Chapter
11
Annabel was as transparent as a child as she stood and took a step away from him. She was trying to protect someone. Great anxiety and pain etched lines on her forehead at the thought of betraying this person. Who could it be? A brother? Or maybe Stephen the furniture maker with whom he’d seen her talking when she first arrived. It could be anyone, since she would feel a sense of loyalty to whoever had tried to defend her from the bailiff. He fervently wished he had been the one to help her, wished he had already stripped Tom of his duties as bailiff and made him fear for his life if he dared touch Annabel again.
But what had the bailiff done to her? Tom had been clutching a knife.
Ranulf was seized with a horrible thought. “Did he hurt you?” He stepped closer as his gaze raced over her body, from head to foot.
“Who? No, no. I am unhurt.”
But he saw her hand go to her arm and rub it distractedly.
“Tell me the truth. Did he hurt you?” He emphasized each word.
Her bottom lip trembled and she caught it between her teeth. “He hurt my arm, and he hurt my face … to keep me quiet, so I couldn’t raise the hue and cry. But he didn’t hurt me in the way you mean. Although he would have had I not gotten away.” Tears started to gather in her eyes.
He should have been there. “Let me see your arm.”
Reluctantly, she held out her arm. He grasped her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her dress to reveal bruises on her wrist, then more dark fingerprints against the pale skin of her upper arm.
Staring at her arm, he had a sudden yearning to kiss her soft skin —
He let go as if her arm had turned into a hot brand. But it was too late. He should never have touched her. She looked so pale and shaky, so vulnerable. How he longed to hold her.
He was crazed to think this way. He must get hold of himself. Such thoughts could only lead to pain.
He backed away from her. Instead of foolishly thinking about comforting her, he should be thinking of the best way to help her.
It would not look good if she was found alone with him, crying, her face tearstained and lightly bruised.
“Come.”
She placed her hand trustingly in his and he led her to the door. “You must go. No one must see you just now.” He hurried her toward the door, much too aware of the softness of her small hand in his. “Don’t speak of this to anyone. Go down and wash your face then climb into bed and pretend all is well. I will get a message to you if the bailiff dies. Otherwise, you are to assume he is alive and well.” He opened the door and stood back in the shadows. “Now go.”
As she made her way down the steps, he only saw one person: Mistress Eustacia. She emerged from the kitchen, headed toward the manor. Annabel disappeared into the undercroft.
Annabel climbed into bed, her limbs aching and still trembling. Thankfully, no one seemed curious or even noticed that she had been missing. While the other maidens were talking and laughing, she covertly searched each face until she was certain none of them knew about the body of the bailiff lying in the leaves.
Then Maud walked in.
Her stomach sank. Did Maud know her father could be near death?
Dread and fear saturated her senses. Maud looked tired, her eyelids drooping. No one spoke to her as she made her way to her bed and began to rummage through the things stored underneath. Her every movement seemed to convey aloneness.
What kind of father had the bailiff been? Poor Maud had already lost almost her entire family. She had only one sister left, who was married, and apparently an aunt, who lived nearby. Annabel’s body seemed to sink deeper into the mattress, weighed down by guilt and regret. O Father God, what have I done? What did I cause Stephen to do? It’s too, too terrible.
She had felt some brief moments of relief in thinking of the bailiff as unconscious. Perhaps it had been God’s will, his way of punishing the bailiff for what he had tried to do to her. But she couldn’t think that way now, not when she saw his daughter.
Oh, it was a wretched, wretched, most unfortunate night. She wished she could go to sleep and awaken to find it had all been a dream.
The awful thoughts from the night sank their claws into Annabel the moment she awoke. Mistress Eustacia came early and took Maud out alone, no doubt to tell her what had happened. But no message arrived for Annabel from Lord le Wyse, meaning the bailiff must still be alive. How would Maud react to her father’s accident? What if he regains consciousness and tells everyone that Stephen and I tried to kill him? She felt her body go cold. Would Lord le Wyse protect them from the bailiff’s accusations?
