by Tamara Leigh
As Emmerich secured the door, Beata looked to the figure curled beneath the bedclothes, no hair of the lady’s head visible.
“Go to her,” Emmerich said. “Lady Winifred is eager to know you.”
Beata crossed the chamber she had only glimpsed in passing when she was the niece of the Baron of Wiltford and her father little more than a servant who aided in administering lands denied him as the second son.
She halted alongside the bed. “Lady Winifred?”
Slowly, the coverlet drawn over the lady’s head was gathered down. Wide eyes set in a round face met Beata’s, lingered, then lowered over her. “’Tis not right you are my daughter,” she whispered.
“The world of men.” Beata forced a smile and brushed a lock of blond, unwashed hair out of the lady’s eyes. “Aye, unseemly this.”
“I thank you.”
“For?”
“Where the Lord has failed me, you will not.”
“You will have to explain that, Lady Winifred, but perhaps later when you feel better.”
“You are here to do what I cannot, aye? What thrice I failed to do for your father?”
Beata looked across her shoulder at her brother who stood alongside the wet nurse. Hands clasped behind his back, he raised an eyebrow.
Beata breathed deep. “Mayhap, Lady Winifred.”
“Mayhap?” The lady shoved aside the covers and sat up. “But you are alive, and it is why you are here. My lord husband promised! You would make a liar of him?”
She was so young, this mother of three lost babes. “I would not, my lady. ’Tis just that I believe my brother, Emmerich, would serve our father better.”
The lady’s head fell forward. “It must be you. Your father will not have him.”
“But—” Beata caught back her questioning, examined the words exchanged with Emmerich on the landing. Her father had led her to believe her brother did not wish to succeed as baron. Another ruse?
The young woman raised her head and snatched hold of Beata’s hand. “Tell me you will do it. I would rather die than try again.” She leaned to the side. “Have I not said it, Petronilla. Do I not mean it?”
“I fear my lady can give no more,” the wet nurse agreed. “And the physician concurs.” She sighed. “Too young. Her body is done.”
Weeping eyes and running nose making a mess of a face that must have been lovely when first she was wed to one old enough to be her grandfather, Lady Winifred said, “To the convent I would go. No man’s hands upon me. No babe in my belly tearing me apart. Days, weeks, months on my face before the Lord I would trade for this life, even though the stones be hard and wicked cold!”
Fearing she might be sick, Beata wished she had not eaten.
“You will do it, Lady Beata?” It was more command than question.
“I will speak to my father and try to make him see the sense of my brother being his heir.”
As a note of scorn sounded from the hearth, Lady Winifred said, “And if he will not?”
“I—”
“I would have your word you will wed whoever is required so I may leave.”
Blessedly, if an heir must be got from Beata, she would have a choice of husband unlike her stepmother. “I will do my duty, Lady Winifred, that you may find your peace among the good sisters and, from time to time, spare a prayer for our family.”
“Blessed be!” The lady drew Beata’s hand to her mouth, kissed her knuckles, and fell back on the pillow. “I must sleep. It is a long journey to the convent.”
Doubtless, one as far from Wiltford as possible. “We shall speak more later,” Beata said.
Winifred’s only response was a small sob.
After thanking Petronilla for aiding her lady, Beata accompanied her brother to the chamber beside the solar.
“May we speak?” she asked as he motioned her to enter.
“There is naught to discuss,” he said as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door. “But I will tell it again if you must needs hear it. I am of the Church and would remain of the Church.”
She frowned. “’Tis truly your calling?”
“Nay, but it was for this life I was raised. Had our father known one day he would need an heir, mayhap he could have changed that, but his efforts were spent upon our cousin. Thus, as I was educated for the Church, it is too late for me.”
“You are still young. You could—”
“Nay, Beata. I would only disappoint myself—worse, our father—more than already I have done. I am where I ought to be and, given more time in which to believe as is required of me, methinks this life will become more agreeable.”
“To believe as is required of you? I do not understand.”
“I have some faith in the Lord, but it is the Church I clasp close, that which can be seen, heard, and felt. That which causes men to behave with civility—at least, appear to.”
She took a step back. “You jest!”
His face darkened. “’Tis not something over which one jests if they truly believe—and fear.” He drew a deep breath. “Now I shall leave you to your fervent prayers for my soul. Good eve.”
Once the door closed, Beata fell across the bed. And wished herself in a cave, even if the rain slashed and the wind howled—providing her face was pressed to Durand’s chest and his arms held her.
“I assume we shall not depart on the morrow.”
Durand secured the shutter, turned from the window, and regretted—somewhat—the damage done the other man’s face.
“We shall not. Hence, I have missives to compose.” He crossed to the desk and dropped onto the stool.
“His infant son is dead.”
Durand recalled the look he had exchanged with Petronilla, each warning the other to keep their previous acquaintance secret, then peered across his shoulder at the troubadour knight who sat on the side of the bed. “I fear ’tis so.”
