Everlasting

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “Who did this to you, Mordea?”

  Raising a flabby arm, the cook pointed toward Abrielle accusingly. “’Twas that haughty bitch. She laid me low, that she did.”

  Thurstan glanced around with a thunderous scowl and found himself gazing into the pointed stare of the keep’s new mistress. “My lady, I—”

  “Never mind what you may have to say about this matter,” Abrielle interrupted. “I want that woman gone from here ere the hour is out.”

  Thurstan spared Mordea a scowl before he looked back to Abrielle.

  “My lady, the squire brought her here shortly after acquiring the keep. She is the best cook we have on the premises.”

  Abrielle was wont to challenge that particular statement. “Nevertheless, I want her gone. I will not be attacked by a hireling in my own keep.” She flung out an arm to indicate the nearest door. “You’ve been given orders. Now comply with my command and send Mordea on her way.”

  “But she’s an old woman,” Thurstan protested. “How will she manage if you cast her out?”

  “No doubt by forcing her dictates upon others as she has obviously been doing for some time here in this kitchen, and tried to do with me this very afternoon. I will not allow her to continue to vex and torment those who are susceptible to her edicts one day longer than necessary. Perhaps she can beg mercy from the people she’s been deliberately neglecting.”

  In a sharp manner of dismissal, Abrielle turned to face the other servants, bidding them to carry out her earlier directive by loading the cart and taking the food across the bridge for the other serfs. They seemed eager to comply and were wont to nudge one another and grin as they gathered up the fare. It was not unlikely that Mordea had made their labors in the kitchen one very long and grievous ordeal.

  Upon glancing over her shoulder, Abrielle was surprised to find Thurstan helping Mordea from the kitchen. As Abrielle overheard the crone chiding him, she realized Mordea knew more about him than any of the other servants who had recently been living under his authority, and she was struck with suspicion.

  “If me poor mother were alive, she wouldna have stood for this foul abuse. She’d have struck that chit down with nary a thought ta the cost. Ta be sure, she’d’ve bloodied this whole keep from end ta end so they’d long remember her.”

  “Shh,” Thurstan urged impatiently.

  “Whot, ye don’t want that bitch knowin’ how ye’re almost kin to me?”

  Thurstan met Abrielle’s shocked gaze.

  “Mordea, do not—”

  “Aye, Desmond de Marlé be me own brother,” the old woman wailed. “But for different mothers, ye, too, could have been me nephew, Thurstan de Marlé, so don’t ye be thinkin’ ye’re mightier than me.”

  When they had left the kitchen, Abrielle felt a chill, knowing that the sister of Desmond, a man suspected of so many murders, had been feeding them. She went out into the autumn sunshine, trying to wipe away the feeling of so much evil.

  CHAPTER 12

  Some moments later, upon joining the kitchen staff that she had sent across the creek to deliver the food to the serfs’ compound, Abrielle suffered something of a shock when she found Raven there also.

  He was standing with a group of men, all the way to the far side of the large room, and yet, as if drawn by some power far greater than her will, her gaze instantly honed in on him among all others. She ought be accustomed to it by now, but still her heart clenched and quickened at the sight of his broad shoulders and proud bearing. For once, his full attention appeared riveted elsewhere, and in spite of how pleasing he was to look upon, Abrielle found herself curious to see what, besides her, he found so entertaining.

  She followed his gaze to where Cedric, the laird, held a toddler upon his knee as he told a fanciful story of a hungry fox chasing after a rabbit and being tricked at every turn. Other children surrounded him on all sides and the elder’s clever wit easily evoked delighted giggles from his young audience. They were clearly enthralled with the voices of his various characters, for which he seemed to have a rare talent. It soon became obvious to Abrielle that the witty laird took as much pleasure in the children and their responses as they relished the storyteller and his humorous tales. Much to everyone’s delight, the rabbit escaped the fox, and the latter had to content himself catching a stringy old rat for sustenance.

  The serfs were now less hesitant about coming forward to greet her. Indeed, they seemed eager to express their appreciation for what she was doing as the new mistress of the keep. Remembering how wary the young mother had seemed in Thurstan’s presence, Abrielle was wont to suspect that the change in their behavior had much to do with his absence.

  From his carefully chosen vantage point opposite the entrance, Raven was aware of Abrielle the instant she arrived. Since she’d so oft protested his watching her, he decided to appear not to take notice this time and see if she liked that better. ’Twas not an easy ruse to execute. He kept busy pitching in wherever he saw a need, hoisting a heavy crock or carrying away baskets which were emptied almost before they were taken off the cart. As fiercely as he longed to be near Abrielle, on this day he found a special pleasure in watching her from afar, and truthfully was more deeply moved by the sight of her rising to her new status as mistress of the keep than ever he’d been watching her twirl around the dance floor in her lace and baubles.