Annabel waited for Maud to return to the undercroft, but she never came.
The news spread quickly that something terrible had befallen Bailiff Tom, and soon every maidservant was talking about it. He had always seemed a kind man, they all said. Everybody liked him. Who would do such a thing? Few speculated he had fallen and hit his head — it seemed more exciting to believe he had been attacked.
Rumors spread, with people saying that he had met the devil in the woods. Others said he woke up long enough to call out his dead wife’s name and then fell back into a stupor. Some said he would never be the same even if he woke up, that he would be addlebrained and stupid and would drool.
Annabel tried not to listen to all the talk, but it was impossible not to hear it.
She eventually learned that Bailiff Tom had still not awakened and was lying lifelessly on his sister’s bed, and his sister was none too happy about it. The only barber in the village had proclaimed that bleeding him would not help him regain consciousness, and there was nothing that could be done for the bailiff. They’d simply have to wait and see if he woke up. In the meantime, his sister was to pour broth and water into his mouth three times a day and hold him upright until he swallowed.
After hearing the news, a nightmarish fog settled over Annabel’s thoughts and followed her every hour. She longed to speak to Lord le Wyse, to find out what he was thinking and if he thought the bailiff would recover his senses. But the only times she’d seen him that day were at meals, and he hadn’t said a word to her.
Her mind seemed heavy, tired, and haunted with the image of Bailiff Tom’s face as he held her knife in a menacing pose, of her own terror as he gripped her face and hissed in her ear, of Stephen hurling the heavy stone, and of the bailiff’s lifeless body. The images seemed to attack her at odd moments as she went about her duties of cooking and cleaning. By late afternoon she was nearly in tears.
Mistress Eustacia came into the kitchen with a basket of onions and set them down on the stone floor. “Child, you don’t look like yourself, you don’t. Are you ill?”
Annabel turned back to the pot she was stirring over the fire. “No, mistress. I am well.”
“I suppose we are all a bit upset, with the bailiff being injured so sudden and maybe on his deathbed. The poor soul. Had no chance at final rites, he didn’t. It’s almost as if the pestilence has come back. We all remember that dreadful time, we do.”
No, he certainly had no opportunity to repent or receive final rites. Annabel felt a stab of guilt, followed by anger. If he’d wanted to repent, he should have, before he got drunk, before he grabbed her in the dark forest and tried to hurt her. She shook her head at the livid thoughts then bit her lip.
“Child, you’re so pale. You don’t look well at all. Why don’t you go lie down in your bed for a while?”
The thought of being alone in the dark undercroft, or any other dark place, made her shudder. Her eyes burned, and her head felt heavy with fatigue. “I’d rather stay here with you, mistress. Truly, I am well.” Tears welled up in her eyes, probably because Mistress Eustacia was showing compassion for her — she who didn’t deserve it.
Mistress Eustacia watched her with concern in her eyes. She spoke softly. “Tell your mistress what’s wrong.”
A tear slipped out and Annabel wiped it away. Her heart beat faster as she realized she’d made a m
istake by allowing Mistress Eustacia to see her distress. “Nothing is wrong. I’m only sorry for Maud. I know how it feels to lose a father.” More tears came and slipped down her cheeks. She wiped as quickly as she could with the backs of her hands.
Mistress Eustacia sat on the wooden bench and motioned for Annabel to sit beside her. The kind woman wrapped her arm around Annabel’s shoulders.
She was warm and snug against her mistress’s soft, cushiony side, which only made her feel guiltier. What was wrong with her? She’d be inciting suspicion if she wasn’t careful. And she appeared to solicit compassion she had no claim on. She tried to force the tears back, but they kept coming.
“You just cry if you want to.” Eustacia’s voice was kind but firm. “Women cry. Men don’t understand it, but crying is what we do.”