Disgust curled Sir Elias’s lips. “Many an old man is guilty of sacrificing a woman’s youth, if not her life, to gain an heir. My father, believing me dead…” He held up a hand. “Do we further our acquaintance, I may be persuaded to tell that story. Regardless, my sire attempted the same as Baron Rodelle. And also failed. But whereas this prodigal returned home to take his place, it seems either Brother Emmerich eschews his place or his father eschews him. If so, that leaves only Lady Beata, which begs the question of what you intend.”
Durand turned back to the parchment. “Does she prove the heir, I shall do my duty to the queen—as shall you in aiding me.”
The knight grunted. “Let us hope Brother Emmerich is made heir.”
“That would be best. Unfortunately, I cannot take Baron Rodelle’s word for it. He is a liar.”
“As is many a desperate man.”
Durand hesitated over the ink pot to which he reached the quill, looked around. “I know the lady is your friend, but she is not to wed without the queen’s permission. I tell you this only because you have guessed that delivering her safely to her father is not my sole purpose. Too, I am certain you would not want Baron Rodelle to press her into a marriage she does not wish.”
“Indeed,” the knight drawled. “Something so important as her happiness ought to be left to the queen, who surely knows what is best for a lady whose first arranged marriage was to one who could have been her great-grandfather—blessedly, a man well enough supplied with sons he did not risk her life in pursuit of an heir, honorable enough to leave her vestal, and old enough not to steal all her youth.”
Durand stared.
Sir Elias raised his eyebrows, dropped back on the bed, and clasped his hands behind his head. “Alas, the quandary you face. Did we weave in a chase, a murder, give our lovers no hope of reuniting…” He heaved a sigh. “Quite the tale we would have, one to make our audience hold their breath. Will our heroine suffer love in vain? Or will our gallant hero weather every storm to claim her for himself?”
This was not cruel mockery, but it was mockery, and it tempted Durand
to balance out the state of the man’s face. “You have much imagination, Sir Elias.”
“So I am told, but every story is a story because it can happen, even if ’tis rare.”
Durand dipped the quill. “I require only your sword arm, Sir Elias—assuming you have one.”
He chuckled. “I am Wulfen trained the same as you.”
The quill jerked, marking the parchment with a splotch of ink. “Not the same.”
The man grunted softly. “I suppose not, but near enough I also wear a Wulfrith dagger.”
“The cost of gratitude.”
Another chuckle. “I am not one to hug the side of a bed, Sir Durand. You will have to make do with the pallet.”
Setting his teeth against further words, Durand turned his thoughts to what would actually be three missives—one each to Abel, Everard, and the queen. The last would inform Eleanor that what she suspected of The Vestal Widow was true and her man would remain near the lady until he received further instruction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He looked as though he might have an attack of apoplexy, and considering what was being thwarted by Durand’s tidings that he would remain a time at Heath Castle, it was possible.
The Baron of Rodelle cleared his throat, glanced across the drawbridge at the receding rider he had provided the queen’s man to deliver his missives. “I do not understand, Sir Durand. Not that you are not welcome after what you braved to deliver my daughter, but surely your liege is anxious for you to return to her service?”
“’Tis for Eleanor I must impose on your hospitality for several weeks.”
“Weeks?”
“At this time of year, perhaps months.” Durand nodded at the rider. “One of my missives is for the queen, informing her your daughter is returned to Wiltford and assuring her that until she replaces the missive lost at sea which I was to deliver to you, I shall remain.”
A loud swallow. “Tell me, what did the queen wish to impart by way of the missive?”
“’Twas sealed, Baron. Surely you do not think I would trespass on our sovereign’s privacy?” What he did not reveal was that he was to have read it before giving it into this man’s hands so he would know the one Beata would wed.
“Curiosity makes me speak ere thinking,” the baron said. “Forgive me.”
Durand inclined his head.
The baron moved his regard to Elias, who seemed content to observe Rodelle’s wiggling. Likely the troubadour knight studied it for how best to convey that behavior when next he had an audience. Such a curious man he was, but possibly likable—if not for his penchant of winking at Beata.
“What of you, Sir Elias?” the baron asked.
“As I am not in service to the queen, my stay will not be as long as Sir Durand’s. However, I shall remain a few days to better acquaint myself with your daughter before I return to Stern to celebrate the birth of our Lord and the impending arrival of Baron Wulfrith.”
The baron’s smile was taut. “I have business to attend. I hope you will avail yourself of all Wiltford has to offer.” He jutted his chin at the wood beyond the walls. “Good hunting there.”
And the possibility of shutting out unwelcome guests.
“Another day,” Durand said. “As it is weeks since I had occasion to practice at arms, my time is better spent on the training field—and you, Sir Elias?”
He expected the man to excuse himself so he might compose verse or some such, but he said, “I can think of naught I would rather do than hone my skill with another Wulfen-trained knight.”
Then hone it they would. Hopefully, Baron Rodelle would not be so fool as to test it. And Beata would not long play the game her father sought to draw her into.
Women. If only they were more trouble than they were worth.
“Daughter!”
