“Yes, Nedda, of course. Please come in,” Abrielle replied, thankful she had had the presence of mind not to place the wooden bar across the portal to secure her privacy. The maidservant would have considered it strange indeed had she bolted the door while awaiting her bridegroom.
After scurrying through the antechamber, an older woman as much as twoscore and five or so years of age, garbed in a black gown and a wimple, entered the bedchamber and approached the canopied bed wherein her new mistress reclined against several pillows. Having tugged a sheet beneath her chin, Abrielle peered at the servant warily, wondering whether she’d prove a friend or a foe. The gentle empathy evident in the soft hazel eyes and smile readily assuaged Abrielle’s brewing fears. Indeed, if the compassion the maidservant evidenced counted for something, then she could believe she was a very kindly individual.
“M’lady, ’tis sad I am ta have ta bring ye such news so soon after yer weddin’ vows, but I fear the brumes o’ gloom were wont ta visit this keep durin’ the night,” the older woman announced in a soft, solemn voice. “No sooner were ye wed than yer poor husband was taken…”
“My poor husband?” Abrielle hated falsehoods, but knew it was needful to cast suspicion away from herself as well as from others. She was shaking uncontrollably as she clasped a trembling hand to her throat and stared at the elder. In spite of the lengthy moment in which she sought to find the nerve to trust her voice, she finally managed to ask, “Dear Nedda, what are you trying to tell me?”
The servant heaved a forlorn sigh, collecting her wits for the task the steward had given her. “M’lady, sometime durin’ the night, likely whilst he was makin’ his way ta these very chambers, yer bridegroom…Squire de Marlé…took a dreadful tumble down the stairs. There he was, poor man, decked out in his wedding finery, lying knotted up near the bottom step. The ones what discovered him say he likely tripped and struck his head against the stone wall afore tumblin’ ta the bottom, seeing as how there was blood smeared on the stones higher up and his temple had a horrible-lookin’ bruise and an open gash…”
Abrielle had the presence of mind to throw back the covers and swing her legs over the side of the bed as she sought to leave it. “Then, by all means, Nedda, we must see to the squire’s wounds.”
Holding up a thin, wrinkled hand to forestall her mistress, Nedda solemnly shook her head and looked at her compassionately. “Nay, m’lady, I fear there be no need for haste now.”
Pausing in response, Abrielle managed to convey a perplexed frown as she searched the elder’s face. “But why not?”
“’Tis terribly grieved I am ta be the one ta tell ye, mistress, but Sir Thurstan gave me no other choice. It seems when Squire de Marlé…fell, he not only struck his head on the stone but, mayhap at the same time, broke his poor neck. From what I’ve been able ta glean from the rumors making their way about the keep this early morningtide, he died in much the same manner as his lordship did months ago. The serfs are sayin’ Lord Weldon was found in the very same spot, all crumpled up at the bottom of the stairs early in the mornin’.”
Abrielle’s hackles rose as she recalled Desmond crying out his brother’s name. Had that only been his mind evoking haunting memories of his murderous deeds? Or should she believe that there was a chance that the ghost of Weldon de Marlé had finally taken revenge?
“Cruel as it may seem ta a new bride,” Nedda continued, “there’s naught else that can be done for the poor squire but ta bury him. I fear ’tis the black of mournin’ yer pretty self ’ll be wearin’ in the days ta come, mistress. Ye’re no longer a bride but a widow.”
There, it had been said, and simple though the words might be, Abrielle said them again and again silently to herself: “no longer a bride but a widow.” ’Twas no dream or nightmare or any other flight of fancy, but the truth of what had been wrought over the course of her wedding night.
In spite of her best efforts, Abrielle could not summon forth a single tear with which to feign even a meager amount of sorrow. Desmond was dead and she was free and the best pretense she could convey was to clasp her hands over her face and pass a lengthy moment in silence, which she truly hoped Nedda would accept as a suitable response for a young widow.
“My parents must be told,” she stated at long last, and heaved a trembling sigh as she lowered her hands into her lap. She dared not glance up, for fear the woman would detect her lack of remorse.
“After learnin’ of Squire de Marlé’s fate, I took it upon meself ta inform yer parents afore bringin’ ye the tragic news. I thought ye’d be needin’ their comfort as soon as they could get dressed. They should be comin’ any moment now ta offer ye solace.”
“Thank you, dear Nedda, for your thoughtfulness and concern,” Abrielle murmured, carefully avoiding the servant’s gaze. Though innocent of any wrongdoing, she felt as if she were guilty of the most diabolical subterfuge known to man and had to wonder if her conscience would ever be cleansed of that dark stain. “’Twas very considerate of you.”
No sooner had the servant given her a dressing gown in which to meet her parents than a soft rap of knuckles sounded upon the portal. Without waiting for a verbal response, her mother called through the oaken door, “Abrielle, my dearest child, Vachel and I have come to be with you in this difficult hour. Are you able to see us now?”
