Betrothed (20 page)

“His
companions pressed him into trying to retrieve non-existent stolen gold. He did
no killing, nor did he know what the other two had done until we captured them and
took them back to the smoldering rubble.”

“Did
he…Was his punishment the same as the others?” Isabeau whispered as she
continued to hold the gray-haired mourner.

“Nay.
I told him another had the right to decide his fate.” He looked at the wrinkled
old woman. Mayhap this was too heavy a burden for a woman of her years?

“The
man, Sam, will be brought to Bennington on the morrow.” Donovan touched the
grieving woman on the shoulder. “The Abbot had several more labors for Sam to
perform as the beginning of his penance.”

Glenys
tilted her head just a bit as she looked back up at him.

“His
first penance was to dig the graves. We saw that your family were given a
proper burial.”

“Thank
ye, my lord,” mumbled Glenys. He could hear snuffling and tears through the open
door as the whole castle wept for the young family.

Donovan
felt their loss. He realized, in that moment, that while he had delivered final
news before, he had never served it with comfort. He dealt well with all
matters of death but this part. Could this be yet another of the changes to
which Carstairs had alluded? 

Glenys
did her best to control her emotions. She buried her hands in her apron. “Why?”
Glenys moaned staring at Donovan’s face. “Why did they take my babies?”

“Greed.”
Donovan repeated an abbreviated version of the tale, but even in the retelling
he could find not logic. Why had the fools believed such a story? When they
realized a young family occupied the cottage; why had they not retreated?

“You
will hear the third man’s story from his own lips,” Isabeau concluded for
Donovan. “You must decide if he deserves the fate of his fellows, clemency, or
another punishment. Mayhap he should be charged with rebuilding Zeke’s cottage
and tending his fields?”

“Why
rebuild?” Glenys asked bitterly. “Zeke and Tessa have no more need of it. Why
should he be rewarded?”

“It
would be a crime against all of Bennington to allow Zeke’s crops to wither away
in the field,” Isabeau answered smoothly. “Do not be hasty in your judgment.
Follow the earl’s example. Listen to the young man’s telling. Pray to God, for
he will give you wisdom. Now.  I think you should come with me, Glenys.
Maisie, would you see that all is prepared for his lordship’s bath and
refreshment. ”

Donovan
was grateful to hand over the situation to Isabeau’s capable tending and made
his retreat. Isabeau handled his larger household with fineness. He had a
feeling Glenys’ judgment would be whatever Isabeau decided.

As
he stepped out into the bailey, he tipped his face towards the sun. The gentle
wind carried the scent of mixed herbs from the kitchen gardens. Mint mingled
with a hint of the floral and a dash of horseflesh. The winds must have
shifted, Donovan thought with satisfaction, for the jakes no longer overpowered
the bailey.

“My
lord, Lady Isabeau has ordered a bath in your chamber. She thought you would be
weary after your—your journey. There is plenty of time, but she has said the
mid-day meal will wait until you are ready.”

Donovan
turned. Maisie’s eyes were red with weeping and her voice was gruff. He stared
after the retreating figure of the housekeeper and followed her to his
chambers.

Donovan’s
squire removed his sword and belt and placed them on a trunk. A page poured hot
water into a waiting tub. He shook his head. Isabeau was proving to be a
whirlwind, blowing the old dust away. How did you control the wind?

Marta
had never directed servants to perform any duties for his comfort—except
packing his gear. She had never posted a crier to announce his arrival nor
greeted him on the castle steps.

He
was in the tub of comfortably hot water, scrubbing his chest with a cloth and a
wedge of lavender scented soap, when a knock on the door disturbed the lad
adding another bucket of water to bath. He wondered if Isabeau, finished with
Glenys, had come to scrub his back as was the ancient tradition. His smile of
pleasure faded when Marta’s old crone of a nurse pushed open the door.

Granya
gave the room a quick survey before turning on the boy with a malevolent smile.

“Git
on with you, boy. There be more buckets waitin’ to be lugged up the stairs.”

Sparing
only a brief glance at Donovan, the boy raced to do the old bat’s bidding full.

When
the door closed behind the boy, Granya turned her gimlet eyes on Donovan and he
narrowed his own in annoyance. “What do you want, old woman?”

