by Tamara Leigh
“Of what?”
“Who came before me.”
He tensed.
“Tell me of Lady Beatrix, whom you loved. And her sister, whom…”
He had not loved. “I will not speak of them.”
“Then I shall tell you of Conrad.”
He nearly silenced her, but he did wish to understand that peculiar arrangement. “Very well, but keep your voice low.”
“Ten and four. Those are all the years I had when I crossed the channel to wed a man with granddaughters my age.”
As ever, Durand found repellent the practice of marrying little more than a girl to one of great age.
“When he came to me on our wedding night, I was determined I would not dishonor my family. But when he set himself over me, I cried. And louder when…”
“When?”
“That dream—the same I had in the cave. It returned as it had not for years. I heard raised voices, glimpsed angry faces, my mother afeared, rain falling harder, blood upon leaves.”
She fell silent, but after a time drew breath that made her quake. “And Conrad stopped. Just stopped. I lay there hardly able to breathe for fear of his wrath, but he did not rage or strike me. He was quiet a long time, then he said he was a perverse old man and rolled off. Still I feared, still I sobbed. Then he drew me against his side and said, We will not do this, Beata. Perhaps when you are older. Not now.”
Having already accepted she was vestal, Durand was surprised by his depth of relief.
“He was not impotent as many believed was the reason I remained vestal. Indeed, on occasion he sought other women. But even when I attained the age of ten and eight and knew he had been patient long enough and thought I would like a child, he turned aside—said I had become too much a daughter to him. For that, I loved him all the more.”
For that, Durand thought he would have liked Count Fauvel.
When she spoke again, fatigue thickened her voice. “He was good to me, as were his children, though…”
“Though?”
“His heir’s wife tolerated me well in spite of disapproving of my influence upon her daughters.”
Durand recalled Queen Eleanor’s revelation that Conrad Fauvel’s heir was wed to the sister of Count Verielle, the same whose men had tried to bring The Vestal Widow to ground.
“But then,” she said with less volume, “with Conrad’s consent, I refused her family’s offer of her youngest brother to administer my dower lands until widowhood moved me onto them.”
“You did not like him?”
“He was troublesome, and I feared once Conrad was gone I would not easily rid myself of him as his family sought to be rid of him.” She yawned. “Relations with my stepson’s wife became strained. Then Conrad passed, and she did not disguise how much she wished me gone from her home.”
As Durand waited for the rest of the tale, he worked at piecing together what was known with what was not. But she spoke no more.
“Beata?”
“Hmm?”
He knew he took advantage of her being between sleep and wakefulness, but he asked, “Verielle’s sister knew the reason for your father’s summons?”
“Aye. Sir Norris heard something. When he opened the door, she was in the corridor. I do not doubt she heard us and sent word to…” Another yawn. “…her eldest brother, Count Verielle.”
“Her family thought to throw off the troublesome one by throwing you to him.”
“Fools,” she breathed. “No matter how miserable they made me, no matter their threats, I would not have wed him. Such a sacrifice should only be made for those we love.”
“Then if I let you out of my sight, for your family you will offer yourself up to Soames.”
She stiffened slightly but sighed back into him. “How can I not? Duty…” A sorrowful laugh. “More, Lady Winifred. She can bear no more. I am her only hope.”
Over the next several hours, Durand held her while she slept, and each time he found his fingers in her silken hair or his mouth against her smooth brow, he reminded himself, Do not hold tight to that which you long for. Far less it aches to have it slip through your fingers than torn from your grasp.
But he was only fooling himself. Beata would be torn from his grasp.
When he conceded that the longer he held her the greater the damage to them both, he carried her to bed.
So complete was her rest, she did not stir. So complete was his ache, he vowed to never again suffer as the two named Beatrix made him suffer. And acknowledging this vexing woman’s marks upon his emotions went deeper yet, he longed for the jolt of falling hard upon his knees.
The last time he had so thirsted for prayer was months after Gaenor gifted him her innocence when he realized how far he had dragged her down with him—betraying her and her family, his friendships, training, name, and honor.
Were a chapel near and had he the leisure, he would spend the remainder of the night on his face.
He turned from the bed. Though he loathed being unable to bolt Beata in her chamber, he assured himself the danger was mostly past and he would sleep light and in snatches.
Then there was Elias, who did not have to speak a word for his wakefulness to be known. Surprisingly, this eve he had not taken the bed, as Durand had seen before closing the door on the light cast by the corridor’s exhausted torch.
He approached the bed opposite the pallet on which the troubadour knight lay, and as he eased onto the mattress, that one said, “Dare I ask?”
“Naught untoward happened, Sir Elias. Were Soames to succeed—and he will not—his accursed examination would yet be valid.”
The other man clicked his tongue. “I have dozed. Now you. I vow I shall listen well.”
More and more, Durand had cause to like him. Given time, he might.
He bunched the pillow beneath his head, fixed his gaze on the dark ceiling, and silently beseeched the Lord to strengthen him so he remain honorable for what lay ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“It seems you must be reminded this is practice!” Soames barked as he danced away from the blade that sought to bloody the right sleeve of his tunic to match the left.
