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

by Tamara Leigh

  “You may embrace my wife,” Abel said. “After all, you have been as a brother to her and are owed much for that.”

  Helene raised her eyebrows, and Durand hugged her—lightly. Then she clasped his face between her hands and considered his bruises and cuts. “What happened?”

  “Nothing I will not survive,” he said and momentarily wondered if he would survive The Vexing Widow.

  “I would hear tale.” She looped an arm through his and started toward the hearth. And halted. “You have injured your leg. I can feel it in your stride.” She wrinkled her nose. “For this I am summoned to the lair of the Lord of Wulfen?”

  “And to be reunited with our friend,” Abel said.

  Our friend. Those words so pained Durand he had to choke down emotion. Never had he expected this man to once more extend friendship.

  Toleration. Grudging acceptance. Civility. Durand had been content with that depth of forgiveness. Or so he told himself. Despite’s the tidings he must impart, something tight inside him loosened. And breathed.

  “Durand?” Helene squeezed his arm.

  Wondering how much of a fool he looked staring at Abel, he forced a smile. “Our journey to Wulfen has been long, dear lady.”

  Uncertainty flitted across her eyes, but the lovely Helene, who probably understood him more than any woman, said, “And your injury needs tending.” She drew him forward. “Lord Husband, would you retrieve my bag?”

  As Abel strode past, Helene’s step once more faltered. “Who have you brought to Wulfen?”

  Though Durand knew her to be observant, only upon reaching the hearth had she noticed the hooded figure.

  “My charge,” he said and returned to his chair.

  “Not also in need of my ministrations, I pray. Are you injured, sir?”

  Beata dropped her hood. “I am not, my lady.”

  “Pardon!” Helene looked to Abel, who approached with her healer’s bag. “My, two women at Wulfen!” Now a glance at Durand, rife with questions he did not care to answer, then back to Lady Beata. “Hopefully, I can be forgiven.”

  “There is naught to forgive. I am Lady Beata Fauvel and, as Sir Durand tells, I am his charge.”

  “A story I hope you shall recount in full.”

  “Whilst you tend Sir Durand,” Abel said.

  Helene accepted the bag he extended and lowered to her knees before her patient.

  As Durand tugged off his boot, Abel asked, “Did you set Sir Rowan an appropriate task to await your return, my lady?”

  “I did, and as ever he is most capable.”

  Many a coin Durand would wager Sir Rowan tended the child born to the couple a year past. Was it a brother or sister they had given the son from Helene’s first marriage?

  Durand was ashamed he had not considered that one of those on the field was the boy of whom he had grown fond. Doubtless, John had learned enough self control during his page’s training to allow him to keep his feet firm to the soil. But it was likely the boy had been clanging inside.

  Once more, Durand asked the Lord for aid, this time to ease the ache of longing for the company of those more like family than the Marshals. It seemed unnatural, and yet more of his remembered life had been spent with the Wulfriths.

  As Abel pulled a chair around to face his visitors, Helene exposed Durand’s leg. “Fine stitches,” she said. “More than I would have set.”

  More than needed, Durand silently begrudged.

  Helene looked up. “Methinks the only reason some pulled through is because you did not stay off the leg.”

  He glanced at the lady beside him. “I fear ’twas not possible.”

  “Then it is good you suffered so many stitches. Whatever curses you cast upon the physician, the poor man was undeserving.”

  “Nay,” Beata said, “the one who caused your friend’s suffering is deserving. ’Twas I.”

  Helene looked around. “You placed these stitches?”

  “I did.”

  “You are a healer?”

  “Would that I were.” The lady looked to Abel, then Durand. “Methinks it is time the queen’s man finished his tale.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  An interesting tale. At times, an amusing tale. But in the end, an ugly tale.

  As Durand ended his recounting of how he had become acquainted with The Vestal Widow—excepting what had transpired on the stairs with Sir Oliver and in the cave when he made more of her kiss—Beata stared into the flames.