“Why
nothing, my lord.” The woman hobbled over to the tub as her gaze settled on his
bare chest. “I am only seeing to your comfort.”

Donovan
believed that about as much as he believed Zeke would rise from his grave and hug
his grandmother. With a woman of fewer years, he might have thought the remarks
flirtatious. But the malice brightening the pale blue eyes only served to
strengthen Donovan’s contempt.

“There
is no need,” he growled. “I am sure you have other duties.”

Granya
nodded as if pleased at his words though she made no move to leave. “Aye, my
lord. I come with complaints from the castle because the others be afraid of
your new woman.” She placed the gnarled hand not holding her cane against her
chest. “The lady has taken it upon herself to turn many of your people into
helpless drudges. She tells one person to tear down a thing. No sooner than he
is done, then she orders another to undo the destruction. Bennington is echoing
with the grumblings she has started. Nary a man, woman nor child does not bear
a new mark since your departure.”

Water
sloshed over the sides of the tub as he straightened. “She beats them?”

Granya
stumbled back. For a moment, her mouth opened and closed like a fish flopping on
a bank. “Nay. Nay. To my ken, she has no raised a hand, only her voice.”

“Then
what is this nonsense about marks.”

“Tis
only the blisters and the bruises caused by the false tasks she has fashioned.
As one, Bennington does not welcome this interlope.”

“And
what are your wounds?”

“Why—why.
My hands are that sore from soaking in water and lye.” She held out a hand for
his inspection.

He
knew she lied. Something in her eyes gave her away. But how much of her lies
were built on truth?  A rap on the door prevented him from confronting
her.

“Get
the door,” he ordered without preamble. “Then be on your way. I have no wish to
continue listening to your tattle.”

“Aye,
my lord,” she answered, her eyes narrowed.

Donovan’s
squire entered carrying drying cloths, closely followed the boy laden down with
the weight of a sloshing bucket.

Donovan
brooded until he happened to notice the boy’s slight limp.

“Did
you get that limp carrying the water up from the kitchens?”

The
boy started when he realized the earl was speaking directly to him.  

“N-nay,
my lord.” His freckled face -- that had lost the redness from his exertions
--went brilliant again.

“Then
how did you get hurt.”

“T’was
when my lady had us lime the jakes. I fell.”

Donovan
remained quiet all through the mid-day meal. He watched the faces of his
people. He listened to the hum of their subdued conversations. He was left
wondering how many grim faces were owed to the tragic news he had brought. Did
resentment against Isabeau also color the cadence of the great hall? 
Something was different about the place. He searched the tables again.

Turning
to Carstairs on his right, he asked, “Does it seem to be brighter in
here?  Have they lit more candles than usual?”

Carstairs
swallowed down a gulp of wine before he replied. “The tapestries have been
taken down. If I am not mistaken, I believe the walls have been white-washed
and the hearth scrubbed free of soot.”

Donovan
sat back in his chair and searched the great hall with a new perspective.
Carstairs was correct. The walls, even the ceiling, had a fresh coat of white,
obscuring from sight the years of accumulated smoke. He wondered how the
ceiling had been reached with the brushes.

He
had told her to keep the women busy. It had been one of his last orders before
his departure. That thought reminded him of her parting words. They would wed
when she carried his babe.

He
pushed away from the table as if to push away the memories. The little murmurs
flying around the great hall fluttered to silence as everyone watched his exit.
He needed to think. He needed time away from the chatter—away from the
speculative eyes.

Bennington’s
congestion and cacophony added distractions. He found predicting his opponents’
next moves much easier than determining the motivations of these—his people.

And
what of Isabeau? What was he to do about her? Carstairs had advised him to give
her what she asked for. A babe! Did she understand what she asked?

In
order to give her a babe, he would have to… The saint’s be praised, he wanted
to… If he bedded her, by his honor he could not turn away from her. No matter
what bug she got in her female brain—even one he planted with his own mouth --
he would not release her.

Would
she find surcease at Bennington, if the people could not welcome her?  In
her unhappiness, would she not turn away from him as Marta had? 

