by Tamara Leigh
“Feels like hours,” he choked, then retched up spit.
“How long?” Durand repeated.
The knight lifted his pale, perspiring face. “An hour, Petronilla?”
“Not all of that, but near.”
Before Durand had gone to the chapel, whilst he sought recompense for Beata’s humiliation rather than yield vengeance to the Lord, she had gone from Heath by way of a postern gate, else slipped out through the main gate disguised as a commoner. Doubtless, as soon as Durand had left the training field, Soames had as well. But the miscreant’s destination was opposite—to the wood where Beata and her father waited.
“Is not the nearest village Uppit, Petronilla?”
“’Tis.”
“Has it a church?”
“Aye, but no priest. He fell into sin last fall and was removed.”
“Then the village of Epswich.”
“Certes, they have a priest.”
Durand swung away, snatched up the mantle he had eschewed this morn, and started for the door. He halted when he recalled who, besides Baron Rodelle, had been absent from the morning meal. “Where is Brother Emmerich?”
Petronilla gave a helpless shrug. “Though every morn he comes to the solar and prays with Lady Winifred, not this day.”
“Uppit, then. It is the nearest and will suffice since Rodelle has his own priest.” He continued to the doorway.
“Durand!” Elias called and, struggling to right himself, said, “I shall come with—” His face contorted, and he dropped back to his knees and resumed retching.
“Stay with him, Petronilla.” Durand ran from the chamber.
He was watched, but none tried to stop his progress to the stables, and the lad there quickly aided in saddling his mount. Just as Rodelle knew better than to make obvious the ill worked on Sir Elias, he did not openly obstruct the queen’s man.
Grateful to be familiar with the barony of Wiltford, Durand rode hard toward Uppit, and with every reach of his horse’s legs kicking up moist earth, prayed he would overtake Beata before she spoke vows.
But the one who languidly guided his horse through the sullen rain opposite Uppit boded so ill Durand nearly cursed.
He reined in before Beata’s brother. “It is done?” he demanded, thoughts flying ahead to the only remedy left to him—thwarting consummation.
From beneath a thick woolen hood, Brother Emmerich considered Durand so long that he came close to finding himself unhorsed. “Nay, Sir Durand, ’tis far from done.”
“Meaning?”
His smile was grim, shrug weary. “I agreed to perform the service, but when we reached the church, I could not—much to my sire’s disgust. Fortunately, that made it easier not to be moved.”
Was this a means of delaying their pursuer, giving Soames time to undo his bride? “I am to believe you?”
“The Lord knows I speak true and, methinks, approves that I refused to take part in ruining my sister’s life.”
Durand would himself have to discover the truth of that. “Where are they?”
“I would think gone on to Epswich seeking its priest.”
The truth or a lie? Durand mulled.
Beata’s brother crossed himself. “May God bear witness to what I have told.” He set his hands on his saddle’s pommel. “Do you wish to prevent this marriage, with all speed ride on Epswich.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
More than the falling rain, fear of being unable to accept her loss made Beata shake as she urged her mount to keep pace with the men on either side of her.
Not for the first time, she silently thanked her brother for refusing to wed her to Soames. A futile gesture, but as Emmerich had not wished to take part in their father’s scheme, she would not have that burden upon his narrow shoulders.
While her father had cursed and her betrothed watched, she had embraced her brother, kissed his cheek, and wished him Godspeed in resuming his travels in service to the Church.
“If possible, one of us ought to be happy,” he had whispered then extricated himself.
As he mounted, she had smothered bitter laughter against the back of a hand. Even if Durand overtook them, and he would try, it would end the same for The Vestal Widow, whether she wed Soames or one of Eleanor’s choosing.
“Epswich is beyond those hills,” her father shouted. “Do we go through the wood, we will have to slow but shall sooner reach it.”
Beata glanced at Soames, noted a section of rain-dampened hair, which had been long enough to be secured at his nape this morn, adhered to the side of his face.
He nodded at her father, and they veered off the increasingly muddy road and entered trees that offered slightly more protection from the rain.
For a while, it seemed they made good progress, but then thunder sounded, and Beata knew it was that which made her shake harder, and more when the dream stirred the leaves in that corner of her mind.
“Let us return to the road!” she cried.
“Not much longer!” her sire shouted.
She hunkered low in the saddle and prayed for the leaves to settle. Perhaps they would have, but lightning pierced the ground ahead.
Her horse reared, and her seat was too precarious for her to stay astride. She fell back and to the side, hit soft earth, and ended face down in a place that smelled warmly of loam and sharply of mold.
As she lifted her head, she heard her father call to her and felt the vibrations of hooves, but before she could offer assurance of her well-being, she saw what had cushioned her fall—an abundance of rotting leaves.
She shook her head to send her imaginings back to their corner, and they moved in that direction until she was pulled upright and found Lothaire Soames before her.
Nay, not Lothaire. This man was older by a half dozen years, hair close cropped, and it was not concern on his face but anger.
Beata threw up an arm to shield her head from his blow. It did not land. Peering between her fingers, she saw it was her betrothed, and rather than anger, he wore concern.
