rounding the steps at their turn, her gaze fell to the bottom of the steps. She froze in place. A guard stood below, his back confronting her. How could she hope to steal past him?
The man bent his head forward and appeared to speak to someone, hidden before his bulk. Ailénor’s eyes widened as a feminine hand slid around his waist and began to caress his back. At that encouragement, he
ushered his companion into an adjoining storage room that projected off the corridor and closed the door.
A part of Ailénor wished to rail at the man for abandoning his post. Another part praised Heaven above for his timeliness, which opened her way to slip from the keep unseen. Rushing down the remainder of the steps, she escaped outside and into the yard.
Servants stirred about the kitchen buildings, laying in the fires and beginning preparations of the keep’s main meal that would be served at ten.
A man bearing firewood to one kitchen halted outside the door and stared pointedly at her. Again Ailénor feared discovery. Yet there was something in his look that chilled her blood. Or was it his pock-scarred face that so disquieted her?
Ailénor upbraided herself for her narrowness of spirit. She broke the gaze and headed in the direction of the garden, persuading herself she need not worry. Servants might gossip among themselves, but their buzzings usually stayed within their own ranks. She highly doubted the man would inform the officials of the keep or seek out her parents, even if he knew who they might be.
Drawing into her green-blue mantle, cocooning herself against her unease, Ailénor continued to the arbor.
A fine mist hugged the ground, dampening Ailénor’s slippers and the hems of her cloak and gown. Entering the low-walled garden, she found it empty. She had left her chamber somewhat early to arrive in advance of Garreth. With that achieved, she now found herself hoping that he would arrive directly and undelayed.
Ailénor paced the confines of the garden restlessly, then seated herself on the cold stone bench. The early-morning chill seeped into her bones.
Somewhere behind, a twig snapped, causing her to jump. She scanned the area but found nothing. A bird fluttered into a tree nearby and began to chirp out a melody — a mockingbird, reciting his lengthy repertoire. He finished a flourish of notes, then switched abruptly to a discordant cawing, as though to drive her from the garden or warn her away.
Ailénor pulled her mantle snug about her and rubbed warmth into her arms. “Garreth,” she whispered. Did aught detain him? Had something occurred since yestereve to prevent his coming this morn?
Ailénor touched her fingers to her lips, remembering his kiss and the heat of his mouth, and how he called her “his heart.”
Above, the sky began to lift from a pitch-black to a deep, lambent blue. Of a sudden, Garreth’s request for a token leapt to mind. Ailénor meant to gift him with a particular ring, but in her eagerness to meet him, she forgot to retrieve it from her chest. And yet . . .
She fingered the brooch securing her mantle. ‘Twas a fine piece and a worthy token. She smiled. Working the pin at its back, she unfastened it and slid it from the cloth.
Ailénor started to secure the pin when she heard distinctive sounds, just past her right shoulder and directly behind — footfalls and a swishing of cloth. Ice shot up her spine, instinct telling her ‘twas not Garreth. The mockingbird flew past, forsaking the garden. Ailénor shoved from the bench but had only half risen when a hand snaked from behind and fastened over her mouth.
A scream scaled Ailénor’s throat. She tore at the hand and battled the solid strength that forced her back down. In a panic she fought beneath the entrapping hands, twisting violently as she lurched forward and partially freed herself. Driving upward, she regained her footing. Yet her attacker overpowered her efforts and caught her in a crushing grip, one hand still affixed over her mouth.
Twisting, she caught sight of the man’s pocked face. Her heart nearly stopped beating. Another form materialized, seemingly from nowhere, and grabbed for her legs.
Terror possessed Ailénor. She kicked out. Remembering the brooch in her palm, she hardened her grip and stabbed backward, sinking its long pin into the thigh of the man who held her. He shouted and swore blackly, then, in a fit of anger, struck the brooch from her hand, sending it into the grass. The two men trammeled her next efforts and hauled her toward a hedge of bushes, terrifying her nearly beyond her senses. Would they rape her right here?
Garreth! Garreth! Her mind screamed out to him.
Ailénor fought with all her remaining strength but to no avail. Her cloak dropped from her shoulders and snarled at her feet. The morning cool rushed over her as she bit and kicked, and scratched. Tearing one hand free, she clawed for the man’s face. He snared her wrist and gave it a twist, but in the struggle her knee jerked upward and connected with his groin, shocking herself and incensing him. Fury fired his eyes. Doubling back his fist, he struck out.
Pain exploded along Ailénor’s jaw, while her head burst with a brilliant shattering of light.
Crumpling, she fell into a well of darkness.
»«
Grimbold worked quickly to bind the baronne’s hands and gag her. He had not anticipated so much pluck or fight from a noblewoman. He smiled darkly. She should make for some stimulating sport.