“I pray but a moment more to make myself presentable, Mama,” Abrielle replied, and hurriedly wrapped her robe about herself as she left the bed. While smoothing her hair into some reasonable order, she had cause to wince as she was painfully reminded of the patch of hair that Desmond had torn from her scalp. Though the wound was extremely tender, it seemed a small price to pay to be free of that brutish monster. It definitely made her grateful that she had fairly thick hair, for she wouldn’t have to worry about hiding the spot. “You may come in now, Mama.”
Elspeth’s tears were ones of joy as she folded her daughter in her arms, and Abrielle shuddered and gave herself up to her mother’s comfort. “Oh, Abrielle, Abrielle,” was all Elspeth could manage.
Abrielle did feel some of the relief her mother felt, but in the back of her mind lingered thoughts of Raven, the man who knew her secret. How would she feel when she saw him by the light of day? For just a moment she considered relieving her burden by telling her parents everything. But she did not want them to bear the guilty secret. No one should have to suffer the pangs of conscience but herself. And if someone had seen her—planned to accuse her? How could she allow her parents to be implicated?
If anyone had been saddened by the news of de Marlé’s demise, Abrielle knew that her stepfather was not among them. If anything, Vachel appeared to have some difficulty curbing his delight over the way things had turned out. After all, he had been instrumental in arranging the fortune she would now be inheriting as Desmond’s widow. No doubt he had also gained concessions for himself that would likely put him in the league of other wealthy men.
Abrielle was far too relieved to have escaped Desmond’s amorous attentions to consider making much of a bereavement that was nonexistent. On the other hand, she had little difficulty appearing solemn and respectful toward the dead or even dressing the part of a widow. The main impediment with which she was forced to contend centered mainly on the hauntingly persistent memory of Desmond’s body thumping down the stone steps and the spine-tingling cries for mercy he had made while confronting his brother’s apparition. Though she tried to banish that frightening recollection from her mind, she could not long escape its frequent repetition, for its memory proved persistent.
THE WINDING SHEET in which Desmond had been wrapped for burial readily evidenced his short, portly form as the serfs lowered his body into the grave. Standing with her family and the Graysons beside the open grave, Abrielle watched as one transfixed. Her last morbid view of her bridegroom prior to his body being wrapped for burial seemed permanently scored into her brain. As much as she sought to banish the memory of his milk-white face, the wrinkled brow strangely elo
ngated by a hairline evidencing a purplish bruise on his temple, and his clawlike fingernails that no amount of scrubbing had been able to whiten, she knew she would not be able to banish such sights overnight. Being a virginal widow, she had been loath to view his maleness and had been grateful when Vachel had discreetly bade the priest to leave the lower half of Desmond’s body covered for her benefit. Staring down at her bridegroom with something approaching paralyzing horror, she knew she could not have calmly borne the sight of his nakedness. Even covered by a sheet, his figure had appeared oddly grotesque, for his large belly had protruded much like an oversize mushroom beneath the shroud.
In a gesture of farewell, Abrielle tossed upon Desmond’s breast a single rose from a bush that a kindly servant had carefully nurtured throughout the cooler months and, in quiet empathy for a newly widowed bride, had presented to her with softly murmured condolences. Staring at the bloodred petals lying scattered upon the white bindings swaddling Desmond’s form, Abrielle was inundated once again with persistent visions of his falling to his death and the horror and fear she had experienced after Raven announced the squire’s death.
Hardly a moment had been allowed to pass after the priest had cast a symbolic handful of dirt into the grave and murmured the words “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” than Abrielle found herself barraged by a bevy of bachelors and widowers conveying their condolences for her loss. Still very much in a stupor, she listened as they offered to assist her in whatever capacity she might require or desire either now or in the near future. She thanked them graciously, but assured them that their services wouldn’t be needed since her stepfather would likely be helping her to sort out her affairs.
Beyond assuring her that she had his deepest empathy and respect, Raven maintained a discreet distance, as did his father. Yet bluish-green eyes were wont to meet those of deep blue fairly often, and Abrielle tried to look stoic and strong. Some deep part of her mind protested her concern that, now she was an extremely wealthy widow, Raven might well try to press his advantage. She knew she had to remember the very words of caution she had so recently uttered to Cordelia: What did she truly know of him beyond a handsome face and smooth words?
To alleviate the possibility of any unkind soul becoming suspicious, Abrielle deemed it prudent for all concerned to lend her attention primarily to the other guests. In a solemn yet gracious manner, she listened to the condolences offered by her kinsmen and the hunters and their families, many of whom had felt no more liking for Desmond than she had. The rowdy rabble that had attached themselves to the squire in an effort to enjoy their share of the fortune he had inherited had obviously seen no further profit in remaining at the keep in the midst of the bride’s Saxon friends and relatives and the Normans who had disdained them. To the relief of many, they soon took to the path down the road.
Throughout the solemn service, her parents, Cordelia, Lord Reginald, and Lady Isolde remained near her side. Their nurturing presence proved more of a comfort to her than the vast majority of guests. Most of the men had only come for the hunt and were naught but strangers to her. Even so, many of the bachelors were wont to leave mementos and beg assurances that she would not forget them, promising to visit her in the near future. Though she smiled as if to convey her consent, she soon realized how benumbed her poor beleaguered mind truly was, for in the space of a few moments she had trouble distinguishing one keepsake from the next or the face of one young gallant from all the others who had stepped near.