In that moment, she understood why he was familiar. And knew the one he resembled and the bloodied leaves were not of a dream.
She looked beyond the man she was to wed. “You lied,” she said between chattering teeth. “You and mother lied.”
Her father’s brow grooved. “Beata?”
“You said ’twas only a dream.”
Alarm leapt in his eyes. “Daughter—”
“It was not!”
“Quiet! Sir Durand is surely fast upon us, and we have no time for hysterics.” He looked to the son of the one who…
Beata shivered. She was right about this.
“Baron Soames, aid my daughter in regaining her mount. We have a wedding to see to its good end.”
Past rain dripping between her betrothed and her, Beata peered into Soames's face and was glad for his confusion. But that did not make what was wrong right. If she correctly fit the pieces of the dream alongside the things her father had revealed about this man’s family, it would make what was wrong worse.
Though his confusion gave way to suspicion, he said, “Whatever lies your parents told, they must needs wait.” He led her to his destrier and, despite her father’s protest, lifted her atop and swung up behind.
She understood her sire’s fear she might speak of what had come clear, but even were there an opportunity for her betrothed to question her, she was recovered enough from the shock of what had happened in the garden all those years ago to know she must hold close the answer Lothaire Soames lacked. And persuade her father to accommodate the queen, allowing Durand to do his duty to Eleanor and Lady Winifred to enter the convent.
When they reached the church on the outskirts of Epswich, the rain had eased. And the greater blessing was the priest’s absence—gone to give last rites to a woman of four score years, told the youth who paused in mopping up rain that leaked through the church’s aged roof.
“Take me to him,” Baron Soames said as he set Beata
on her feet alongside the church steps. Shortly, he spurred away with the boy clinging to his back.
Grateful he had gone, rather than one of her sire’s knights, Beata said, “I would speak with you, Father.”
He gestured for her to enter the church. “After I set my men to watch for Sir Durand, I shall join you inside.”
It was a quarter hour before he lowered to the bench where she huddled to warm those places the press of Baron Soames’s body had not reached.
“The dream bothers you still, Daughter?”
So he intended to cling to the lie. “Only because it was never a dream.” She raised her chin. “As well you know.”
“Beata—”
“Cease! I am no longer four years young. I know what I saw. And Lothaire Soames is proof. Though he is not the image of his missing father, he near enough resembles him to confirm the man in the garden was real.”
Her father lowered his gaze. “Tell me what you remember.”
The rest of it was there beneath leaves that awaited the invitation to shift and rise and scatter. And so Beata reached into them.
“Mother and I were in the garden, on our backs watching the clouds lose their pretty shapes and darken. She said rain was coming and we ought to go inside, but I begged a few more minutes—just until the babe stopped moving.”
Beata could almost feel those kicks and flutters beneath the palm she had pressed to that round belly.
“She said Emmerich, if a boy…Emma, if a girl…wanted out but must be patient a month longer, that soon the little one would be in our arms and you would be a father again.” Beata frowned. “Methinks you were gone from home. Aye, Mother said you would return the following day and was glad because my cousin was doing something he should not.”
She touched her father’s hand. “What was Ralf doing?”
“Foolishly falling in love with your nurse,” he rasped, “a commoner twenty and five years to Ralf’s fifteen. What else do you recall?”
“The rain. It began to kiss our faces and mother said we must go inside. But the kitchen door slammed, and we heard angry voices.” She saw her small self jump up and peer around a tree as her mother raised her bulk from the ground. “Ralf was there and…the one I am certain was Lothaire Soames’s sire.”
Her father nodded. “He paused at Heath to pass the night ere continuing on to his home.”
“Ralf was angry.”
“Over your nurse. They were having relations, and after he saw Baron Soames flirting with her, he demanded satisfaction. Soames humored him by taking their argument to the garden, thinking it was a pup he had on a leash.”
Had Ralf ever been a pup? Beata wondered, recalling her cousin’s moods and how quick he had been to strike at those who offended.
“Your mother told you to go inside, aye?” her father prompted.
“She did and hurried forward, calling to Ralf to calm himself. But he did not even look her way.” She swallowed hard. “I wish I had gone, but I could not move though the rain no longer felt like kisses and I began to chill. Then Ralf pushed the man, and the man nearly knocked him to the ground. Ralf came at him again, but this time he had a dagger. Mother jumped in front of him and begged him to put it away.”
More leaves shifted, revealing how hideous it had turned. “The man shoved mother aside, and she stumbled. I was so afraid he would hurt her and the babe I ran forward and hit at his legs, and he struck me.” She touched her head. “As I fell, Ralf—”
She gasped, and her father gripped her clasped hands. “You need tell no more.”
She shook her head. “I was on the ground and my head ached, but I could see and…’twas like poking at logs upon a fire, but when Ralf let go of the handle, the blade stayed where he stuck it. And the man stood there and stared at his middle. When he started to fall, mother grabbed him, but he was too big and hit his knees, then his face. As he lay there, a terrible sound rose from him, then his eyes came to mine, and… They were so sad I was almost glad when they emptied.”
