by Tamara Leigh
Beata tucked apology into her smile. “I am determined not to worry over it since Sir Durand made it unnecessary.”
Eleanor considered her. “We are pleased you think well of him.” She looked around. “You have heard of Baron Wulfrith.”
Beata met the warrior’s gaze. Whatever he felt beneath the regard of those who watched as if a play unfolded, it could not be known. “Aye, Your Majesty. His is a reputation above reproach.”
“Thus, any concerns you have about the safety of your journey are settled.”
No further explanation needed. Regardless of her fate upon reaching England, these two men would ensure she did so without falling victim to any who should have no good reason to stop her.
“You are kind, Your Majesty. And considerate. But—”
“Most considerate. Thus, should the morrow’s weather permit a crossing, we give you leave to do so in the company of Sir Durand and Baron Wulfrith.”
Were only that required of them, Beata would happily accept. “I am honored and grateful, but I would not take these men from matters far more pressing than delivering a widow of little import to her father, especially as I am not without escort.” She glanced across her shoulder. “Sir Norris—”
“Failed you, Lady Beata. If not for Sir Durand, you would have been abducted for… Well, that we must needs discover.”
Which she would though, hopefully, not until the one who had become a playing piece on her well-appointed board was out of reach. Providing the queen had no easy connection with Count Verielle, it was possible.
“Lady Beata”—Eleanor’s tone was conciliatory—“we seek only to ensure a noblewoman born of England does not find herself at the mercy of men such as those who sought to capture and force us to wed following the annulment of our marriage to King Louis. Blessedly, as you are not an heiress…” She frowned. “Do we assume something we should not?”
Heart beating hard, Beata flew her eyes wide. “An heiress! Surely you received tidings my father’s wife birthed a son?”
“We did, but…” Eleanor sighed. “…is it not the third child your stepmother has birthed?”
The first two stillborn. But the last had survived. Hopefully, he yet lived. “It is, Your Majesty.”
“We pray your father’s heir thrives, but should he not…”
Beata glanced at Sir Durand and found herself watched by eyes that proved he was not as adept at masking his thoughts as the baron. “As I also pray,” she said, “but does God claim another of my father’s children, still there is my brother, who could be released from his holy vows.”
It was true, though Beata’s father told that Emmerich was adamant about remaining of the Church.
“Should he wish to eschew his vows,” Eleanor mused. “But does he not, you will wed again, hmm?”
Beata suppressed a groan. “I do not believe it will be required of me and pray it will not, Your Majesty.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Regardless, we shall ensure you reach your home unmolested.” She looked around. “Sir Durand is acquainted with the barony of Wiltford, having served there several years past.”
Beata blinked. “You know my father, Sir Durand?”
His smile was strained. “I do not, Lady. It was the keeper of Firth Castle who bought my sword arm, and for a short time only.”
The queen waved an impatient hand. “As for Baron Wulfrith, he resides at Stern Castle.” She looked to the large man. “Is it not two days’ ride from Wiltford?”
“To reach the lady’s home, one passes near my family’s demesne, and ’tis possible to gain Wiltford in a day providing one begins the journey at dawn and rides hard.”
She smiled. “You know Lady Beata’s father, do you not, Baron?”
“Distantly, Your Majesty, and not much better than I knew his nephew.”
Whom Beata’s father had long served before Ralf’s death by drowning. Her cousin having left no heirs, his widow was returned to her family when Beata’s father inherited the rich, strategically situated lands four years past amid cruel speculation he was responsible for his nephew’s death. Absent proof, he had soon wed a much younger woman in the hope of producing a surfeit of sons.
“As we are aware of your eagerness to return to your family, Baron,” Eleanor said, “we shall not impose beyond asking you to accompany Lady Beata across the channel and only as far as Stern, aiding Sir Durand should he require it.”
He dipped his chin. “I am pleased to do so, Your Majesty.”
She looked to Beata. “Ere dawn, you shall depart for the docks and, weather permitting, set sail.”
“I thank you.” Though I would rather curse you, Beata silently added.
Eleanor motioned Beata away, moved her gaze to the gallery above, and called, “Music!”
As the musicians took up their instruments, Beata gained Sir Norris’s side. “She suspects,” she said low.
“And chose her words accordingly.” He sighed. “She is to be admired.”
“And feared, whether she plans to force me to enter the convent or give me no opportunity to wed a man of my choosing.”
“The barony of Wiltford is a great prize, my lady. Our king and queen would see it bestowed upon one they favor.”
Meaning a nobleman who had supported Henry’s claim to the throne. Thus, she must escape her royal escort and reach Wiltford ahead of Sir Durand.
“Wulfrith comes,” Sir Norris rasped, and she turned to follow the renowned warrior and Sir Durand’s approach.
Though her family’s lands were near those of the Wulfriths, she did not think she had ever met one. Too much her father resented his nephew being found so wanting by the current baron’s father that his training at Wulfen Castle had been terminated after two weeks. The reason for Ralf’s return to Wiltford was not revealed to her, but her cousin’s penchant for quickly moving from pleasant to morose to raging was likely the cause. Eleven years older than she, he had mostly been kind to her, but on many an occasion he had given her and others cause to slink away.