  With her sleeves pushed high and curls pinned back, she worked alongside the kitchen staff to distribute the trenchers of food which, he knew, she’d personally gone to some trouble to have sent there. As a whole, the serfs eagerly accepted all that was offered, expressing their gratitude time and again. Abrielle met their effusive thanks with a smile so warm and joyful one would think they were the ones doing her the favor. Raven saw tears flow as grateful parents watched their offspring satisfy their hunger rather than being forced to endure a gnawing burning in their stomachs so intense that even sleep failed to provide them with an escape from the torment.

  He’d noted the serfs’ sorry lot right away. Now here they were, being nurtured by someone whose empathy toward them became obvious as soon as she assumed authority. It was no wonder their eyes grew misty and they sought to squeeze or kiss their mistress’s hand as they offered their fervent gratitude for what she was doing for them. It lifted his heart to see those who had been obliged to bear the brunt of the squire’s insensitivity and stingy authority for so long being treated with such kindness and generosity. And it filled him with pride, pride that was, to be fair, not yet his to claim, that Abrielle was the woman responsible.

  Raven could be a patient man, especially when patience was part of a campaign that would lead to victory, oft to the frustration of those with whom he dealt as an emissary to King David. They would prefer he act recklessly or on impulse and thus give them an advantage. But that reputation was being sorely tested there in the serfs’ compound, and very shortly after they’d appeased their hunger, he found an opportunity to approach the lady of the keep. She sat by the fire with a few of the younger children, and it did not please him to see her winsome smile give way to a look of wariness and resignation at his approach. Though it be a matter of pride, he wasn’t used to a woman so distrusting him. He’d dared to hope his assistance the night of her husband’s death would forge a bond between them; instead it seemed to have pushed the two of them even further apart.

  He sat down beside her, focused on not making any sudden moves. As ridiculous as it sounded, there was no denying that the slow, gentling approach worked miracles with skittish animals all the time.

  “’Tis a good thing ye’re doing with these people,” he told her quietly.

  Her smile was reserved for the little girl in her lap, who was nestled to her bosom, contentedly sucking her thumb. “’Tis the right thing, therefore easy to do.”

  “Ye seem to be a born leader. Is that because ye’re your mother’s only child?”

  She nodded, seemed about to speak, and then simply pressed her lips together. Abrielle
was upset with herself that she’d almost shared Elspeth’s good news as if Raven were a friend.

  “I am my father’s only child as well,” he continued. “So that is something we have in common.”

  She slanted him a polite look and shrugged her delicate shoulders.

  “Yes, indeed. He taught me everything I know, from sword fighting ta diplomacy. And taught me well.”

  “I can see that; so well you still travel with him as if you need a keeper.”

  He winced, glad the children couldn’t detect her sarcasm. “Ye’ve pierced me, lass.”

  “Forgive me,” she begged with feigned dismay. “I’d no idea the truth would be so painful for you.”

  Their gazes collided with an impact that made her eyes widen and brought a look of shock and panic to her face. Raven knew exactly what caused her to react so; she’d suddenly remembered the “truth” only the two of them shared about their role in the squire’s death. And just as swiftly and surely he understood why instead of binding them together, that night figured strongly in her suspicion and distrust of him.

  Softly, he tried to reassure her. “’Tis true enough that some truths would only spread pain were they known by all. Ye have me word, my lady, honor bound, I would never speak them.” He rose without another word and walked away, the knowledge he’d gained in this skirmish of value in his campaign to win her, for win her he would.

  AFTER MAKING HER departure from the compound, Abrielle had already begun crossing the narrow bridge over the stream when she caught sight of Thurstan escorting Mordea to a horse-drawn cart an elderly serf had pulled to a halt before the drawbridge of the keep. A troop of at least twenty mounted men waited nearby. After Thurstan tossed a large sack of the woman’s belongings into the back of the conveyance, Mordea bent down to pick up a rock from the ground and drop it into her apron pocket. Only then did she accept Thurstan’s assistance onto the driver’s bench.

  Mordea slowly reined the animal about and then lifted an arm in farewell as she spoke to Thurstan in a foreign tongue. Then, upon settling her gaze upon the mistress of the keep, she gave a gleeful cackle and whipped the shaggy steed into a lively trot along the lane. Thurstan turned around in surprise as he discovered who was watching. As the conveyance passed near the spot where Abrielle had paused on the bridge, Mordea quickly retrieved the stone she had dropped into her pocket and flung it toward her erstwhile mistress.

  Before Abrielle could even attempt to duck, Raven clasped an arm about her waist, sweeping her off her feet and whirling her abruptly about. She was clinging hard to his chest, her head tipped back so that she was looking into his eyes when she heard the well-aimed rock strike his back. He never flinched at the contact, and his hold on her never wavered. Trembling, she managed to give him a nod of thanks, knowing she could have been badly hurt but for him. She wanted nothing more than to rest her head on his strong chest and let him go on buffering her from the world for a few more moments or hours or forever, but the possibility that he was the biggest threat of all to her safety forced her to step away as quickly as possible from his body, too full of warmth and comfort.