Durand followed. Like any true warrior, he was best satisfied when the offensive was his—as it was in this moment and most moments ere this one despite little sleep on the night past.
Not that Soames was unskilled. Unlike Sir Elias, his moves were too easily anticipated, lacking spontaneity capable of catching an opponent unawares. Thus, his left sleeve was soon a close match.
“Almighty!” Soames spewed a cloud across chill morning air that was trying hard to make flakes of the occasional drizzle. “’Tis practice!”
Durand grunted. “As I am not unfamiliar with your complaint, Sir Lothaire, I shall give answer as ever I do.” He lunged, knocked his opponent’s blade aside, and recovering with a backhanded swing, nicked the man’s jaw—and bettered his answer by severing the hank of hair that had come loose from the thong at his nape.
“This is Wulfen practice,” he said as the baron hurtled backward with bared teeth, “not boys at practice. If too much I test an ability gained at your mother’s knee, I am sure one of Baron Rodelle’s squires can better serve as your playmate.”
Soames’s color had been high before, but now it approached scarlet. But not near enough the color of humiliation donned by Beata following the examination required of her. For this, Durand had accepted the baron’s invitation to practice at swords, leaving Elias with Beata whilst the castle folk broke their fast as Durand had no appetite to do—as was best, the longing between her and him felt before he set eyes on her this morn.
But there was more to this than retribution. It benefitted both opponents—the one who kept watch over Soames whilst seeking a measure of recompense, and the one given a lesson in swordsmanship whilst paying in blood what was owed Beata.
As the baron continued to seethe where he had regained his balance a stride from the training field’s fence,
Durand examined the point of his sword. “The color one’s blade ought to be,” he said, “even at practice.”
“Knave!”
“Name calling, Sir Lothaire. A most powerful weapon.” Once more, Durand assumed the proper stance. “But given years of proper instruction, methinks your blade will serve better. Now try again—harder—else I shall engage another.”
Soames bellowed, and this time as they met over blades across the training field, he proved worthy—insomuch as one not trained at Wulfen could prove.
Anger, Durand named that which could make of the man a formidable warrior. To excel, some required lessons in discipline, others stealth, others distraction and underestimation. But anger seemed this man’s elixir, turning the edges of his blade the color they ought to be—even at practice.
Durand avoided her. As he should, she supposed.
Beata stared at her left hand clasped over the right and wished Conrad’s ring yet covered that pale band of flesh. Too soon, Soames’s ring would hide it.
Eyes stinging, nose prickling, she wished that were the Lord to answer but one prayer in accordance with her desires, it be that Durand Marshal’s ring was the one fit around her finger.
Upon awakening this morn, she had lain unmoving, refusing to open her eyes and confirm what she knew—that he was gone from her. And not even remembrance of what she had sleepily revealed when he probed Count Verielle’s reason for sending men to intercept her flight across Henry’s lands made her regret seeking Durand alongside her chamber door.
But why should it? She had revealed nothing of which he was unaware. All she had done was provide details of what had first placed her in his path. The one whom Count Verielle intended her to wed was of no consequence now there was Soames. Soames who she imagined was this moment struggling against Durand’s blade.
“At last, a smile!”
Beata looked to the hearth. Elias stood there, a shoulder against the immense wall of stone. She had not realized he had followed her from the table, having assumed he would seek the training field to observe the contest between Durand and her betrothed. But of course, in Durand’s absence, he was to watch over her.
So how would her sire separate her from those who set themselves against him without being so obvious he incurred the queen’s wrath?
“And now ’tis gone,” Elias bemoaned.
She forced the smile back onto her lips.
He shook his head. “Like Sir Durand, you require lessons in acting.” He took a long draught off his tankard.
“Alas, we are both helpless,” Beata said and silently added, not only in the inability to conceal our emotions.
“Helpless, Beata? I would not say that. Indeed, I—” He grimaced, groaned.
She sat forward. “What is it?”
“Something does not agree with me.” He patted his flat belly. “Likely the apple I swallowed down with cheese ere realizing it was past eating.” He returned the tankard to his lips. And dropped it.
Beata sprang out of the chair. Gripping his arm as he doubled over, she bent near. Had she stepped closer, the contents of his belly would have soiled her skirts.
“Una!” she called to the servant who had paused in wiping the high table. “Summon the physician.” Then she beckoned to a man-at-arms. “Aid me in getting this knight to his chamber.”
“Nay, Beata,” Elias gasped. “I am to watch—” His belly let loose again, and not one but two men-at-arms began moving him toward the stairs.
Beata hastened after them, but hardly had she taken a step up than one of her sire’s knights pulled her back. “The time is now, my lady,” he said low.
She strained to follow Elias, stilled at the realization the apple was not responsible for his illness. “He has been poisoned?”
“Of course not. He will merely be indisposed for a while.”
Long enough to steal her away, and she did not doubt had Durand also broken his fast, he would suffer what could be named a passing illness. Thus, Baron Soames had invited the queen’s man to practice at swords.
“Come, my lady.” The knight drew her toward the kitchen.
