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

by Tamara Leigh

  “Once more, we shall have to aid Baron Soames,” Eleanor said.

  Once more? Beata pondered.

  “Certes, he has been too long at his mother’s skirts.”

  Then though he would escape marriage to The Vestal Widow, he would find himself provided with another lady. “What of his mother, Your Majesty? What did she hope to gain by revealing her husband’s fate?”

  The queen smiled. “Our answer will make you all the more grateful for our guidance, since we do not believe you would have liked her—nor she you. Baron Soames’s mother wished your marriage consummated for the fortune needed to set aright the barony. Their due, she insists.”

  The same as her son had first determined, forcing Beata to speak vows with him.

  “Did we grant her demand, a most unhappy daughter-in-law you would be.”

  “I am grateful, Your Majesty.”

  “As we know. And providing you remain grateful, your stay at court will be pleasant.”

  Sensing her audience with Eleanor was nearing its end, Beata asked, “What of my father, Your Majesty?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He has greatly offended—more than you, since it can be argued you acted out of duty to him.” She looked to the knight, then the goblet on the table alongside.

  The warrior lifted its bowl in his broad hand and passed the vessel to his liege.

  The pretty ribbons adorning its stem cascading over the queen’s elegant fingers, it was lifted to royal lips. Only a sip, and yet it was some time before she spoke again.

  “We expect such behavior from your family, who do not well enough conceal that still you would have the long-buried Stephen upon England’s throne, but that does not forgive Baron Rodelle. Hence, he is taken in hand.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “By Sir Durand and the knights we sent to him at Broehne.”

  Beata gasped. Durand upon Wiltford? Would he be there when she returned?

  “He shall make sure Baron Rodelle delivers his wife to a convent, if still the poor lady wishes it,” the queen continued, “and hold Wiltford until you return and gratefully wed.”

  And if I do not? Beata longed to ask. But The Vestal Widow had no place here. Though her refusal to marry could at worst see her confined at court, at best allow her to take up occupancy of her dower lands, either would bode ill for her father. Henry and Eleanor had cause to strip him of his title and lands, and that Beata could not bear. Whoever she wed would assume his title, but he would have a home, and his honor would be mostly intact.

  “You are in agreement, Lady Beata?”

  She lifted her gaze from the floor. “I shall do as Your Majesty bids.”

  “We are pleased and shall continue to keep a close eye on your comfort.”

  She spoke of the guard who was out of sight on the stairs but would resume following Beata once she left the queen’s apartments.

  “I understand, Your Majesty.”

  “Have you anything else to say, Lady Beata?”

  “I am deeply sorry, especially for the trouble caused Sir Durand, and I would have you know he was honorable and ever loyal to Your Majesty.”

  Once more the queen moved to silence and observation that made it impossible to draw a full breath. “Quite the trial your father and you were to Sir Durand,” she said. “When this dreadful matter is done, we shall reward our gallant monk well.” She put her head to the side. “How think you we might do that?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Edwin”—Eleanor beckoned to her clerk—“give unto Lady Beata the most recent missive from Sir Durand.”

  It was at hand. Moments later, it was in Beata’s.

  “As it is not of great length, and I am at my leisure,” the queen said, “you may read it.”

  Beata nearly questioned the handwriting that was not the same as when she had looked upon it in the steward’s chamber. But the missive was surely a copy inked by the clerk, the original submitted to the Church to support the annulment.

  As Eleanor sipped wine, Beata read Durand’s account of what had transpired since informing his liege they had survived the shipwreck and he had delivered his charge to Wiltford. He told of Lothaire Soames’s arrival at Heath, but not of the humiliating examination, then of what had been done Elias that would less dispose the queen toward her sire.

  Beata winced, but she knew that were that trickery not exposed, her friend and Durand would suffer disgrace. She continued reading.

  Durand was brief in relating how she was spirited away and had spoken vows with Soames before he could overtake them and convey her to Broehne to await Eleanor’s instructions. Kindly, he defended Beata’s defiance of the queen by telling she wed only to prevent Soames from revealing what the baron overheard of her recall of his father’s murder.

  Beata glanced up, found Eleanor watching her, and returned her regard to Durand’s words.

  My queen, I trust your wisdom in determining whether to permit Lady Beata’s marriage or seek an annulment on grounds of coercion, the latter more easily granted due to lack of consummation. Whatever your decision, I pray it gives Lady Beata the greatest chance of happiness with one who is of few years, warrior enough to protect her, man enough to provide her the joy of children, and heart enough to love and be loved.

  Beata’s hands shook.

  The parchment rustled.

  Her eyes burned.

  The writing blurred.

  Blinking to clear her vision, she finished what remained of the missive.

  Regardless, once I have done all you would have me do to remedy my failings, I shall seek permission to leave your service. It has been a great honor serving the King and Queen of England, but it is time I seek a life elsewhere.

  As expected, nowhere in the missive did he mention their intimacies and feelings for each other. And yet there they were, pressed into his beseeching for her happiness. And here she was, chest constricted, fingers longing to trace every word though another’s hand had written them upon this parchment.

