To the Lady Born (22 page)

Elizabeth gazed steadily at her, realizing that her initial impression of Amalie had been correct; she was beautiful, kind and intelligent.  Sutton had extolled the virtues of Weston’s wife to her but she did not truly believe him until now.  Anyone who would love her son so much instinctively had her trust and admiration.  She dare not hope for more than that, but something in Amalie’s manner gave Elizabeth comfort.

“What would you like to know?” Elizabeth asked softly.

Amalie regarded her carefully. “The truth,” she replied. “What happened between you, Weston’s father and Weston’s grandfather?”

Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows and averted her gaze, moving for one of the two finely covered chairs in the room.  As Colton leapt and slashed and ended up knocking over a small shovel used for the fireplace, Elizabeth suddenly seemed very old and very tired. She watched the little boy pick up the shovel and resume his fighting.

“Weston does not truly know all of it,” she murmured. “You were correct when you said that he remembers everything from a six year old child’s perspective.  He was too young to tell the truth.”

Amalie sat down in the chair opposite Elizabeth.  “Did you ever try?”

Elizabeth shook her head, looking at the hands in her lap. “Nay,” she replied. “He was too upset over his father’s death and his grandfather thought it would be best to send him to foster to help him forget.  But the problem was that Weston went away before I was able to speak to him about it and he ended up blaming me for everything.  I have never been able to convince him otherwise.”

“Then tell me the truth.  I want to understand.”

Elizabeth looked up from her hands.  “The truth is rather shocking.”

Amalie lifted an eyebrow. “Not any more shocking that what Weston has already told me.”

Elizabeth shrugged and looked to her hands again. “I was the only child of Hugh de Busli of Laughton Castle,” she said softly. “My ancestors arrived with William the Conqueror and my family history is distinguished.   When I in my youth, my father and I would visit Heston de Royans, as my father and Heston had served together under Henry the Third.”

Amalie interrupted softly. “Heston?”

Elizabeth nodded, smiling faintly. “Marston’s father and Weston’s grandfather.”

Amalie shook her head. “I understand that all of the de Royans men share names with the ‘ton’ ending.  Before Colton was born, Weston and I spent hours reviewing names that would follow that tradition. He would not consider anything else.”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “Well I know it,” she sobered. “There is a long line of de Royans men that bear that tradition; there was Newton, Eshton, Preston and so on.  You will see this on Weston’s written patins of lineage that he presents at the tournament today.”

Amalie chuckled, rolling her eyes. “I hope we do not have too many sons,” she said. “We will run out of names.  But forgive me; I interrupted you. Please continue.”

Elizabeth nodded, thinking on where to resume her story as Colton suddenly found something else of interest near the hearth and began chopping at it with his sword. Aubria was still fingering the glass figures.

“As I said, my father and Heston had served together under King Henry,” she went on.  “Although I did not know it at the time, my father and Heston were in negotiations to wed me to Marston.  Heston was not too terribly old at the time; I was around seventeen years of age when I first met him and he had seen forty three years.  He had been long widowed; Marston’s mother had died giving birth to Marston.  I remember thinking that Heston was very kind and very handsome, but not much beyond that.  Marston was in London at that time, serving in the king’s ranks.   When my father and Heston reached a contract between Marston and me, I was left behind at Netherghyll to await Marston’s return from London.”

Amalie regarded her for a moment. “Your father left you alone without a chaperone?”

Elizabeth nodded. “It was quite proper, I assure you,” she said. “For all intent and purposes, I was Marston’s wife, so it was quite acceptable.  Heston and I spent a great deal of time together, waiting for Marston to return from London so that we could be wed.  But the more time we spent together, the more we began to realize that we had feelings for each other.  Heston was a wonderful and generous man; in fact, the way you described Weston is the same way I would describe Heston.  I was horrified, of course, when I realize I had fallen in love with the man, more horrified and thrilled when he told me he loved me in return. We spent three blissful months together until Marston returned from London, and then….”

Amalie could see where the story was leading, or so she thought.  She was compassionate in her reply. “And then you had to marry him.”

Elizabeth nodded, smiling weakly. “I had no choice,” she whispered. “It broke my heart to have to marry the brash young knight, whom I did not know at all.  Heston stood stoically throughout the ceremony but his heart was breaking as well.  But we had no choice in the matter; either of us.  That night, Marston became drunk and… well, suffice it to say that the consummation was not as I had hoped. Marston was not the man his father was; he was rash, loud and powerful, but had little concept of compassion or feeling.  He hurt me that night and there Heston could do nothing about it except hold me and cry.  It was devastating for us both.”

Amalie gazed at the woman, feeling more sadness and pity than she had ever felt in her life.  She also felt a kindred spirit in Elizabeth, a woman brutalized on her wedding night.   Reaching out, she put her hand on Elizabeth’s tender wrist.

“I am so sorry,” she murmured. “But how did Marston’s death come about?”

Elizabeth seemed to grow more nervous. “Early on, it was clear that Marston wanted nothing to do with me,” she whispered. “Other than our wedding night, he made no effort to accomplish his husbandly duties. He would be gone for weeks at a time, returning for brief periods in between. I began to hear rumors of his mistresses and of de Royans bastards. Of course, Heston and I were deeply in love so I did not particularly care about Marston’s behavior.  He was not a wicked man; he simply did not want a wife.  I received all of the love and attention I could ever want from Heston. But then I became pregnant and everything changed.”

