THE VEXING: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF FAITH Book 6)

by Tamara Leigh

  “As told,” Eleanor said, “you know of her.”

  “I do.”

  “And so you know her father.”

  “Only by sight. I served the keeper of one of his lesser castles.”

  She nodded. “Tell, are you among those who approve or disapprove of the lady?”

  “I have no cause to feel one way or the other.” The only thing of which he was certain was she was not the sort to whom he was drawn.

  Eleanor considered him. “So, my gallant monk, do you think it was for love the count sent his men to capture the lady?”

  “I cannot guess, Your Majesty.”

  “You can. You just do not wish to.”

  Certes, he was uncomfortable with talk of love. Hoping to end his audience with her, he forced a smile.

  She snorted. “Oh, be of use, Sir Durand.”

  Still, he waited her out as was best when she persisted past his ability to indulge her probing and teasing.

  “Perhaps lust,” she suggested. “After all, a man does not have to be in love to so desire a woman he risks much for her. What think you?”

  That he was even less comfortable with talk of lust. Memories of his own, with which he continued to struggle, causing his center to coil, he maintained his silence.

  Eleanor dropped her head back and considered the ceiling. “If not lust, then vengeance? Did she wrong the count? Ah, hold!” Her eyes flew back to Durand. “Count Verielle’s sister is wed to the heir of Lady Beatrix’s departed husband. There could be ill feeling there, that lady having long played second lady to The Vestal Wife.”

  A possibility, Durand concurred, though not one he would long entertain.

  “Even so, abduction is too extreme for so petty an offense, especially dealt by one with much to lose. But had Count Verielle something considerable to gain…” The queen’s eyes widened. “Were Lady Beatrix an heiress, abduction would fit—that he hoped to force her to wed to gain her fortune.”

  To which Eleanor could relate. Following the annulment of her marriage to King Louis nine years past, she had once more become the most eligible woman in France. Thus, during the return to her vast lands in Poitou, she was forced to outrun the Count of Blois who sought to make her his wife. Knowing she required a protector, she had secured a husband of her own choosing, wedding Henry Plantagenet who later made good his claim to the English throne.

  The queen expelled a sound of disgust. “Alas, Count Verielle is already wed, and Lady Beatrix is no heiress.” Irritation pinching her face, she looked about the hall and narrowed her lids.

  Durand followed her gaze to the one whose name better fit another woman. The lady walked alongside her man, Sir Norris, who bent near as if to catch whispered words. Moments later, the two entered an alcove where torchlight ventured only enough to reveal the place was occupied.

  “At least, as far as we know, she is no heiress.”

  Durand looked back at the queen, and the gleam in her eyes made him pity The Vestal Wife—now Widow—who was likely unprepared for the depth of Eleanor’s interest.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Were you believed?” Beata asked.

  Standing apart from her in the alcove, Sir Norris hesitated. “I do not think I gave her cause to disbelieve me.”

  But as Beata had realized the first time she met Eleanor whilst the great heiress was yet Queen of France, the lady was shrewd—so much that even in the absence of offense, she could leave the taste of wrongdoing in one’s mouth, Conrad had said. Doubtless, Sir Norris was experiencing the same bitter patch that coated Beata’s tongue.

  Wishing she had not allowed him to persuade her to beg off standing before the queen upon their arrival, she asked, “Will we be allowed to depart on the morrow?”

  “She did not agree nor disagree, said only ’tis a foul time of year to cross the channel.”

  “But we must.”

  “Aye, my lady. That which your father holds close will not likely remain so much longer, especially if—”

  “This I know,” Beata said sharply and regretted there was not enough light in which to offer an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. ’Tis just that I can hardly catch my breath.”

  It felt as if every bit of air lodged in her throat no matter how deeply she drew it in. Though heartsick over Conrad’s passing a year ago, she had begun to rise above her loss and smile and laugh again as she settled into widowhood. If not for the news Sir Norris had delivered, within a month she would have departed the great castle where she had lived nearly a dozen years and gone to live on the dower property Conrad had provided her.