When the two men halted before her, Beata said with as much cheer as she could summon, “Baron.”
He inclined his head. “I am glad to be of service, my lady.”
She glanced at the knight beside him whose mouth remained seamed, further evidence he did not share the other man’s sentiment. “I am grateful, my lord.”
A sparkle in gray-green eyes, Wulfrith said, “Are you?”
She blinked. He could at least feign ignorance of her opposition to his accompaniment. “Forgive me if I seem ungracious, Baron Wulfrith. ’Tis only that I see no cause to add to your burden.”
“Since I have concluded my business with the king, I would be aboard ship regardless of your presence and, once in England, traveling north. Thus, no burden.”
“A pity the same cannot be said of Sir Durand.” A shiver coursing her upon meeting golden eyes she would not know were flecked with brown had she not been nearer him, she said, “I shall endeavor to make no nuisance of myself so you may all the sooner return to your queen.”
“Much appreciated, Lady.”
Though Beata longed to withdraw from the hall through which voices, laughter, and music once more sounded, she knew it best she play the part expected of her lest what was not expected raised more suspicion. So…conversation, and most easily accomplished by encouraging one’s partner to speak of himself.
“Tell me of your family, Baron. Do all boast as imposing a presence as yours? Are they worthy of the Wulfrith name?”
“I have two brothers.”
Everard and Abel, she knew from a tale spun by her friend, the troubadour knight. And quite the tale!
“And two sisters. Though all my siblings are worthy of our name, one’s presence is much less imposing than the others.”
“Naturally, a sister.”
After a hesitation so fleeting it might be imagined—though the same could not be said of Sir Durand’s stiffening—the baron said, “My youngest, with who
m you share a name.”
“Beatrix,” Beata said, since those given her name were rarely called by its shortened form, and more rarely once they grew into women.
“Aye, her character can be imposing, but she is so slight as to be delicate.”
Beata laughed. “Something not said of this Beatrix.” Gaze once more drawn to Sir Durand, she saw his eyes were on her mouth. But he did not look at it with fascination as some did. Doubtless, in addition to her expression of joy, he regarded the slight gap between her front teeth as a flaw.
Telling herself she did not care what he thought of her, reminding herself she liked the space from which a sweet whistle oft sounded ahead of laughter, she returned her attention to Baron Wulfrith. “So now I am to imagine Lady Beatrix’s older sister boasts a presence as imposing as her brothers.”
“That would be exaggeration, my lady, though Gaenor is quite tall.”
“As tall as Sir Durand?”
“A bit taller.”
And he was a good height. “She is wed?”
The baron arched an eyebrow, and she guessed he understood the reason for her question. “Happily, as is my youngest sister.”
Then Gaenor was matched to a good man who cared enough for her he did not mind that she stood above him—that or he feared the Wulfriths. “I am glad of it. But what of your brothers?”
“All of us have wed well.”
“A rarity. One would think you had a say in whom you wed.”
“All but one. We count ourselves blessed that the marriage ordered by King Henry to effect peace between our family and another is a good one.”
As Beata had counted herself blessed that Conrad proved a man above other men. Sorrow causing tears to sting her eyes, she lowered her gaze. And found a change of topic in the dagger the baron wore, its pommel set with jewels.
“A Wulfrith dagger,” she said, having once before laid eyes on one. Or was it twice?
“It is.”
She looked to the dagger of his companion. “Why, Sir Durand, was it at Wulfen Castle you received your knight’s training?” Without awaiting an answer he would not likely provide, she gave her tongue room to play. “But of course! Only one of England’s mightiest defenders, worth two or more knights trained elsewhere and of immaculate courtesy and unbreakable honor would be entrusted with serving the queen.” She laughed. “I am even more impressed.”
Before her tongue further unwound, his expression darkened. And it piqued that he was offended by her good opinion.
Found wanting by a man she found less wanting than any heretofore encountered, she narrowed her eyes. “It seems you know not how to take a compliment, Sir Durand. I find that sad and—I am sorry to say—dull. Thus, since you have days ahead in which to suffer my company, I will grant you respite the remainder of this eve.” She looked to Wulfrith. “Until the morrow, my lord.”
He shifted his gaze between Sir Durand and her, dipped his head. “Lady Beata.”
Accompanied by Sir Norris, she moved through the gathering, allowing herself to be drawn into conversations which twice brought her near Sir Durand, who seemed to have no difficulty recalling the given names of other ladies as claimed when she encouraged him to use her own.
At hour’s end, she slipped abovestairs.
As best she could, she had played her part—smiles, laughter, and mild flirtation of a degree that should not offend the queen who watched. Oh, how she watched!
He was ashamed of his response to the lady’s lively chatter that had not meant to offend. And mostly it had not.