  Mordea snatched up the whip and elicited a sprightly trot from the steed in her haste to leave. Her fiendish laughter floated back to them, raising the hairs on the back of Abrielle’s neck. She shook a threatening fist. “Mark me words, when ye’re least expectin’ it, ye’ll be seein’ me again. I’ll slice yer gullets from ear ta ear, and then I’ll be rippin’ yer hearts out and roastin’ ’em for me supper! That much I promise the lot of ye!”

  Upon making that declaration, Mordea immediately launched into the language that she had earlier spewed, and although most of it was hardly discernible above the rattling of the cart’s wheels as she drove it away, Cedric listened keenly to every word. Although Abrielle was not familiar with the tongue, she was convinced that it was no sacred blessing the hag had bestowed upon them.

  “If ye were ta ask me, lass, I think the old crone meant ta lay ye low in your grave,” Cedric said to Abrielle as he arrived on the bridge.

  Thurstan made no move to join them, only took the reins of his horse from one of his men as he said, “I hope you were not injured, my lady.”

  “’Tis only by luck that she was not,” Raven said darkly.

  Abrielle saw the way the two men eyed each other with animosity, and quickly said, “Thurstan, you will see that she never returns to this keep again.”

  He nodded. “And I will see that your property, namely the horse and cart, are returned to you by the morrow.” He took a deep breath, as if it pained him to say the next words. “My thanks, Sir Raven, for protecting Lady Abrielle from Mordea’s foolish misjudgment.”

  “Misjudgment?” Raven echoed with contempt.

  Again Abrielle spoke before the two men could do worse to each other. “Thurstan, you are taking your leave without even the courtesy of giving me notice?”

  “I did not think you wished me to stay.”

  If he thought she would correct that impression, he was wrong.

  “Good day, my lady,” he said stiffly before mounting and riding off with his men.

  Abrielle, Raven, and Cedric stood quietly for several moments, watching the troop ride away behind Mordea’s cart.

  “Lass,” Cedric began, “why was Thurstan de Marlé escorting such a woman?”

  She sighed. “She is not related to Thurstan, who is the son of Desmond’s eldest late brother. But Mordea and Desmond shared the same mother, so perhaps Thurstan feels he owes her loyalty.”

  “Then ’tis good riddance to them both,” Cedric said with finality.

  But Abrielle couldn’t help wondering if she’d truly seen the last of the pair.

  AT SUPPER THAT evening, Arielle’s suitors began to grow bolder. She was whisked from one to the next, whether it be for a dance or a conversation consisting mainly of one-sided boasting, and, as always, she could count on Raven being nearby. Even if his eyes were not on her every moment, she was more certain than ever that his awareness of her was absolute. He was like a big tiger stretched out in the sun, she thought, all sleepy and content, but God help the poor fool who tried to slip past and steal the treasure he guarded. That last thought brought her up short, and she was forced to ask herself, was she the treasure Raven guarded? There was something appealing about the notion, as it had been so long since she’d felt truly safe and protected. But there was also the frightening possibility that his only reason for protecting her was so he would be in a position to grab what she had to offer for himself when the time was right. She found it to be all so endlessly confusing and exhausting; if he wouldn’t go away, Abrielle wished he could at least be less enticing so she could simply ignore him. How much easier her life would be if he were to grow horns, or awaken with a potbelly, or at least stop bathing.

  At last she was able to plead exhaustion and escape the great hall. But before she could reach her door, she was approached by Sir Colbert, one of the Norman knights who yet lingered, hoping to win her favor.

  “Lady Abrielle,” he called, gasping as if he’d been breathing hard.

  “Sir Colbert, what is it?”

  “I was out walking this evening…and I heard…crying by the serfs’ cottages.”

  “Crying?”

  “One of the children…is ill. Do you know…the art of healing?”

  “I do. Just let me get my cache of herbs.”

  Though he opened his mouth to speak, she had already hurried down the corridor. When Nedda had moved her to the master’s chambers, she had transferred all of Abrielle’s things, and it was easy enough to find the little leather bag.

  She ran back into the corridor to find Sir Colbert looking both ways, then giving a start and nodding at her with encouragement.

  “Come, my lady, I know the door that leads out through the lady’s garden. It will be much quicker to reach the village.”

  Abrielle followed him gratefully, already worried about which little child could be ill. They w
ere all in such a weakened state from lack of nourishment. She wasn’t paying attention to which corridors Sir Colbert took, but at last she heard him unbolt a door, and smelled the fresh, wet earthiness of the garden.

  She rushed out ahead of him, taking the garden paths quickly, her only goal to get beyond the half-wall fence, past the high walls of the castle, and over to the bridge leading across the moat. Several soldiers on guard watched her curiously, but none interceded.

  She was almost to the stream when Sir Colbert cried, “My lady!”

  When she turned to face him, she found him suddenly too close. He bent over and scooped her stomach-first onto his shoulder. She cried out in surprise and then was jarred awkwardly as he began to run.

  “Put me down!”

  “My horse is right here, my lady. We will reach the village much faster.”

  His shoulder slammed hard into her stomach, knocking the wind from her.