He
stomped heavy-footed across the bailey towards the stables. Putting King’s
Champion through his paces would go a long way in clearing his head. Already,
he could feel the anticipated exhilaration of a good run. The mighty war horse
would be ready for another jaunt.

When
he entered the dim stables, Donovan went straight to Champion’s stall and
stroked the animal’s nose. In low tones, he promised the horse they would take
a very quick tour of the neighborhood.

He
looked around for one of the boys before remembering he had left everyone at
their meal. He could wait for someone or saddle the horse on his own. Urged on
by the eager thrust of Champion’s nose under his hand; Donovan crossed to the
tack room and easily found his saddle. It was on the center rack already
cleaned from his recent travels.

Grunting,
he hefted the saddle and hauled it to Champion’s stall. He would thankfully forgo
any armor. What need did he have of it here at Bennington? 

He
slung the saddle onto the half wall of the stall and was just unlatching the
door when he heard the rustle of straw. It came not from the line of stalls but
from directly behind him. As      he began to turn, he
thought he caught a glimpse of gray clothing from the corner of his eye.

“Isabeau?”

Before
he could finish her name, pain burst in his head like a bolt of lightning.

Isabeau
watched as Donovan strode from the great hall. She did her best to disguise her
concern at his behavior. With as much aplomb as she could muster, she quietly
finished her meal, though she had lost the taste for it. She wanted to quiz
Carstairs about Donovan’s mood but words failed her.

After
taking a final sip of wine, she gave the signal for her trencher to be cleared,
offered Carstairs a respectful nod and escaped. She entered the bailey with the
vague thought of following her betrothed but once in the sunshine she suddenly
stopped. She had no idea of his whereabouts.

She
had not made it to the herb garden before one of her frequent shadows accosted
her. Jaffey barked twice before galloping to her side.

“A
moi,” Isabeau ordered with her hand extended, her finger pointing to a spot in
front of her.

Better
behaved than only a few days ago, the dog was content to plop his bottom on the
ground in front of her feet and looked at her with hope in his gold eyes. She
relented and rewarded his good behavior by scratching the patch between his
ears.

    
Felix had been as good as his word. He had instructed her regarding many of his
commands with the hounds, both verbal and hand. While Isabeau acknowledged she
needed practice, she felt confident enough to deal with Jaffey without Felix’s
constant assistance. If she stayed within the bailey, she not need bother with
a leash.

    
She might have preferred no witnesses to her trailing after her betrothed. At
least Jaffey was unable to carry tales. She looked into his expressive eyes and
wondered again about the extent of the canine’s comprehension.

    
Could he sense her uncertainty?  He had curled up on the rug in her room,
his head propped on his front paws and followed her with those eyes as she
paced. Did he understand her ramblings the night before after she has ushered
everyone else to their beds? 

She
had fretted about the fussing she endured from Donovan’s people. She voiced her
concerns regarding her ability to be a countess. She had also whispered about
the astonishing things Donovan had made her feel.

She
had needed to vent her feelings but she had no one to share such intimate
thoughts. What transpired between her and Donovan needed to remain private; not
only because he was the earl, but because the eruption of emotion he induced in
her was too precious to share. She wanted to hold that close to her heart.
Jaffey suited her dilemma.

“Let
us see what we will see, Jaffey. She remembered that at Olivet, when the dark
mood struck him, Donovan had headed straight for his warhorse. King’s Champion
is almost as big as you,” she laughed. “Do you suppose he has done the same
today?”

Jaffey
whimpered and nudged her hand.

“No
doubt, you are correct.” She patted him again. “He has had plenty of time to
saddle King’s Champion and be on his way. We will just have to exhibit
patience. Father Fredrick claims patience is a virtue. Let us parade around the
bailey walls. By the time we make the circuit, the earl may have returned.”

She
took two strides before making the hand signal to follow. When Jaffey immediately
took his place at her side, she was inordinately pleased at the accomplishment.
She thought to trace the perimeters but she could not resist drifting towards
the stable area.

She
shaded her eyes with her cupped hand as she looked up at the sentries watching
the terrain for visitors or unwelcome intruders. She could ask them if he’d
left the castle. They would know Donovan’s direction. Shaking her head, she
denied herself the temptation. What would she do with the knowledge?  Have
Meadowlark saddled and follow him?  Castle Bennington was not Olivet.