“Where?”
“The postern gate by way of the garden, and from there to the wood where your father and brother await.”
Here the reason neither had been present at meal.
“Baron Soames shall join you there once his practice with Sir Durand is concluded.”
“But I—”
“My lady, pray do not put me in the difficult position of securing your silence and cooperation as my lord ordered should you refuse your duty.”
Then he would gag and bind her?
Once more, he urged her toward the kitchen, and she achingly accepted she had no choice. If ever she saw Durand again, she would be wed to another, wanting a man whose life was no more his own than was hers. Better she had remained in France—mistress of her dower lands, husbandless, childless, thinking herself content to remain The Vestal Widow to her end days.
But for the Rodelles, and especially Lady Winifred, this she would do.
Dear Lord, she beseeched as she passed through the kitchen, help me set Durand to the farthest reach of my mind that I might grow into a good wife and prove a good mother to the children made with Soames.
Tunic streaked with blood wiped away between sword strokes and wet with perspiration diluted by drizzle, vengeance content to digest its morning meal before looking to the nooning, Durand determined it was time to end the contest.
He lunged back as Soames lunged forward, causing that one’s descending blade to unbalance him. Next, he spun to the side, and as the baron stumbled past, landed the flat of his blade across the man’s back.
Soames’s sword flew from his grasp. As those watching gasped, murmured, and hooted, he went down, and Durand pinned him to the cold, moist ground with a foot at the center of his back.
“Not all bad, Sir Lothaire. We may make a warrior of you yet.”
The man lay so still, the only movement about him his long hair playing in the cold breeze, Durand thought him knocked senseless. But as he eased the weight from his foot, Soames thrust onto his back, gripped the victor’s calf, and yanked.
Durand dropped with enough forethought to roll out of the fall, regain his feet, and set his sword’s point at Soames’s neck before the man could get his own legs beneath him.
To Durand’s surprise, the baron grinned. “That was worth every cut, bruise, and humiliation,” he said, angry color receding into the collar of his tunic, then he laughed so deeply Durand shifted his blade aside to ensure he did not further bleed him. “Oh, what I would give to have been Wulfen-trained!”
Durand dropped back a step and angled his sword nearer the ground.
Soames straightened. Smacking the legs of his dirtied chausses, he strode to his sword. “If ever you tire of serving the queen”—he came around—“your sword arm I will buy.”
Durand raised his eyebrows. “Unless you wed well, Baron, I do not know you could afford me.”
Soames laughed again. “There is that. Puts us much at odds, does it not?”
As thought, he understood Durand’s purpose as well as Durand understood his. “At odds, but much? For that you would, indeed, require Wulfen training.”
Still the man’s anger remained in check, and almost good-humoredly, he said, “Something I must needs remedy. I thank you for revealing my weaknesses.”
Durand jerked his chin. “We are done here.” He pivoted and strode opposite. But though he intended to relieve Elias, the chapel in the inner bailey called to him, and he altered his course.
A quarter hour only, he told himself, and following the quiet example set by Baron Wulfrith, prostrated himself before the altar. And once more prayed for aid in honorably doing his duty and accepting what could not be changed no matter how much Beata and he wished it. Last, he asked for healing of heart and soul and contentment in pleasing the Lord.
When he stepped outside into lightly falling rain and a
scended the donjon steps, he did not feel much easier, but neither did he feel alone as often he did when he worked outside the Lord’s will. Whatever came, he would not lose hard-won ground.
The hall was quiet upon his entrance, but there was an air of tension and expectation about the servants who made themselves busier and the men-at-arms who paused in filling their tankards at a sideboard.
Was Beata in the kitchen? The garden? Abovestairs? Providing the troubadour knight was near her, it mattered not. Providing…
“Where is Sir Elias?” Durand called to the men-at-arms.
The rotund one, much in need of daily exercise that would be required of him were it Durand under whom he served, jutted his chin toward the stairs.
His answer should not bother, but it did. And more it bothered since Durand would have sooner discovered what was behind it had he not gone to the chapel.
Trying not to begrudge what had stretched to a half hour, he called on the Lord to not let their time together breed ill and took the stairs two at a time. And heard groaning and the cry of a babe before he reached the landing.
That misery did not sound from the solar. It came from the chamber he shared with Elias.
Durand ran and flung open the door.
The unhappy babe on her hip, Petronilla knelt alongside the troubadour knight who bent over a basin, body convulsing. Then the woman was on her feet. “Sir Durand!”
“What has happened?” he demanded as he strode forward.
“Since Sir Elias shared viands with Lady Beata, he believes something was put in his drink. And I heard the men-at-arms say a basin and a few hours of retching would serve him far better than any physician.”
“Almighty!” Durand nearly turned his anger on Elias, but talked himself down, reasoning the knight could not have known his drink was tainted. “What of Lady Beata?”
Gently jostling her babe, Petronilla said, “Though Sir Elias told she started to follow him from the hall where he fell ill, I have seen naught of her. He believes she has been taken from the castle.”
Durand set a hand on the troubadour knight’s back. “How long ago, Elias?”