  Now, just as when she had left her home in England to do her duty, she must leave her home in France. However, there was one good thing in this, but only if she could reach her father with King Henry and his queen unaware of her real purpose for answering his summons. And that one thing, in which she had a say, was all she had to hold to.

  Sir Norris blew out a breath. “I wish this burden did not fall to you, my lady.”

  She believed him. Though genial enough, he was uncomfortable with her outspokenness and expressions of delight and humor. The day he had come for her—before revealing she must return to England—he had grimaced at her contributions to conversations led by Conrad’s eldest son and heir, while his younger companions struggled against smiling and showing too much interest.

  “But it does fall to me.” She slid a hand inside her veil and rubbed her neck whose ache was more Sir Durand’s fault than the angst that grew each day since learning what was required of her. “Do you think it possible to steal away from court?”

  “You would be missed, my lady, and we would be overtaken. Even could we escape, ’twould be an offense your father would not wish visited on our sovereign.”

  Especially since what he planned would breed wrath enough, Beata conceded. “What should we do?”

  “Wait, during which you give the king and queen no reason to doubt our tale. And play The Vestal Wife as is expected of you.”

  At the realization he granted her permission to engage in behavior he deemed unseemly, she longed to laugh. “Now The Vestal Widow, Sir Norris.”

  He inclined his head.

  “What of the ship?” she asked. “If we are too long delayed, will it sail without us?”

  “Not only did your father pay well for it to wait, but he withheld half the payment until you are on English soil. Providing another does not tempt the captain with better, the ship will not leave without you.”

  That was not much comfort. “Providing? The man lacks integrity?”

  “Without question. But such a lack and a goodly amount of arrogant courage is needed in such dealings that could make one an enemy of the king.”

  “Then even if Henry and Eleanor permit me to leave, we have no guarantee of reaching England. Our ship may have sailed.”

  “Not likely. The weather has been too poor to risk the channel. But worry not, we shall get you home to your father.”

  Fatigued as much by her flight as a lack of adequate food, Beata smoothed her skirts with trembling hands and wished she had eaten more of the viands delivered to her abovestairs. “Is it acceptable for me to return to my chamber and rest ere supper? I am a bit out of sorts.”

  He turned his head, and she also looked to the hearth. Minutes earlier, Eleanor’s audience was exclusive to Sir Durand. Now she was surrounded by a half dozen ladies. And the knight who had delivered The Vestal Widow from one captivity into another, stood behind the queen.

  Beata groaned when she saw his gaze was on the alcove.

  “You are watched, my lady.”

  “Aye, all the more reason I would go abovestairs.”

  “Then do so now whilst the queen is occupied.”

  As she stepped forward, he rasped, “Better you present as joyful rather than anxious.”

  Containing the height and breadth of the smile she summoned lest it appear false, she exited the shadows, blinked prettily at Sir Durand as if surprised to find her
self beneath his regard, and turned toward the stairs.

  As she traversed the hall, she was approached by one of the noblemen who had gathered around her before Sir Durand’s appearance. No sooner did she extricate herself than Sir Oliver—he who could not imagine cursing her—moved toward her.

  She quickened her step and ascended the stairs. At the first turning, she halted and set her back against the curved wall, splayed her palms against the cool stones, and lowered her lids.

  “Almighty, I am pressed on all sides,” she whispered. “Pray, make a path clear enough to set my feet upon.” She exhaled, and hearing a scrape on stone, opened her eyes.

  One moment her pursuer stood a step down, the next he did not. “Sir Oliver!” She started to push off the wall, but he drew so near she could not move without brushing against him.

  “I am pleased to find you waiting for me.” He showed teeth that lacked only sharp canines to make him appear the wolf to the lamb he wished her to be.