In
spite of her many duties, or perhaps because of them, she was discovering she
had had less freedom here than at Olivet. It was her new position. It was the greater
number of people who watched her every move. Only the day before, the guard
stopped her from walking to the nearby village. Apparently, not even Caitlin
was sufficient chaperonage to leave the walls of Bennington
.

She
would bide her time and wait for the appropriate moment to speak to her
betrothed about this. In the meantime, other duties needed tending. Under her
hand, the layers of neglect were slowly being pealed away from the heart of
Bennington.

Isabeau
veered her path slightly in order to return to the kitchens and stumbled
against Jaffey. A soft rumble vibrated his chest as he blocked her way. When
she tried to circumvent the huge dog, he shifted his stance.

Twice
more she tried, and twice more he nudged her in the other direction. The sound
and the dog’s insistence were beginning to frighten her. He butted his head
against her and pushed her back towards their original destination.

“What
are you doing?” Isabeau asked with a hint of impatience.

The
dog gave a low pitched bark and nudged again.

“Was
that your “a moi” command?” Humor began to warm her tones. She had thought the
animal intelligent. Mayhap, she should fall to his heel.

“As
you wish, dear sir,” she submitted. “I will go where you lead.”

Jaffey
offered a sharp rumble as if to say “about time” before he set off directly for
the stables. Isabeau followed curiously, a wry smile curving her lips.

Almost
running to keep pace, Isabeau followed Jaffey at his heel. He seemed happiest
when she kept her palm on his back. They crossed the bailey and entered the
stable before she could catch her breath. In the shadows of the stables, as her
eyes adjusted, Isabeau trusted the dog to lead her true. She pushed down
lightly on his back and he seemed to know to slow but he continued forward. The
vibration under her hand grew more pronounced as they ventured deeper into the
building.

Horses
filled only a few of the stalls. She knew some were out to pasture while others
were working. Donovan and his men had probably taken these animals when they
tracked Zeke’s killers.

A
few of the large animals whinnied, pranced and a couple kicked at their walls
as Jaffey and Isabeau passed. When she would have stopped to offer a soothing
pat or nuzzle, Jaffey urged her forward. He had a specific destination.

He
stopped directly in front of one of the occupied stalls. Isabeau instantly
recognized Donovan’s King’s Champion prancing with even more agitation than the
other stable residents. She scowled as she realized that unless her betrothed
had taken another horse, he had not ridden out of the castle. His saddle was
still draped over the wall.

Then
she saw him.

Sprawled
inelegantly in the straw, dangerously close to the hooves of his mount that
stood over him, Donovan lay unconscious. Even through the shadows, she could
see the glint of blood in his black hair. Had the war horse attacked him?

Her
first instinct was to run for help but even as she took a step back, she knew
she could not leave Donovan as he was, under the horse. King’s Champion might
strike again.

“Steady,
Champion,” she crooned, “You don’t want to step on him.” She signaled Jaffey to
be quiet before she released the latch on the stall and eased inside. Extending
her hand, she edged cautiously towards Donovan. Bending down, she grabbed his
ankles and gave a tug. He did not budge. She used all her strength to no avail.
She was not going to move Donovan without assistance.

But
she could not leave him with King’s Champion. The other alternative meant she
would have to get King’s Champion out of the stall.

She
stood and took a deep breath. Horse, leather and manure assailed her senses but
she looked up at the giant animal and licked her dry lips. “Well boy, it is you
and me. I know you do not appreciate others taking your reins but I know you
would not intentionally harm your master either. I promise not to get on your
back. We are just going next door.”

Her
throat parched with fear, she continued her litany as she approached his head
and reached for his bridle. The muscles in her arm bunched as she firmly
brought his head down so he could snuffle her hair. Champion snorted and bobbed
his head. Forcing back her fear, Isabeau placed her other hand on the bridle
and blew gently into his face. “Now you know me. We are friends.” When he
seemed calm enough, she began slowly leading him to the exit. The short
distance seemed to last for leagues but eventually the spirited stallion
entered his new home.