  Clasping the mantle closed at her throat, though she was so warm she perspired, she wondered if the woman to whom it belonged had ever been as burdened by guilt as the one who now huddled beneath it.

  She had not needed to look upon Abel Wulfrith to know his anguish at the possibility his brother was lost to him, nor hear it in the demanding questions put to Durand. But to gauge how much he held her responsible, she would have to rise above the sanctuary she made of her chair. And that she did not wish to do.

  “Lady Beata.” A hand touched her knee, and once more she found Lady Helene bending near. “I must insist you either remove your mantle or come away from the fire. You grow feverish.”

  Becoming aware of the moisture on the hand bunched beneath her chin, Beata released the mantle and drew her fingers up over her jaw and cheek. Her face was damp as if with tears, and her garments clung.

  “Allow me.” The healer peeled the mantle from Beata’s shoulders and settled it over the back of the chair. “Now drink, my lady.”

  Beata blinked at the goblet held so near it was almost at her lips. As with the food delivered earlier, she had meant to partake of the wine, but her hunger and thirst had mostly fled when Durand’s tale moved toward revelation about Baron Wulfrith.

  “I will hold it for you.” The healer smiled.

  You are not weak, Conrad Fauvel’s wife! Beata told herself and sat straighter, unfolded her fingers, and took the goblet. “I thank you, but I am only a bit tired and can see to my own needs.”

  “More than a bit tired, methinks,” Lady Helene said, and as Beata sipped the watered wine, saw the woman look to her husband.

  Beata could not know what passed between them, but whatever it was, it seemed to have no effect on the Lord of Wulfen, the eyes he settled on the stranger unblinking and chill. She lowered the goblet. “Forgive me, my lord. Had I known what honoring my father’s instructions would wrought, I would have defied him.”

  “Then you accept responsibility?”

  Hand trembling, fearing she would slosh wine on her skirts, Beata set the goblet on the table beside her and frowned over the viands she had barely touched.

  “Are you responsible?” Abel Wulfrith asked again.

  More blinking. Wonder over how numb her head felt. A grimace as ache moved hip to hip. And shame that she of many words was so bereft of them.

  She pulled her tongue from her palate. “If ill has befallen your brother, I believe I am responsible.”

  “Nay,” spoke the one whose presence had so dominated these past days she should not have forgotten he was here. She was more than a bit tired.

  “Sir Durand?” said the Lord of Wulfen.

  Beata looked to the queen’s man, but his eyes were on Abel Wulfrith. “I also thought to blame Lady Beata, but if Baron Wulfrith’s ship left port that day, I believe it is because the captain was confident of a successful crossing.”

  Perhaps what ailed her was more than fatigue, Beata thought. It sounded as if Durand defended her.

  “As you know better than I,” he continued, “regardless of a vow made his sovereign, your brother would not risk innocents by insisting on sailing. Thus, if the second ship was his, it would likely have met the same end had Lady Beata been aboard as planned.”

  Silence. Strained as if the din within wanted out. Then a harsh sigh and sudden movement that returned Beata’s regard to Abel Wulfrith.

  He dropped back in his chair, shifted his jaw as if to unbind it, then glanced from his wife where she stood alongside
Beata to Durand. “I know my brother. As we must discover the identity of the second ship, this day I shall send knights to Brighthelmstone.”

  “You need to eat.” It was Lady Helene again, this time handing Beata a wedge of cheese before turning to her husband. “The lady ought to rest.”

  Beata longed to lie down, but her stay within these walls was to be brief. And she must not forget the urgency of reaching Wiltford.

  “I am certain Sir Rowan would not mind relinquishing his chamber to the lady,” the Lord of Wulfen surprised, though with grudging. “But only a single night’s lodging, and ’twill be discreet.”

  “Of course.” Lady Helene swung back around, clicked her tongue. “Lady Beata, food is of no benefit to the body if it does not pass the lips.”

  Tempted to protest being treated like a child, Beata looked up. But only kindness shone from the lady. She popped the cheese in her mouth and was glad it was not tasteless. Still, one piece was enough, and she shook her head when offered another. “I wish to lie down.”

