To the Lady Born (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Startled, Weston burst through the brush as the woman’s blond head went under the water. His first instinct was to go in after her but he knew, with his armor, he would sink straight to the bottom and drown. 

He began shouting for his men as he yanked off his helm and tossed it to the ground, followed by his tunic.  Pieces of plate armor began flying off and he broke several fastens in his attempt to quickly remove it. By the time he reached his hauberk, Heath was by his side and Weston bellowed at the man to pull on his mail.  Heath, confused and concerned, did as he was told as Weston bent over by the waist and extended his arms. Heath pulled the mail coat off smoothly, leaving Weston clad in his heavy tunics, hose and boots. 

Weston was still overdressed but couldn’t waste more time removing the rest of his clothing. Time was passing and the lady’s life was draining away the longer he delayed. As Heath watched in shock, Weston dove into the half-frozen pond and disappeared beneath the surface.  John joined Heath at the water’s edge, along with several men at arms, and they watched with apprehension as the ripples in the pond stilled and the surface began to smooth over. There was no sign of Weston and John turned to Heath, his round face full of horror.

“What happened?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

Heath, his brown eyes full of concern, pointed to the water. “Under there.”

“Why?”

Heath shook his head. “I do not know,” he pulled off his helmet when, seconds later, Weston had not reappeared. “He must need help.”

Heath began to rip his tunic and plate armor off, falling over when he lost his balance in the process. John, unwilling to wait to disrobe, was already walking into the pond. He had no idea what had happened to Weston other than he was underwater and he was terrified that Weston was drowning.  Before he could get too far, Heath grabbed him and yanked him back onto the snowy shore.

“No,” he roared. “You fat ox, you’ll sink to the bottom with all of that steel on your body. Think, you idiot!”

Anger added to the mix as John shoved at Heath, sending the man toppling over into the frigid water. Just as Heath righted himself and balled a fist to shove into John’s face, Weston abruptly broke the surface of the water. But he wasn’t alone.

“Take her!” he bellowed.

He was lifting a woman up in his enormous arms, keeping her head out of the water. Heath thrust himself forward, grabbing the lady from his liege as Weston struggled to move; his limbs were nearly frozen and he was having great difficulty moving his arms and legs. Heath, mired down in mud that had his boots wedged in, handed the lady off to John who managed to climb out of the lake with the limp lady in his arms.

“Blankets!” Weston roared as Heath reached out to help him. “Get blankets and wrap her up before she freezes to death.”

The men at arms went on the run as John grabbed the nearest dry piece of clothing he could find, Weston’s tunic, and struggled to wrap the lady up in it. His hands were freezing, too. Meanwhile, Heath pulled his half-frozen liege out of the pond.

Steam rose into the air from Weston’s enormous body as he gave off heat against the frigid air temperature. He stumbled out of the pond and over to John, who had managed to wrap the woman up tightly in the heavy woolen tunic bearing the blue and yellow colors of Bolingbroke. A couple of the men at arms suddenly burst through the snowy bramble; one had a giant horse blanket and the other one had a woolen tarp. Weston grabbed the horse blanket.

“Pick her up,” he commanded John.

The knight obeyed, collecting the woman into his arms as Weston took the dusty horse blanket and wrapped the lady up in it. Nearly frozen himself, he didn’t react when Heath tossed the woolen tarp over his shoulders; he was more concerned about the lady. Her face was gray, eyes closed, and he cocked an ear over her mouth to see if she was even breathing. After several long seconds, he could feel faint breath, hot and sweet, against his ear.

Exhausted, freezing, he began to stumble towards the keep with the lady in his arms.

“Go to the keep and tell them to fill a tub with warm water,” he commanded his men, his blue lips quivering against the cold. “Find out if they know who she is.”

Heath bolted towards the keep while John stayed with Weston, carrying the precious cargo towards the towering keep of Hedingham. They made quite a procession marching through the increasing snow, struggling up the slippery path up the motte before finally mounting the snowy, slippery wooden staircase that led to the second floor level. It was the entry level and a blast of stale, heated air hit Weston in the face the moment he entered the door.

A cavernous hall opened up before him, two stories tall. Great Norman arches lined the hall as they supported a minstrel gallery on the second floor above. Weston charged into the room as servants began to rush towards him, and somewhere in the middle of it, Heath was shouting orders to the servants who were overwhelmed with what was happening. Two older women, both in tight wimples that nearly strangled them, pushed forward in the midst of the chaos.

“Lady Amalie!” one woman cried, reaching out to touch the pale, gray face. Feeling that it was like ice, she drew her hand back in shock. “She is dead!”

Weston pushed through them even though he had no idea where he was going. “She is not dead,” he snapped. “I ordered a hot tub. Where is it?”

The other servant woman began pointing toward the alcove that housed the narrow spiral stairs. “This way, m’lord,” she was practically jumping up and down as she attempted to lead the way. “Bring her this way.”

Weston charged after the woman with Heath, John and two men at arms following him. The group entered the small, dark alcove and he followed the serving woman up the slippery, narrow steps, trying not to smack the unconscious lady’s head on the wall in the process. With his bulk, stairs such as this were difficult enough without the added awkwardness of carrying a limp body.

It wasn’t an easy trip. The third floor contained the minstrel gallery so they were forced to take the treacherous stairs to the fourth floor of the keep. They spilled out into a small corridor that had two doors; one immediately to the left and one further down the hall.  The flighty servant indicated the far door and Weston proceeded in.

The room was spacious and warm, with a roaring fire in the hearth and furs on the bed and cold wood floor.  It was a room that suggested the wealth of the de Veres, something not lost on Weston. He paused in the middle of the room as several servants finished hurriedly finished filling a big copper tub near the hearth.