  “Why, Lady Beata, are you crying?”

  She looked up. “Nay, I…” She was crying. Dropping her chin, she rolled the parchment, more to keep her tears from marring the beautiful words than to hide what was already seen. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I know not what is wrong with me.”

  “You fear your sovereign’s wrath.”

  “I do not.”

  “You do not fear our wrath? What are we to make of that?”

  She lifted her chin. Tears tracking her face, she said, “I do fear displeasing you, but my emotions are ill for other reasons.”

  “As thought, there is more to the tale than our gallant monk has shared.”

  “Naught of consequence, Your Majesty.”

  “You do know it is for us to determine the importance of all that goes in our kingdom?”

  “I do.” Beata touched a hand to her breast. “But so much has happened I can make little sense of it myself. Thus, I would not waste your time on speculation that will likely prove of no benefit.”

  Looking smugly doubtful, Eleanor said, “Most considerate.”

  Beata stepped forward and extended the missive.

  “You may keep it.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “It is but a copy of an accounting of events.” Eleanor frowned. “Though did we not know our gallant monk well, we might think the last of it a letter of love.”

  More tears, but these Beata breathed down.

  Eleanor gave a little laugh. “Fanciful us.” She flicked a hand. “It is yours. Do with it what you will, though we advise it serve as a reminder of the great debt owed Sir Durand.”

  A reminder she did not need, and one that would make the years ahead more difficult, but she would set it aside later. “I shall, Your Majesty.” She tucked it in her purse. “I thank you for your audience, and now I will leave you to your—”

  “I am not done with you, Lady Beata.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  The queen inclined he
r head. “Now for proof of your gratitude.” She swept a hand toward the woman before the hearth. “The brother of our dear friend, Lady Yola, has arrived at court. At supper, you will be seated beside Sir George Pichard. Though he has yet to come into his title, his sire being of blessedly good health, and he nears his middling years, he is of good form and a pleasant conversationalist. We believe you will like him, and providing you conduct yourself as befitting a lady of our court, it is possible he will find you suitable.”

  Her stomach cramped. Already Eleanor set to matching her heiress to one of her choosing.

  Dear Lord, she may see me wed the day my annulment is received.

  “I shall not offend him, Your Majesty.”

  “We are glad, but we expect more of you than docility. Charm him, Lady Beata. We know you are capable.”

  “I will, Your Majesty.”

  “And remove Baron Soames’s ring that we may see it returned to him.”

  Of course it must be removed—for Sir George. Still, Beata felt much lightened when it was off her finger and in the palm of Eleanor’s clerk.

  The queen passed her goblet to the knight and draped her hands over the chair arms. “You may take your leave, Lady Beata.”

  So relieved was she to exit the queen’s apartments, she hardly minded the guard awaiting her belowstairs, nor the hours among ladies as resistant as ever to spending time in the company of The Vestal Widow.

  As usual, she was approached by noblemen who found her of interest regardless of whether they approved of her. Not as usual, they did not linger. She had no patience for them, and even Sir Oliver let her be. But the distance that knave kept might have more to do with Durand’s warning.

  Finding respite in an alcove abandoned by a knight wearing a broad smile and a lady whose braids did not appear to normally have trouble keeping their crossings, Beata pressed herself into a corner and gripped Durand’s missive through her purse.

  A letter of love. It was, and she would put it from her. Not this day, mayhap not this week. But certainly before she returned to England.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Barony of Wiltford, England

  Early May, 1162

  I shall behave.

  It was not the first time Beata reminded herself what was expected of her, and with Heath Castle ahead, it would not be the last. Durand was there and would soon be in receipt of the queen’s instructions.

  Beata considered her escort where Sir Julien rode ahead, eyed the large pouch at his waist. Within lay her future, one not unknown to her, as evidenced by the man who had also accompanied her to England.

  She glanced sidelong at Sir George. He found her suitable enough. Or so she assumed by all the meals they had shared these past months and how often he sought her out in the hours between.

  Per Durand’s specifications, he was of few years—relative to Conrad—intimate with weaponry as proven when she accepted invitations to watch him at practice, presented as vigorous enough to father children, and…

  Pain shot through her. He seemed to have heart enough to love her in his way, but she could only ever feel for him as a friend—and not likely of the depth felt for Conrad.

  Once more, she looked to the pouch. Queen Eleanor had not disclosed the missive’s contents, but it was unnecessary. It was obvious she was pleased with matching Beata with Lady Yola’s brother, bestowing smiles of approval and commenting on how well Sir George tempered The Vestal Widow and The Vestal Widow animated the reserved knight. Sometimes, Beata lost herself enough to tease him, but if her tempering had anything to do with Sir George, it was that he was not Durand.

  She looked to the castle that was prepared to receive its heiress, a messenger having heralded their nooning arrival. Was Durand among those mounted on the drawbridge?

  He must be. All these months he had held Wiltford, acting as its lord while her father prepared himself to pass his title to the man his daughter would wed once the banns were read.