  The lady set a hand on her brow. “You have cooled, but we shall require assistance in seeing you to your chamber. ’Tis a good distance and the stairs are many. Sir Durand—”

  “Nay!” Beata stood so quickly her head lost its bearings. Seeing the lady’s hand on her arm, ignoring Durand and Lord Wulfrith who also rose, she said, “You make too much of me. I am but tired.”

  “My lady—”

  “Merely tired,” she said sharply and winced at how ungrateful she sounded.

  Ah, she thought, I know what this is. The timing could not be worse. But as ever, it did not seek permission.

  “Forgive me, Lady Helene. I appreciate your concern, but the only aid I require is to be shown to my bed.”

  “Then that I shall do.”

  Beata retrieved her mantle, bit back protest when she was aided in donning it, and nearly yelped when she saw the hands fastening it closed were not a woman’s.

  “Behave,” Durand murmured.

  She allowed him to settle the hood over her head. Silently welcomed his grip as he led her past the Lord of Wulfen. Eased into his support when the stairs proved more difficult than expected. Sighed when he released her as she lowered to the bed. Did not care what whispered words passed between the two who had escorted her to the chamber.

  Slept.

  He was not the boy he had been. Though three years older than when Durand had last seen him and far from the worthy man the Wulfriths would make of him, Durand knew that smile and the life teeming behind it.

  “You have aged, Sir Durand!” Helene’s nine-year-old son halted before the one who had thought he would like to be a father to the unruly boy.

  Durand pushed off the gatehouse wall to which he had set a shoulder to watch Abel’s knights depart for Brighthelmstone. “As have you, John Wulfrith.”

  There was pride in the boy’s smile, and Durand knew it was not only for having grown in height and breadth but owning the esteemed name gifted him by his mother’s marriage to Abel.

  The shifting of John’s shoulders evidencing the control he exercised, Durand recalled how the boy had flung himself at him each time Durand visited his mother and him to ensure their safety until Abel and Helene could find their way back to each other. Had John not an audience of peers who would ill judge him for yielding to a youthful show of affection, the boy might bend to his nature.

  Durand clapped him hard on the shoulder, not only for benefit of those who watched for weakness that could be exploited, but to provide acceptable contact.

  As John held beneath the blow, Durand said, “What happened to the boy I knew? I hardly recognize him.”

  “I am Wulfen-trained now.”

  “The pride of your sire, no doubt.”

  The boy looked to where Abel had hopped a fence to demonstrate the simultaneous wielding of sword and dagger, something he had been forced to relearn following the battle that had nearly killed Durand and him.

  “My father is the greatest warrior,” John said.

  His only exaggeration was ignorance—or rejection—of Baron Wulfrith’s claim to that title.

  “He is formidable, John.”

  “And he will make me the greatest warrior after him. You are to remain at Wulfen, Sir Durand?”

  “At most, until the morrow. I am about the queen’s business.”

  He frowned. “That lady who came with you looked a mess, but I thought her pretty. Are you to wed her?”

  Durand almost laughed. “Indeed not. What makes you think I might?”

  He looked down, toed the ground. “I did not mean to listen in—a Wulfen-trained knight does not—but when father and mother and I were at Broehne Castle last summer, I heard a chambermaid tell another that the king had ordered Aunt Gaenor to wed Baron Lavonne—that they did not choose each other the same as my father chose my mother.”

  So they had not, and Durand had tried to prevent that marriage. But it was he who had been in the wrong, though King Henry could not have known it was a lifelong blessing he bestowed rather than a curse.

  John shrugged. “It sounded business to me.”

  Perceptive. “You are right, but your aunt and her husband are happy, are they not?”

  “They oft smile at each other and have made another baby, but my mother and father are happier.”

  Of course they were, just as Abel was the greatest warrior.

  “So if you are not to wed the lady, what business have you with her, Sir Durand?”

  “I must deliver her to her father.”