It was only partially filled with steaming water but Weston didn’t want to wait. He lay the lady down on the big, fur-covered bed and began unwinding her from the horse blanket and tunic.

“Who is this?” he demanded from the serving women assisting him.

The younger of the pair, a woman with crinkled skin and missing teeth, spoke as she unwound the horse blanket from the lady’s feet.

“The Lady Amalie de Vere,” she told him. “She is the earl’s sister.”

Weston pulled the horse blanked free and tossed it back to one of his men at arms. His gaze moved to the unconscious woman’s features, puzzlement registering on his face. She was absolutely exquisite, even gray and wet. Her face was sweet, with a gently pouting mouth and long-lashed eyes that were closed and still. As he continued to gaze at her, he felt something stir within his heart that he couldn’t begin to describe - there was interest there, delight, and utter fascination. But there was also great confusion.

Not wanting to make a fool out of himself by staring at the woman, he pulled off the tunic with the help of the two women.

“She is nearly frozen,” he said as he lifted her off the bed and turned for the heated tub. “She must be warmed immediately.”

He laid her in the tub as servants continued to pour hot water into the mix. Weston was freezing, too, but at the moment he was more concerned with the lady. His knightly sense of chivalry was more important than his health at the moment but one of the two female servants, the plump one, brushed against him and noticed.

“M’lord,” she had a hand on his muscular forearm. “You are nearly frozen yourself.”

She began to shout commands to the men who were bringing buckets of water into the room, demanding warmed wine and blankets. Weston tried to wave her off but as he opened his mouth to do so, the lady in the water came alive.

Great gasps came forth and her eyes flew open. She began thrashing violently, as if trying to swim or save her life as the last thing she remembered, the icy grip of the lake, closed in around her. A hand flew up and caught Weston in the mouth, driving his teeth into his lip and bringing blood. Weston put his enormous hands on Amalie’s shoulders and tried to steady her.

“You are safe, my lady,” he said steadily, trying to break through her haze of fear. “You need not fear; you are safe.”

Amalie gradually became lucid, realizing she was in her chamber with a few familiar faces. The haze was clearing yet her panic was not eased; there was so much fear and distress in her heart that nothing could soothe her. Adding to the fear was the square-jawed, enormous man hovering over her that she did not recognize. She began to fight viciously.

“Nay!” she cried, struggling to climb out of the tub. “Leave me alone!”

Weston had her in an iron grip. “Be at ease, lady,” he assured calmly. “No one will hurt you. You are safe.”

Her panic was expelling itself in harsh little pants; it was as if she did not understand his words.  Weston caught Heath’s wide-eyed expression over the top of the lady’s head and he jerked his head in the direction of the door, silently ordering the man to vacate. Heath took the hint and ushered the men at arms out as he went. The younger of the serving women slammed the door behind the unfamiliar knights, racing back to her position next to the tub as Amalie struggled to climb out.

“Ammy,” she put her rough hands on Amalie’s face, forcing her to look at her. “Look at me, lamb; you are safe, I promise you. This knight… he brought you here. He rescued you.”

Amalie’s green eyes were wide on the serving woman but at least she was calming. Weston was relieved. But his relief was short-lived as the woman suddenly began to weep.

“Nay,” she breathed, her lovely face crumpling. “Nay… I …I….”

She dissolved into distraught tears.  By this time, she had stopped struggling and Weston removed his big hands from her shoulders when he was sure she wasn’t going to bolt from the tub. He stood unsteadily, shaking because he was still soaking wet and nearly frozen, but his gaze never left Amalie and he had no idea why. As the plump servant tried in vain to comfort the lady, the other serving women went to Weston and gently grabbed a cold elbow.

“Come and stand by the fire, m’lord,” she encouraged. “You are nearly frozen. Come and be warmed.”

He did as he was told but his eyes remained on the woman in the hot tub, weeping as if her heart was broken.  His confusion grew.

“Who is she?”

The servant was trying to wring the water out of his sleeve. “The Lady Amalie de Vere,” she said, realizing she wasn’t doing any good with his wet clothing. “She is the earl’s sister.”

Weston regarded the lady a moment; he still wasn’t sure what he was feeling at the moment because the lady was so overwhelmingly beautiful that he couldn’t seem to feel anything other than complete fascination. The serving woman jolted him from his thoughts.

“May I take your wet clothing, m’lord?” she asked. “You must change into something dry before you catch your death of chill.”

Weston was still gazing at the weeping lady as he pulled off his wet tunic with the automatic response of a child responding to his mother’s command.  He handed the woman the heavily padded tunic, exposing his magnificent torso to the weak light of the room. He was brilliantly muscular with a thick neck and shoulders, enormously big arms and chest.  His waist was narrow, disappearing beneath his leather breeches.

But the old serving woman didn’t notice; she was more concerned with drying out the sopping tunic. There was a soft knock at the door and one of the male servants appeared with two cups of steaming wine in hand. The old serving woman took it from him and closed the door once more. She handed one of the cups to Weston, which he accepted gratefully.

“What is your name?” he asked the woman.

“Esma, m’lord,” the women replied, then indicated her counterpart still kneeling by the tub comforting the sobbing lady. “My sister, Neilie.”

Weston sipped the hot wine, still staring at the lady in the tub. “Why would Lady Amalie throw herself into the lake?”

Esma’s wrinkled eyes widened with shock. “She… she threw herself into the lake?”

Weston nodded. “I watched her,” he said frankly. “She removed her cloak and jumped in. Naturally, I went after her. I could not stand by and watch her drown.”

Esma’s astonished gaze moved to the lady in the tub. “’Tis not true,” she gasped. “You must be mistaken, m’lord.”

“I am never mistaken.”

The servant didn’t argue with him; his statement left no room for doubt. More troubling than that, she believed him. She blinked rapidly as if blinking back tears.