  Courage, she counseled as she was moved toward a dark corner of her mind carved out of a terrible childhood dream that had resolved once she wed Conrad. Or mostly. When a man pressed attentions on her, the mold-blackened leaves heaped in that corner stirred.

  Seeking to propel her thoughts opposite the place that had transformed the girl she had been into one so joyless she had not known herself, she gave a laugh that cracked straight down its center.

  Get yourself in hand, she tried again. You have been cornered before. This is no different.

  But it was. Ever she had been under Conrad’s protection. Thus, when she proved unreceptive to the advances of her husband’s guests, she had laughed and teased her way out of the corners into which they backed her. Here she was alone. But not defenseless.

  She pushed her lips into a small, sad smile. “If only, Sir Oliver.” She perused his pale face. “Alas, I but paused to ease my aching head.”

  He placed a hand on either side of her, lightly settled his body against hers, and on ale-scented breath said, “You need not play coy with me, my lady.”

  The leaves stirred. “Sir Oliver, you would do yourself a kindness to remove your person from mine.”

  Though outside of violence, she could make her feelings no clearer, he chuckled, tugged the veil from her hair, and lowered his mouth toward hers.

  Granting herself the right to defend herself, she positioned her knee to haul it up between his legs.

  “Sir Oliver!” a voice shot up the stairway. “I am certain I did not misunderstand the lady’s request that you remove your person from hers.”

  The knight swung around to face the one who stood three steps below.

  Though Sir Durand’s stance was relaxed, there was threat in the hand he rested on his sword’s pommel.

  Sir Oliver gave a tight laugh. “The lady and I but discuss the details, Sir Durand.”

  The queen’s man swept his gaze over Beata. “Which details?”

  Sir Oliver shrugged. “As you know—rather, ought to know—timing is all.”

  What should Sir Durand know? Beata wondered.

  “So it is. Hence, I recommend you think well on this timing and honor the lady’s wishes. As you ought to know, the queen looks ill on any who think to molest one of her guests.”

  “You read too much into this.” The knight looked across his shoulder. “There is naught amiss here. Is there, my lady?”

  “Naught amiss.” She smiled wide. “Were I a strumpet…a trollop…a whore.”

  Color rose up his neck and his eyes darkened, but she stared back as Conrad had advised she do during such encounters. And was not the first to look away.

  “I shall leave you.” Sir Oliver began his descent.

  “Pray, forgive my lapse in neglecting to inquire after your wife,” Sir Durand said. “I trust she has recovered from providing you another child?”

  The knight looked around. “She is well.” He shifted his gaze to Beata. “And most eager for my return.”

  Is that meant to tempt me? she wondered.

  “Then best you not disappoint her,” Sir Durand said.

  The knight continued down the stairs and out of sight.

  Though Beata’s sigh came naturally, she let it linger in hopes of easing the awkwardness between Sir Durand and her. “I am grateful for your aid,” she said. “At least, I think I am.”

  When he ascended but two of the three steps so their eyes were nearly level, she appreciated the consideration, and not only because his proximity lacked the threat of Sir Oliver’s. Her husband had impressed on her the importance of keeping enough distance between one’s self and another to avoid tipping the head back. A short though solidly built man, he had known the danger of relinquishing even a small measure of power.

  “You think you are grateful?” Sir Durand said.

  Previously, she had looked near upon him, but only now realized she had not truly seen him. She liked his frown. Not every man could express such confusion and still be pleasing to the eye. And yet this one, whom she had earlier dismissed as not to her taste, was attractive—even with the damage done his face.

  She arched an eyebrow. “I believe the only reason you arrived in time to save that miscreant from being unmanned is that you were set upon me. Queen Eleanor, hmm?” She who had surely revealed that the one tossed from his horse was the near scandalous lady wed to Conrad Fauvel.

  His frown easing, he bent and retrieved her veil. “I fear you are right, Lady.”