Shivering inwardly from the gruesome recollections that were wont to prey upon her mind, Abrielle decided that she must find a new way to view the life that she would now lead. In so doing, she realized that as mistress of the keep, she now had the authority to correct some very irksome situations she had become privy to shortly after the death of the two men who’d attacked the Seaberns. Having acquired full possession of the keep and the lands upon which it had been built through the agreement Vachel had insisted Desmond sign in his quest to have her, she could now set aright many wrongs that had been done to the serfs.
Graciously she invited the guests who had been wont to stay beyond the graveside service to dine with her in the main hall later that evening. Upon assuring the Graysons, Cordelia, and her own parents and relatives that she’d be seeing them later at sup, she begged their indulgence to allow her to take care of some pressing matters. As people drifted back toward the castle, talking together in twos and threes, she saw Raven standing as still and tall as an oak, watching her. A skittering of nervousness and something else moved up her spine. She wished she could shoo him away, make him stop watching her. If only he didn’t know what had happened last night—yet she tried to imagine what she would have done had he not appeared to distract Desmond from his pursuit of her. She was torn in her feelings about him, from gratitude to suspicion. But he was not her main concern today.
Upon approaching Thurstan, who had remained at the grave site to direct the serfs laboring to fill in the hole, she halted beside him and then waited a lengthy moment before he deigned to meet her gaze. The coldness in his eyes surprised her, and she was taken aback that on the day of his uncle’s funeral, he could spare her so much animosity. She began to wonder when he would return to his own lands, but could not imagine cruelly asking him to leave.
“I apologize for interrupting you, Thurstan, but could you possibly spare me your attention at this present time?” she queried in a pleasant tone. “I understand that you greatly assisted your uncle in the management of the castle. If I am wrong, I can always seek out the steward…”
He folded his arms over his chest. “You may speak freely to me.”
“Thank you, Thurstan. I do have some matters that have been plaguing me for several days now, yet, until now, I’ve had no authority to do anything about them. Since circumstances have taken an unexpected change by the squire’s death, ’tis my desire to remedy various problems that have become evident to me.”
He said nothing, just continued to watch her in a way that made her uncomfortable. The more bothered she was by his lack of graciousness, the more firm she became in her convictions.
“I shall be initiating new standards to which those with any authority here must abide. The new principles are to benefit those who have no voice, and as for the timing of these initiatives, I mean to set them into motion this very day.”
“What vexing matters are those, my lady?”
She sensed sarcasm in his tone and clenched her jaw. She should have gone directly to the steward, for she knew Thurstan was no friend. She remembered how he had advised his uncle to change the terms of the betrothal contract. He certainly must resent that the contract had given her so much. In fact she began to wonder, by his barely subdued animosity, if he would receive much at all in his uncle’s will. But that was not her concern.
She swept a hand about to casually indicate the direction in which she desired to go. “I will be touring the area where the serfs’ huts are located. Since you seem to know your uncle’s concerns, I’m giving you the opportunity to join me. If not, I can always go to the steward.”
His pale brows came together in a fleeting frown. “That will not be necessary. I can assist you as I did the squire.”
Without further comment, Abrielle lifted the hem of her black gown as she led the way across the secondary bridge traversing the stream, on the far side of which stood the serfs’ hovels, which had been built fairly close together in a wide circle, in the center of which large stones surrounded a glowing bed of coals whence a few meager flames flickered upward. As Abrielle halted beside the dwindling fire, Thurstan peered at her questioningly.
“Would you please call out the serfs who are here,” she asked. “I wish to speak with them directly.”
“My lady, if you would only tell me what this is about, I will have your wishes carried out.”
Abrielle inclined her head graciously. “Thank you, Thurstan, but my wish is to speak with the serfs directly and explain what I will be exp
ecting from them henceforth as their new mistress. If in the future they should have any complaints, then they’ll suffer no uncertainty that I am the one who issued the directives.”
Without another word, Thurstan crossed to a large metal disk which hung from a sturdy wood frame on the far side of the fire. Dangling beside it was a hide-covered metal disk attached to a heavy wooden handle, with which he applied three strokes to the gong. Returning to Abrielle’s side, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall and rigidly aloof. As they waited, she could not help but notice that Raven had followed them from the grave site, and now stood silently near the trees, as if he’d appointed himself her bodyguard. She frowned at him, but could do nothing more, because the serfs came scurrying out of their dwellings, causing Abrielle to groan inwardly at the sight of them. She had never seen so many frail-looking human beings with thin, gaunt faces and lusterless eyes peering back at her from the half circle that they had hurriedly formed on the far side of the fire. A sudden breeze made her aware of the inadequacy of their paltry garments, for she saw many huddling together as if seeking to escape its sharp talons. She could only believe that many of them would die ere winter was full upon them, for they would not likely have the stamina to withstand the maladies and diseases the season seemed to spawn. In spite of the fact that Weldon had cared for them with as much compassion as a loving father, it was obvious that Desmond hadn’t cared how many lived or died as long as there were enough to see to his personal needs.
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