  John wrinkled his nose. “That is all?”

  “Forsooth, where this lady is concerned, that is much.” And he had said enough. “Tell me, John, did the Lord gift you with a brother or sister last year?”

  “A brother!” he said as if there could be no other answer, then added, “Though he cries like a girl—or did. Not so much anymore.”

  Durand reached to ruffle his hair. Instead, appearing to have taken the long way around, he pushed his hand through his own hair.

  “My water break is done,” John said as his fellow pages, who had earlier surged into the outer bailey, reappeared. “I am glad to see you again, Sir Durand. I know my mother would be, too.”

  At first Durand thought the lad held close the secret his mother was in residence, but more likely he was unaware. All—including Wulfriths—left their mothers behind when they began their training.

  “I have missed you both, John.”

  “Then come again and do not be so long next time.” The boy turned and rejoined his peers whose breath clouded the air as they tramped to the field where next they would train at quarterstaffs.

  As Durand crossed into the outer bailey, he was once more struck by John’s perceptiveness. He was right in thinking the queen’s business with Beata involved marriage—just not marriage to the one entrusted with delivering her to Wiltford. And only if the lady proved an heiress.

  For her sake, he hoped she was not that. From what he had seen of marriages made for alliance, it was rare what Lady Gaenor had with Christian Lavonne.

  Aye, better The Vestal Widow remain vestal. And vexing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  This time Helene had come by way of the secret passage. Now from where she sat opposite Durand at the table in the lord’s solar, she eyed him over her goblet.

  “Aye, my lady?” Abel prompted, as Durand had not lest what caused her eyebrows to draw close led to talk best avoided.

  “I am thinking,” she said, “Lady Beata must be of some import for the queen to concern herself over a widow’s return to her father. And as evidenced by her resistance to Sir Durand’s escort, Eleanor’s concern is unwelcome.”

  Durand pushed away the sodden trencher that remained of the supper shared with her husband and her in the solar. “In that you are right, but I cannot elaborate.”

  She inclined her head. “Then I shall not press.”

  Abel lowered his tankard. “Sir Durand, you said the father of
The Vestal Widow is—”

  “Pray, do not name her that,” his wife said. “It is disrespectful.”

  Abel, whose struggle against condemnation of his unwanted guest was surely felt by Helene, said, “The lady’s father is Baron Rodelle?”

  This being one of the few times the Lord of Wulfen had conversed throughout the meal, his brooding evidencing worry over his brother, Durand allowed himself to be pulled deeper into what should not become a discussion.

  “Aye, Baron Rodelle of Wiltford, the barony upon which I served before Lady Helene and you wed.”

  Abel raised an eyebrow. “He who has thrice nearly killed his very young wife in a bid to make sons on her.”

  Clever Abel. “’Tis so.”

  “Ah.” Helene shook her head. “Methinks yours is a difficult task, Sir Durand.”

  “Certes, Lady Beata is a trial.”

  “That too.”

  “Too?”

  She shrugged.

  She thought too much of his earlier inquiry into the woman’s well-being. As Beata remained abed, he had but sought confirmation she required only rest to ensure their departure on the morrow. To Abel’s displeasure, Helene had expressed doubt but said it was possible.

  Not wishing to offend her, Durand forced a light tone. “If you believe I have too much a care for the one given into my charge, you are mistaken. My interest lies in fulfilling my duty so I may all the sooner give the lady my back.”

  “Of course,” Helene said, but he was certain she thought she knew him better than he knew himself. And in that moment, she annoyed him as he would have sworn she could not.

  She pushed back her chair. “Methinks I have asked much of Sir Rowan this day. Thus, I shall leave my lord husband and his friend to converse on matters of their choosing.”

  Both men rose with her, Durand wished her a good eve, and her husband led her toward the tapestry from behind which she had earlier emerged.

  There, she paused. “Your garments, Sir Durand. I am sure my husband will provide others until yours are laundered and mended that you may be more presentable when you depart Wulfen.”