After
securing the latch, Isabeau’s shaky knees threatened to buckle. She sagged back
against the stall door, as she attempted to slow her racing heart. Wiping sweat
and tears from her burning eyes, she did not need Jaffey’s wet nose pushing
against her to know more needed doing.

Ashamed
at her momentary weakness, she pushed away from the stall to rush to Donovan’s
side. She had just dropped to her knees when she heard a distressed cry from
behind her. Barely looking at the stable-boy, she smoothed Donovan’s black hair
from his temple and snapped, “Get Carstairs! Get Hemrick!  The earl has
been injured.”

Only
injured, she prayed soundlessly. “Please, God. Do not let him die.” She felt
the beat of his heart, the lift and fall of his chest.

“What
happened?” Carstairs demanded as he pushed his way through the crowd now
forming around the stall door. Isabeau wiped tears from her cheeks before
looking up at Donovan’s lieutenant. “King’s Champion must have kicked him.”

“Impossible,”
Carstairs barked. He looked around. “Where is Champion?”

“In
the next stall.”

“How
did Donovan get here then?” he demanded.

“He
was here. Champion was standing over him, when I found him.”

“Who
moved Champion?”

“I
had no choice. I could not leave him with Donovan.” Isabeau smoothed her hand
on Donovan’s hair cautiously avoiding the wound. “Where is Hemrick? Tell me he
will live.”

The
wiry surgeon elbowed Carstairs aside. “Of course, he will live, milady. The
earl has got the head of a rock. ‘Tis been conked offin' enough to prove it.
His own horse cannot dent it.”

Hemrick
carefully parted Donovan’s hair before putting a folded cloth over the wound.
“I have a right good hand at mendin’ bodies. He ‘ill be up and yellin’ his
displeasure soon enough.”

Even
as he offered his assurances, Donovan moaned and tried to lift his head.

“Isabeau?”
He groaned as he attempted to rise and failed. He dropped back down to the hay.

“I
am here, my lord.” She touched her fingers to his cheek. “Hemrick says you have
a thick skull. Praise God. Now, be still.”

Not
looking away from his face, Isabeau began to issue orders. “He will have to be
carried to his chamber. Carstairs, get two saddle blankets. Spread them next to
Donovan; one at his shoulders, one at his legs. Now, since he is awake, we can
roll him with his help.” When no one moved she glanced over her shoulder.
“Carstairs?”

“Milady?”
He stared at her with surprise.

“The
blankets?” she firmly reminded.

“Yes,
milady.” He looked toward the stable door and waved his hand. “Get a couple of
blankets.”

Isabeau
continued to smooth her hand along Donovan’s back. She knew she probably gained
more comfort than she gave but she could not stop. Maintaining the simple
contact soothed her nerves. Once the blankets were in place, she leaned over to
speak softly in his ear.    
         “We are going to roll you
onto the blankets. Do you have any other injuries?”

“Nay.”
His whisper warmed her cheek.

“Can
you help us?”

“I
am not a babe.” His grumpy complaint came out stronger and she was glad of it.

“Best
do as she says, my lord,” Carstairs advised, then added with a touch of humor.
“I have the feeling you would take the worst of it, if she angered.”

Isabeau
felt some of the tension leach from her shoulders. If Carstairs could find
amusement in the situation then it was not grave. She braced her hands against
Donovan’s side and nodded to both Hemrick and Carstairs. “Ready?  Roll.”

Donovan
groaned as he settled squarely on the blankets and she winced in sympathy.
  “Do you feel pain besides your head?” she asked.

“Is
that not enough?  Do you wish to cause more?”

Ignoring
his complaint, she checked the edges of the blankets before turning to
Carstairs. “He is a large man. We will need four or six men to carry him to his
bed.”

Carstairs
looked at the spectators and started pointing to largest men. “You, you, you,
and you. Do as the lady asks.”

“Hemrick,
what will you need?” Isabeau asked.

“Warm
water and clean cloths, milady,” Hemrick assured her. “I got the rest.”

“Have
care,” she ordered. “Ready?  Lift.”

The
maneuver went much smoother than she expected and she expelled a breath.
Donovan stirred as they reached the warmth of the sun. Jaffey nuzzled Donovan’s
trailing arm.