Resentment too fresh over learning he was to deliver The Vestal Widow to England, he should not have accompanied Baron Wulfrith to her side, but what poured through him as he stood before her was anger at himself for so keenly feeling her words. Had the baron not been present, he might have better tolerated them. Unfortunately, the one betrayed was reminded of how far the Wulfen-trained knight entrusted with his sisters and mother had fallen from grace—so much he likely approved of accompanying Durand to ensure the lady reached England unmolested. Still, when she and Sir Norris had departed, Wulfrith simply said, “Lesson twenty, Sir Durand.”
Learn from the past. Live in the present.
He was right. But though Durand continued to exhort the Lord to forgive him when mind and body sought to move him from temptation to sins of the flesh, as when ladies of the court made known their desire with longing looks and covert touches, his past clung like a second skin. A past he had allowed to spill onto a woman who could not know how much her words affected him—she who named him dull.
Though he aspired to be viewed as such by Eleanor’s ladies, and for which the queen called him her gallant monk, it stung as it should not, especially with a woman like that. A woman for whom he had no cause to feel attraction.
“Dear Lord,” he rasped, “I am in need of more prayer.”
This time, the chapel.
CHAPTER FIVE
The air—freezing but blessedly still.
The heavens—clouded but too thinly spread to present a threat. For now.
When the sun once more took to the sky, giving faces to those who rode upon the coast, Beata glanced at Baron Wulfrith to her left and Sir Durand to her right. Though grateful to part from Eleanor and Henry, the obstacles ahead were daunting.
Behind rode her father’s knights, farther back two of Baron Wulfrith’s, and ahead three of Sir Durand’s, who set the pace that drew them toward the port town.
Once it came in sight, Sir Durand ordered his men to slow, and a quarter hour later they reached its walls.
While they waited for the captain of the guard to verify the papers granting them entrance at the early hour, Beata considered Sir Durand. Gloved hands resting atop his saddle’s pommel, he watched the small door set in a much larger door through which they would enter.
When he looked around, eyes that had grown dark on the night past were once more golden. “Soon you shall be bound for England and returned to your father, Lady.”
Hoping to disarm him to better her chance of slipping from his grasp, she urged her mount alongside. “I apologize for last eve. I do not understand how my compliment offended, but I wish you to know I was sincere.”
“Think no more on it, Lady.”
No hesitation. To sooner quiet her? “Now you, Sir Durand.”
He frowned.
Fixing her gaze on his, she raised a hand, lifted the cuff of its glove, and blew breath down stiffly cold fingers. The warmth provided relief. And gave him time to decipher her meaning.
A corner of his mouth convulsed. “Pray, accept my apology, Lady.”
She lowered her hands. “Now that we are all better, tell me about the gallant monk. Is all of it true?”
The ease with which he sat the saddle departed. “All?”
“I have experienced how gallant you are, though I yet question the necessity of tossing a lady from a moving horse.” She did not truly, aware of the danger her struggle had placed them in, but there was fun to be had—more, a lightening of mood that might make him vulnerable. “However, the monk of you implies much. Are you deeply religious? Do you observe the hours of prayer when not defending king, queen, and country? And…well, you know what else it implies.”
He looked as if he might smile. “I do, but were I to answer, you would have to accord me the same consideration by revealing whether the title of Vestal Wife—now Vestal Widow—is true.”
Still he sought to quiet her. And this time he succeeded. “Argument well made, Sir Durand. Thus, you must content yourself with ignorance of my true nature as I must content myself with ignorance of yours.”
Now he smiled, the bowing of his lips turning the man more handsome and the monk less believable. “Just as you must content yourself that though such amiable talk tempts me to lower my watch, I shall resist.”
Found out, but she laughed. “I am glad you are not without humor, Sir Durand.”
“You are saying I am not entirely dull?”<
br />
As she had suggested last eve. “I shall suspend final judgment until I have more time to gather further evidence.”
“Then I need not fear your judgment.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What say you?”
“I am as eager to deliver you to your father as you are to gain his side, Lady.”
So he might quickly rid himself of The Vestal Widow. Determined not to take offense, especially as there was teasing in his tone she had not heard since he sought to converse with her after tossing her from his horse, she said, “Well and good, Sir Durand, but have we not days ahead in which I may render judgment?” She smiled.
His eyes lowered to her mouth. As he considered it, once more she was reduced to the breathlessness of the day past when he had been nearer yet. Then his gaze swept past her.
Following it, she saw Baron Wulfrith observed them. But before she could delve the warrior’s expression, the large door groaned open.
Horses stabled, their riders seated in an inn near the docks, Durand studied the other patrons as he knew Baron Wulfrith did where he sat at the opposite end of the table—also with his back to a windowless wall.
Beyond having accorded nods and murmurs of respect, none of the inn’s guests seemed interested in the knights and the lady with whom they broke fast. Thus, the weather seemed the greatest threat to the journey, the clouds having thickened and lowered.
Hoping the crossing would not be delayed, as The Vestal Widow surely hoped where she sat to his left, hands cupped above porridge whose steam caressed her palms before curving around her face, Durand dipped into his own bowl and spooned up a meatless bite. The only good of it was that it went down warm.
Bellies were filled and the chill chased from travel-worn bodies when Sir Jessup, the young knight Durand had sent to the ship to confirm it would sail, returned.