Beata felt the wet on her face and thought it memory of the rain, but the moisture slid to her lips and she touched her tongue to its saltiness.
Her father squeezed her hands. “Enough is told.”
But not remembered…
Another layer of leaves scattered. “Mother ordered Ralf to help her turn the man onto his back, but my cousin just stood there. I wanted to tell her it did not matter, that the man was empty, but neither could I move or speak. She became furious, told Ralf to help me, and herself turned the man. When I saw the dagger’s handle was bloody and bent to the side, I began to cry hard and Ralf dropped beside me and pulled me into his arms. As the rain soaked us, mother dragged the man to the corner and dug beside the wall. After what seemed forever, she rolled him into the hole and pushed dirt over him. Then leaves. So many leaves.”
“Dear Beata,” her father choked.
She drew a shuddering breath. “I wish the tale were imagined.”
“I wish it, too, but that is the mess Ralf left me to set aright. If only I had taken him to court, but…” He dragged a hand down his face. “Following his father’s death a year earlier, the behavior that ended his training at Wulfen Castle worsened, and I did not dare expose him to King Stephen who might question Wiltford’s stability.” He growled low. “Curse the Wulfriths! ’Twould not have happened had they made good their reputation and trained him into one worthy of his title.”
Beata pressed her lips against the impulse to defend that family lest her father close up, denying her what else he knew. When he continued to brood, she said, “There were no witnesses?”
He shook his head. “Blessedly, the foul weather turned the watch on the walls lax, so none saw what went in the garden. Of greater blessing, Soames traveled alone, as he was wont to do when visiting one of his mistresses. Hence, I disposed of the body, released Soames’s horse in the wood, made much of the baron’s disregard of our hospitality in departing without a word, and sent your nurse to serve at one of our lesser castles.”
“And you and mother convinced me it was only a dream.”
He sat back and dropped his head against the wall. “At the time, you were our greatest obstacle—too young to know better than to speak of what you had seen, too stubborn to be easily persuaded it was not real.”
She recalled screaming at them and clapping her hands over her ears, all the angrier for her confinement in their bedchamber for an illness she did not feel. They had not dared allow her amongst others until she accepted it was only a dream.
“How long did it take to persuade me?”
“Several days, though it may have taken longer had your mother not gone into labor early, trading one horror for another. And giving me more reason to curse Ralf.”
Beata started to ask him to explain, but the answer came to her—her mother’s bulky figure soaked through, grunting and groaning as she dragged the man, digging in the dirt on her hands and knees, rolling him in, shoving wet earth into place, piling leaves atop.
“Because of Ralf, Emmerich was born too soon,” her father said. “He was so small and weak that every sickness come unto Heath came unto him. Even in later years when his health improved, his build and disposition were so opposite mine one would not know he was my son. And how he abhorred violence! Like a woman, he closed his eyes against it, flinched and quivered when a blade was put in his hand. Perhaps had I more time with him…” He heaved a sigh. “Ever there was Ralf, determined to be our downfall. Though after what he did to Soames, much time he spent in prayer, his moods worsened. You remember what he was like, aye?”
She recalled the dread of his absence from supper that portended he was at prayer, where he would remain the night through, reappearing the morning after. None the better for his time with the Lord, it had taken little to send him into a rage that, until her father intervened, could see servants, men-at-arms, even knights struck down.
“I remember.”
“It was guilt that made him s
o, Beata. Guilt that, once he wed, too often kept him from the nuptial bed, preventing him from siring children. Guilt that killed him at thirty and one years.”
“Guilt? But he drowned.”
“With his full consent.”
She startled.
Eyes moist, her father nodded. “There was speculation I was responsible, but just as it was no crime, it was no accident. Ralf saw to his own end. Though only my eyes beheld the missive found the day after we pulled him from the river, in it he confessed to the murder of Lothaire Soames’s father. He told that as the baron’s six-year-old had lost his sire, who was but thirty and one, it seemed right the Rodelles should lose their baron at that age. He said though his ruined and sacrificed life ought to be payment enough, if ever Soames’s son required aid, as the new Baron of Wiltford, I should give it.”
“For this, you would wed me to him?”
“Nay, ’tis but a benefit of joining our families. I spoke true when I told there were no others worthy and willing to take you to wife. But not even that I would have risked had I known you would make sense of what should have remained a dream.”
“Then now you accept I cannot wed Soames?”
He clasped and unclasped his hands. “Still, he will make a better husband than one chosen by Eleanor. Thus, if you can put from you what you have learned this day, I would have you exchange vows.”
She drew back. “A marriage erected on the murder of his father by his wife’s kin?” She pushed to her feet. “Even if Eleanor weds me to one older than Count Fauvel, I will not do this—will not birth children whose grandfather’s life was severed by their mother’s cousin. That is every shade of wrong.”
Her father rose. “Beata, never will your children know.”
An angry breath whistled through the space between her teeth. “I will know, and ’twill eat at me—so much I might confess the same as Ralf. I will not marry Lothaire Soames!”
“Aye, you will,” a voice red with anger sounded across the chapel. “Like it or nay, you shall be my wife, Beata Rodelle…Fauvel…Soames.”