Beata looked around. “Father?”
He shot his gaze to Emmerich. “I would speak with your sister in private.”
“In private?” her brother drawled.
“Already I have asked much of one whose first duty is to the Church. I do not wish to sully you further, Brother Emmerich.”
“Of course not.” His son rose from the chess table over which Beata and he had settled. “I pray you well, Sister.” He inclined his head and strode to the stairs.
As the baron lowered into the chair Beata preferred filled by her brother she said, “That is your son. ’Tis wrong for you to be dismissive of him.”
He stilled. “You take your father to task?”
“If I think it necessary, aye.”
His brow lowered. “The tales of The Vestal Wife are not all exaggeration. Too much license you had in expressing yourself on the matters of men. Perhaps I did not choose a good husband for you after all.”
The anger pricking her skin began crawling across it. “You did not. But a good father? Aye, that Conrad Fauvel was. That you chose well.”
He blinked, and what seemed regret replaced displeasure. “When I heard what they were calling you, I guessed he was unable to do his husband’s duty. Much it aggrieved me.”
“He was not unable!” She loosed her frustration over the common assumption Conrad had been too old for relations. “Honorable is what he was. Though he wished to consummate the marriage, when he saw how afeared was the girl in his bed, he determined to seek the favors of women. By the time I was a woman myself, I was too much a daughter for him to think there.”
“Only because he already had an heir,” her father said, defensively.
That she would not argue. Though she did not wish to believe it of Conrad, he might not have waited had he lacked a son. Certes, when she had come of age, he would have exercised his husband’s rights and rectified what others viewed as a deficiency.
“Regardless,” she said, “I could not have loved a father more than I loved him.”
The Baron of Wiltford caught his breath. “Beata!”
She stood. “I am sorry you are so changed. I may have been a girl when you sent me to play a woman, but this I know—in the absence of power, a better man you were.”
He grasped her arm as she started past. “You cannot know what these years have wrought for me.”
“I know what they have wrought for Lady Winifred and Emmerich, and if not that I might set aright what is wrong, I would regret answering your summons.”
Tears wetting his eyes, he released her and lowered his face. “Forgive me, but I am desperate to do what is right and best for our family.”
Though Beata longed to distance herself, compassion rose as she stared at his bent head.
“Only that, Daughter,” he rasped, “without interference from those who call themselves our king and queen, yet reside on the continent.”
“Their French lands are vast and oft suffer more turmoil than these,” she surprised herself in defending Henry and Eleanor.
Her father looked up. “England will ever be second to them—a spare heir. For that, our family supported Stephen’s reign.”
“A disastrous reign that is long over.”
He nodded. “It can never be again, but England’s noblemen ought to have the greater say in how they administer their lands and live their lives.”
Noblemen. Sympathy dwindling, she said, “What about me? What about your wife? Should we not have a say?”
“Beata, we have no time for this—”
“And your son? He for whom neither had you time?”
He stiffened. “Emmerich is where he ought to be.”
“Where he had no choice but to be!”
“Beata! Once this day is done, we will speak more on it.”
She stepped back. “Once it is done?”
“Pray, sit.”
With greater foreboding, she dropped into the chair.
Her father swept his gaze around a hall empty but for the two of them and a servant humming as she strew herbs across the rushes at the far end. “Since Sir Durand and Sir Elias have determined they shall remain guests well beyond the
ir welcome,” he said, resuming his seat, “we must needs get you away from Heath Castle.”
Of course the two would remain. And Beata was not sorrowful. “Why must I leave?”
“So you may wed without interference from Eleanor and Henry.”
Nor was she surprised. “Then I must go into hiding for weeks? A month?”
“Nay, this day you shall wed, and once ’tis done, there is naught Sir Durand can do.”
“This day?”
“Accursed tidings!” He grunted. “’Twould already be done had news of your death at sea not caused your betrothed to depart believing he must look elsewhere for a wife.”
Frantically, Beata searched for an explanation less distasteful than what he implied.
“Following your arrival, I sent a rider after the baron to inform him you had come, and he turned back. Now he awaits you in yon wood so you may speak vows in the nearest village.”
As he drew breath to continue, she said, “You told I was to have a choice in whom I wed.”
He hesitated, then ordered the servant from the hall. When the woman departed, he said, “I wish I could give you a choice, but this is most urgent. You shall have to trust I chose well.”
Either he was something of a fool, or he thought her one. “Alas, if only I could be the dutiful daughter,” sarcasm frolicked across her tongue, “but as you seem to have forgotten—certes, a result of what these years have wrought—the banns must be read three Sundays, one after another.”
“They have been read, and with utmost discretion.”
She folded her hands into fists, gained her feet, and strode toward the stairs.
“Aye, make ready,” he called. “I shall come for you a half hour hence.”
She swung around. “I will not be a party to this.”
He stood. “You shall. It is why you came.”
She lunged in front of him and was glad he was not of a height she had to strain her neck to see to the top of him. “You lied! Never was I to have a say in the one upon whom you would have me sacrifice myself.”