  “’Tis good you are honest.”

  He held out the veil, and when she plucked it from him, said, “Is it your habit to cause a furor wherever you go?”

  The charge was not new. “It does seem that way.”

  Her words returned a frown to his face, and she wondered what it would take to summon a real smile rather than the studied one he had presented in the hall. She did not believe it was solely disapproval that made the turning of his lips less than sincere. What, then?

  “Aye,” he said, “methinks it is that way.”

  Then he thought her behavior had invited Sir Oliver’s attention. Unfortunately, he was not entirely wrong. Some men interpreted her enjoyment of good company and talk as evidence she was not averse to a tryst. But as The Vestal Wife, she had only ever known such freedom. Freedom not extended to The Vestal Widow.

  “I will see you to your chamber, Lady.” He started up the stairs.

  Beata followed, and when he paused at the landing to allow her to draw alongside, kept her eyes forward as she led the way down the corridor—and with each step became increasingly aware of him.

  Durand Marshal was no giant of a man like Count Verielle’s bearded Sir Renley, but he was built well and carried himself with strength and confidence that told luck played no part in him snatching her from his opponent. But there was something else that made her keenly aware of him. Whatever it was, it was so uncomfortable she knew it best she quickly shed his company.

  She halted before her chamber. “I appreciate your escort, Sir Durand.”

  He dipped his chin and pivoted.

  Beata was not displeased it was so easy to send him away—it should be thus for all men—but her behavior panged her. “Sir Durand!”

  As if he had no wish to prolong their encounter, he slowly turned, and she caught the flash of jewels in the hilt of a dagger on his belt. “Lady?”

  Am I so unpalatable? she wondered. “I thank you for all your help.”

  “I am glad to be of service.”

  “And I am sorry.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “For the injuries done you in routing my pursuers.”

  His mouth curved. “Be assured, I do not fault you. And ’tis nothing that will not heal.”

  “Forsooth, I did not know your intent and feared…” Words failing her—most unusual—she jerked her shoulders.

  The movement drew his gaze. Once more frowning, he stepped near, and awareness moved through her when he lifted her bodice off her collarbone. “What is
this?”

  Something breathless, she thought. But when she glanced down, she saw the abraded skin and bruising that had spread and deepened to dark purple and green. “Oh, it has worsened!”

  “Worsened?”

  He was almost as near as Sir Oliver had been, but she did not find herself drawn toward that dark corner. So far was she from it, her gaze was tempted to his mouth. But she resisted, knowing he might think she issued an invitation.

  “Aye, ’tis not only discomfort I suffer at being tossed from a horse, but being wrenched between two knights. My bliaut and chemise cut into my shoulders.”

  “I apologize.” His eyes rose to hers, and she saw flecks of brown amidst the gold. “But I hope you agree it was better I not allow the miscreant to carry you away.”

  “I do.” Her voice that normally suffered no lack of volume was almost a whisper, but well enough heard it moved his eyes to her lips. And she sensed he had received the invitation she had not meant to send.

  He dropped his hand and drew back. “Forgive me, I should not be so familiar.”

  Fearing he sensed her regret, she quipped, “Aye, first you ought to call me Lady Beata, which you have yet to do though twice you have saved me from men of ill intent.”

  His face closed up as if she rebuked him for being too familiar with her name. “I am oft lacking in the recall of given names.” He dipped his chin. “I shall leave you to your rest.”

  Following his departure, she stared at the emptiness he left and tried to find a fit for him amongst those to whom she had been exposed during her marriage. Considering what had not transpired between them, he was not one who saw her as a challenge and sought firsthand knowledge of whether she was that rare creature, The Vestal Wife. Nor was he one of those comfortable and open-minded enough to gladly spend time in her company. That left those who disdained her for overstepping the bounds imposed on her sex, comprised of men who grudgingly tolerated her company and those who could not and made little effort to be discreet in distancing themselves.