“Help me with this,” he barked at Wimund.
Together they pulled a hemp sack over her, one of size, filched from the kitchen. Enshrouding her fully, they hauled her upward.
“Get the cart and meet me at the west gate,” Grimbold ordered.
Wimund started to argue the arrangement, but harnessed his tongue and trudged off.
Shouldering the baronne’s unconscious form, Grimbold took up her weight and vanished into the shadows that yet lingered before the dawn.
»«
Garreth quickened his stride toward the garden, eager to see Ailénor. Eager to hold her in his arms and claim one last kiss before he took leave of her for England.
Entering the rose arbor, he found no sign of Ailénor. All lay still and silent.
Garreth removed the cumbrous Psalter from beneath his arm and placed it on the stone bench in the heart of the garden. He stood waiting, watching. His nerves knotted up.
As loath as he was to leave Ailénor, he found himself anxious to be away so he might return all the sooner. More strongly than ever, he felt sure of his intentions, sure of his feelings, for the autumn-fire maid of Normandy. If the king would have him choose a wife, he would choose Ailénor. Even if the king did not urge him to the altar, ‘twas a journey he would gladly embrace with this fair damsel.
Pale fingers of pink and lavender streaked the sky. Still Ailénor did not appear. Tension coiled through Garreth. The boatswain would not delay the ship for long, he had made himself clear. Even now Garreth knew he must hasten his pace to the docks.
Young Michan came to mind. Yesterday in the church the boy overheard the details of his and Ailénor’s plans. Had the lad informed his nursemaid? Or his parents? Had they prevented Ailénor from coming this morn?
Garreth’ s heart plummeted.
He doubted not at all her feelings toward him, not if he judged by her passionate response beneath his kiss yesterday. How keenly he wished to see her before his leave-taking.
Long minutes passed while the sky continued to lighten. He could wait no longer. He did not have time to seek her out, and disappointment weighted his chest like granite. Until he returned to Francia, he would neither see Ailénor again nor have further communication with her.
Taking up the Psalter, he withdrew from the garden and crossed the ducal grounds. At the gate Garreth identified himself to the guards, completed the formalities, then gave a single glance back toward the tower keep.
Ailénor. Where are you? he reached out to her mentally. Only the quiet of early morn and a few twittering birds answered back.
Releasing a long, frustrated breath, he directed himself to the demands of the day that lay ahead and forced himself to depart.
»«
Garreth arrived at the dock to find the boatswain pacing the planking. Seeing Garreth, the man hurried forward.
“All is in readiness. Your trunk arrived earlier and is stowed aboard.”
The boatswain twitched several glances back to the ship and licked his dry lips.
“We . . . ah . . . have some unanticipated company for the crossing �
� two men bound for Ireland. ‘Twill not delay you one whit, I assure you,” he added in a rush. “They paid right handsomely, they did, and extra, too. But I made it clear to ‘em both I’d first be delivering you to Hamwih. They have no problem with that.”
Garreth flicked a glance at the men who waited in the ship, drawn into their cloaks and hoods. In truth, he had paid quite handsomely himself for a swift and direct passage, convincing the boatswain to forgo all stops save the requisite one on the coast at Harfleur.
“Then I have no problem either,” he muttered in assent, his greater concern still residing with Ailénor.
Climbing into the ship, he afforded the men a nod, then stepped to the cargo hold where the decking opened to the hull amidship. Casks of ale and provisions of food crowded the mast there, while the remainder of the space was only partially loaded. Garreth spied his chest positioned beneath the foredecking. It struck him as odd that it should be stored apart of the other goods, but he leapt down the short distance, thinking to store the Psalter there as well and protect it from the elements at sea.
As he squatted before the trunk, he heard a scuffing of boots on the deck astern, but paid it little thought. Instead he slipped the precious book in its waterproof wrappings behind the trunk. He encountered something there, firm but with “give.” He noticed the end of a hemp sack then. Grain? he wondered. Again he deemed it odd but thought whatever the sack contained, ‘twould buffer the Psalter nicely and keep it from sliding about.
Rising Garreth found the two men watching him from deep within their hoods. One had stood to his feet and now stared down at him. Garreth felt a prickling feeling dance along the back of his neck. There was something odd about the man’s eyes, yet the shadows obscured them.
Garreth gave another slight nod of the head, then joined the two on the half deck astern and settled himself where he could keep his valuables in view.
The boatswain cast off the mooring lines and trimmed the sail to take advantage of the light breeze.
As the ship glided from port, Garreth looked back to Rouen and the distant tower keep, outlined against the hills. There his gaze remained as the expanse steadily widened between himself and the maid who had so captured his heart.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 9