If she hadn’t felt so weighted down with guilt, she might have laughed.
“You’ll get married someday, and then you’ll be so busy with your husband and children, you won’t have time for grieving.” Mistress Eustacia patted her on the arm.
“I will never marry.” Annabel shook her head.
“Of course you’ll marry. Why do you say such a thing?”
“I have always wanted to be a nun. It’s been my wish for many years now.”
“My dear, the cloister is only for those born to tragedy, it is. Not for sweet maidens like you. Trust me, dear girl, you were born for love, for loving and caring and healing.” She pulled away to look at Annabel’s face. “Don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
Beauty? She was supposed to be happy because she was beautiful? What good had beauty ever done her? “Beauty is a curse.”
“A curse? How can you say that? Every girl wants to be beautiful.”
Annabel didn’t know what to say. Mistress Eustacia’s words made her feel as if she was being ungrateful for a nice gift. But the bailiff wouldn’t have bothered her if she had been plain.
“The convent isn’t for girls such as you. In a convent, whose heart would be made glad by your fair smiles?”
“In a convent I can study God’s Word and not be harassed and bedeviled by men.” She lowered her voice to a mumble. “In a convent I might be safe.”
“Who has harassed and bedeviled you? Who?” Mistress Eustacia’s face reminded Annabel of a mother badger protecting her babies.
“It doesn’t matter.” Annabel shook her head, wishing she could take back the words. “No one is harassing me.”
“If you mean Gilbert Carpenter, he will leave you alone in time. Things will smooth out for you in the future, you’ll see. But you must marry a good man, and you will have your pick of them, my dear. Men always want a beautiful maiden like you to be their wife — one as beautiful of heart as of face. My husband thought I was a beauty once, if you can believe that.” She chuckled as a faraway look came over her, and Annabel breathed a grateful sigh that her mistress had moved the topic away from her.
Just then, the door opened and Lord le Wyse stepped inside. He looked first at Annabel, then at Mistress Eustacia, then back.
Did Bailiff Tom die? The words stuck in her throat.
“I need to speak with you for a moment, Annabel. Mistress Eustacia, can you spare her for — “
“Oh yes, you go ahead. You probably need her to help tend Bailiff Tom. That is a very good idea, aye, indeed it is.” She shooed them with her hand.
Mistress Eustacia seemed overly pleased by Lord le Wyse’s request, but Annabel didn’t have time to linger on it. Worry over what would happen if Bailiff Tom died pushed every other thought away.
Lord le Wyse stepped aside and Annabel preceded him out the door into the hazy late-afternoon sunlight. She held her breath as he began to speak softly, looking at the bush beside him rather than at Annabel.
“I want you to go down the path that leads to the river. Wait for me at the big rock. Do you know the place?”
“Yes. Is he dead?” she whispered back.
“No, he lives. Go now. I’ll be only a few moments behind you.”
She took a small but well-worn path that wound away from the manor and past the construction of Lord le Wyse’s castle, which sat on a bare knoll just above her. Heading toward the river, she tried to walk at a normal pace and settle her breathing, hardly noticing the two rows of linden trees between the fields and the river. She reached the large boulder on the riverbank and sat down to wait, trying not to imagine what Lord le Wyse might say to her.
Moments later, as promised, he was walking down the path toward her, holding his burned arm — she used to think of it as his wolf-attacked arm — against his midsection with his right hand cupping his left elbow. His shoulders and head were high and erect, but his face bore an odd expression, whether of sadness, anger, or frustration, she couldn’t tell.
He seemed much older than twenty-five. She tried to imagine him in the fresh glow of youth, smiling and cheerful, but couldn’t get a picture of it in her mind.
Lord le Wyse stopped and sat at the other end of the large, flat stone, about two feet away. He didn’t look at her, only watched the river below them.
His voice was deep and a bit raspy, as he was trying to speak softly. “The bailiff is no better and no worse. He still hasn’t awakened, but we must be prepared for it if he does.”