  When her escort slowed further, she looked nearer at the three waiting upon the drawbridge. And recognized all. Avoiding staring at the one she most longed to drink in, she sent up thanks her father was afforded the respect of sitting front and center, and further thanks at finding Elias here.

  Sir George urged his mount nearer hers. “Your home is impressive, my lady.”

  Soon your home, she forced herself to acknowledge this day’s truth. “I thank you, Sir Knight.”

  “Quite the well come you are given.” He nodded at the gathering. “One might think the queen herself arrived.”

  She almost smiled. She liked him, which was far better than hoped when she had departed the queen’s apartments the day of her return to court. Theirs would not be a bad life. And what good could be had she would not taint by subjecting him to the heartache she would more keenly feel in Durand’s presence.

  She returned her regard to the drawbridge, put curve in her lips, and moved the false smile between her father and Elias. Both gave the smile back, though only the latter’s was genuine.

  Sir Julien reined in before the drawbridge, acknowledged the Baron of Wiltford, and addressed the one from whom Beata struggled to withhold her gaze. “Greetings, Sir Durand. King Henry and Queen Eleanor have tasked me with returning Lady Beata Fauvel to her home and giving unto you their wishes regarding the heiress of Wiltford.”

  “We are prepared to receive both, Sir Julien.”

  Durand’s voice was no less dear to Beata for how emotionless it was. No anger, no bitterness, no sorrow. Just of one resolved to do his duty as was she.

  “Well come to Heath Castle,” he said and turned his destrier.

  Did he look near upon me? Beata wondered. Or could he not bear to anymore than I could bear to look upon him? She drew a shuddering breath, told herself, Do not think there. It will only add to your misery.

  “Lady Beata.”

  She looked around into the eyes of one she should not be surprised to find at her side. “’Tis wonderful to see you again, Elias,” she said low. “I thank you for sending word of your recovery and willingness to forgive my family for the wrong done you.”

  He glanced at the Baron of Rodelle’s back. “He has suffered enough.”

  Following his gaze, her eyes first settled on Durand.

  Look away, she silently commanded. But none would know it was not her sire who held her captive, who made her mouth tremble and throat tighten as she surveyed his profile.

  As noted peripherally, his short beard had lengthened—so much she imagined his kiss would be more thoroughly felt beyond her lips.

  “Beata?”

  She swept her gaze back to Elias. “Forgive me. The journey was long, and I am in need of rest.”

  He leaned near. “You have been missed.”

  Seeing the fullness of his meaning in the eyes that once more flicked to Durand, she looked down. “As have you.”

  “Will you not introduce me to your friend, Lady Beata?” Sir George asked.

  She had forgotten he rode on her other side. As they passed from the outer bailey into the inner, she said, “Sir George, this is Sir Elias de Morville, whom I have known since I wed Count Fauvel. Sir Elias, here is Sir George Pichard. He has provided good company since we met at court.”

  The men acknowledged each other, and she was grateful Sir George did not exhibit the behavior of one who sensed a threat against something he believed belonged to him. If she had never met Durand, she might have been pleased with the queen’s choice of husband.

  If…

  He did not need to look upon Beata to feel her to the heart of him, but he bore that added torment rather than appear the coward by going directly to the hall to receive the queen’s missive.

  Having passed his mount to a squire, Durand positioned himself before the donjon steps alongside Baron Rodelle, whose defiance had persisted only as long as he believed there was a chance the Church would accept his daughter’s marriage and the unfortunate Winifred remained at Heath. Since learn
ing Soames also wished an annulment, he had begun to bow to the inevitable, and all the more following his wife’s departure for the convent. Beata was his heir, and he must accept whomever the queen chose to displace him.

  Durand looked to the nobleman who swung out of the saddle and strode to Beata’s mount to lift her down.

  He was of greater age than wished, perhaps ten years beyond Durand, but he was not old, nor had he gone to fat. He was attractive, and when he had given his gaze outside the walls, Durand had read naught harsh there, just as he had not on the other occasion he had met Sir George Pichard.

  God willing, he would prove a good husband. And that, more than anything, would make it easier to accept what the queen’s missive would confirm. After the three successive Sundays set aside for the reading of the banns, Beata would wed and he would quietly remove himself from her life.

  As the knight drew her forward, Durand continued to avoid looking directly at her. Hopefully, if she still felt strongly for him, she did the same lest too much was revealed to the one with whom she would spend her life. No man wished his wife to long for another.

  “Baron Rodelle.” The man halted before the one whose title he would soon take as his own. “I am Sir George Pichard, and I have had the honor of accompanying your daughter to England.”

  “I thank you for returning her.” The baron turned his face to Beata. “I am pleased you are home.”

  “As am I.” Her voice was tight, and Durand could no longer resist setting eyes upon her. Had she avoided looking at him, in that moment she also failed.

  It was like staring into a great storm, knowing it so swiftly approached that no matter how well and often the Lord answered prayers, this one He would not.

  It swept over them, the ache of the months behind and the years ahead bolting through him and causing her to catch her breath and eyes to overflow.