We? She looked at him, wondering why he cared enough to help her.
He cleared his throat. “I feel partially responsible for the terrible way the bailiff treated you.”
“Why should you feel responsible?”
“Because you are my servant and under my care, and because he was my bailiff and I knew he had mistreated you on at least two other occasions.” He seemed angry, his voice a gruff whisper.
“If and when the bailiff wakes up, I’ll tell him he is not to say a word about you, that if he tries to accuse you of being there when he fell and caused himself harm, I’ll tell the coroner or the manorial court how he treated you. I’ll have him put in the stocks. You won’t have to say anything. But if anyone accuses you of knowing something about his … injury, you are to say you went to the privy that night and then went back to the manor house and to bed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The coroner will be coming. He was delayed by a violent death several miles from here. When he comes to investigate the fire, he will also want to investigate the bailiff’s accident. We must continue as usual and try not to excite his suspicions, not let him think we know anything about the bailiff’s accident.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“If the coroner wants to question you …” He shook his head, staring moodily across the river at the opposite bank. “It can’t be helped.”
His features softened from their customary hard expression. “I had seen the way Bailiff Tom looked at you and that his presence made you afraid. I should have taken action. I am to blame, and therefore I will take the responsibility for it.”
“I don’t think you are to blame.” Annabel angled her body so that she was facing him. “You couldn’t have known the bailiff would — If anything, it is my fault. I’m sure some would say I should have married the bailiff.” She looked down at the ground, feeling the tears damming behind her eyes. The pain of knowing her brothers wanted to give her to that vile man … She had to change the path her thoughts were taking or she’d never stop the tears.
“Nay, you should not have married the bailiff. I’d have sooner paired a dove with a vulture.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “You deserve to love and be loved.”
You deserve to love and be loved. What did he mean? She had never heard anyone speak of such a thing, although it reminded her of what Mistress Eustacia had said only a few minutes ago. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to guard herself against the strange longing the gentle tone of his voice and his words evoked.
“You are not to blame.” He leaned toward her. There was such intensity in his expression. She wondered if he intended to wrap his arms around her. How would it feel?
But she was being ridiculous to entertain such an irreverent thought. Of course her lord wouldn’t do such an improper thing.
His brown hair had fallen across his forehead. She let her gaze travel over his leather eye patch to his cheek and wished she could see him clean-shaven. She didn’t think she would mind the scars.
She tore her gaze from his face. O God, I pray he can’t read my thoughts.
“I am partially to blame for another reason,” she said hesitantly. “I was carrying a knife, to protect myself from the bailiff. While he was dragging me into the trees, I pulled it out of my pocket.”
“And he took it away from you.” His face was so stern and forbidding, her heart sank. He would see now that it was her fault.
The poor girl had been forced to carry a knife to protect herself. He felt sick, his heart wrenching at the thought of her so frightened. Why hadn’t she come to him? Why hadn’t she told him how terrified she was? He would have defended her.
But he knew why. She hadn’t come to him because he himself had mistreated her. He had been rude and insulting and had assumed the worst.
“I know it was wrong of me to try to use the knife as a weapon — “
“You were only trying to protect yourself.” He closed his eyes, groaning inwardly. God, how can you ever forgive me? How can I ever forgive myself?
“But the bailiff was holding my knife, and that’s why — well, that’s why — “
“That’s why whoever was with you had to bash the bailiff over the head with whatever it was he bashed him with.” Now he was seeing the full picture.
He saw the flicker of fear and sadness in her eyes just before she turned her head.
They sat in silence, listening to the slow-moving river and the birds flitting nearby and overhead in the trees.
Ranulf stared down at his gnarled hand. The fingers and thumb curled inward, the scars and damaged tendons forcing his hand into a claw shape. He was a disfigured man, but he could have, should have protected her from the bailiff.
The Merchant's Daughter Page 15