It took Amalie a moment to realize what she was saying.  Slowly, her eyebrows lifted. “Then Marston is not…?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Nay,” she murmured. “Heston is Weston’s father.”

Amalie tried not to appear too shocked. “And Sutton?”

“Heston’s also.”

Amalie took a deep breath, absorbing the information.  “And Weston does not know?”

“He never gave me the opportunity to tell him.  Sutton does not know, either.”

Amalie averted her gaze, digesting the news and struggling not to judge the woman or openly react.  “You said everything changed once you became pregnant,” she said. “What happened?”

Elizabeth wriggled her eyebrows and looked back to her hands. “Marston found out, of course,” she said. “I would not tell him who the father was and he beat me almost to death before Heston was able to intervene.  Heston almost killed his son but I stopped him.  After that, Marston became a bitter drunk; he would drink himself into oblivion daily and beat the servants habitually.  He would ride out into the countryside and we heard stories of him raping women and burning homes. Heston kept me safely protected or Marston would have surely beaten me as well, maybe worse.  This went on for months until Weston was born.  And then… when Weston was born, something in Marston changed again. He gazed at the baby, retreated to his solar, and we barely saw him anymore after that.  He spent his days drinking and sleeping.”

Amalie was coming to think she had gotten more than she had bargained for with the story. It was absolutely tragic, on so many levels. Elizabeth finally looked up from her hands, fixing her dark blue gaze on Amalie.

“Sutton was born a little more than a year after Weston,” she said softly. “Marston would come out of his solar on occasion and as the years progressed, he seemed to lose his hostility.  He clearly adored Weston and Sutton, like an older brother would. The boys adored him in return.   He stopped drinking and seemed ready to assume the mantle of an honorable man.  But he wanted the one thing from me that I could not give him; respect and obedience.  I was deeply in love with Heston and he, with me. Even though we were not married, he was my husband in my heart and spirit and body.  I would not leave Heston to assume a life with Marston. So one day, Marston went into his solar and fell upon his sword.  It was Weston and Sutton who found him there, dead.”

Amalie knew that part of the story and it was a horrible tale.  She could only stare at the woman, shaking her head with sorrow. “Weston said that when he told you of Marston’s death that you smiled,” she whispered. “He has never forgotten that.”

Elizabeth cocked her head faintly. “I do not believe I smiled,” she said thoughtfully. “In truth, I do not know what my reaction was other than to think that years of torment, for both Marston and I, were over. Marston was not, nor had he ever been, a happy man. But I was very sorry that Weston had to be the one to find Marston’s body.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that one day,” Amalie said, squeezing Elizabeth’s wrist. “If nothing else, tell him that.  He needs to hear it.”

Elizabeth nodded somewhat hesitantly, timidly putting her free hand over Amalie’s hand that clutched her wrist.   Amalie smiled at her.

“Please come with us to Keighley,” she begged softly. “I want you to come.”

Before Elizabeth could reply, Colton suddenly threw himself on his mother’s lap, whining for sweets.  Aubria, distracted from the glass, also came over to her mother and tried to climb up in her lap as well.   They were demanding attention, which wasn’t unusual, but this time they had cut Elizabeth’s reply short.

Amalie was in the process of explaining to the children that their behavior was rude when Weston appeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The children squealed when they saw their father and rushed to him.  Weston was weighed down in full battle armor, complete with weapons slung about his body, and he couldn’t pick up both children simply because of the bulk and sharp edges. But he did manage to collect Aubria, his dark blue eyes blazing at his wife.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded. “You were supposed to come to the bailey.”

Amalie stood up from the chair, disturbed by his sharp tone. “The children and I came to visit your mother,” she replied steadily.  “I have asked her to come with us to the tournament.”

Weston just stared at her as Aubria tried to get his attention and Colton whined at his feet.

“That is not your decision to make,” he told her. “Come with me now.”

Amalie grew defensive. But in that defensiveness was defiance. “Gladly,” she snapped, turning to Elizabeth. “Will you gather your cloak and attend us, Lady Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth looked startled and terrified.  Her gaze moved between Weston’s enraged features and Amalie’s lovely face.  Before she could reply, Weston barked again.

“If she is coming, then Sutton can bring her,” he grasped Colton’s little hand, noticing the sword in it.  His features slackened. “What is that?”

Amalie moved towards him. “It was your sword when you were a child,” she said, somewhat softer. “Your mother gave it to him. She has been saving it all this time.”

Weston stared at the sword, his jaw ticking furiously.  When Colton lifted it to show him, it was all he could do to fake a smile at his son. But he couldn’t say anything about it, not when the little toy brought back so many painful and wonderful memories.  He used to fight his father with the toy for hours on end, Marston always pretending to let him win.  He could still see Marston going through exaggerated death throes before falling in the dirt. The longer he stared at the dulled blade, the more powerful the emotions became until he finally looked away.

“Come along,” he said. “We must leave.”

He was out in the hall but Amalie wasn’t following; she was standing in the doorway. “But what about your mother?” she wanted to know. “Weston, I would like for her to come. Please?”

He paused to look at her, Colton in one hand and Aubria up in his arms. His jaw was still ticking.

“Not today,” he snapped softly.

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Please, Weston. Do not be unreasonable.  There is no reason why she cannot….”

“If you keep arguing, I will leave you behind as well.”

Amalie’s fury soared. Outraged, the extreme emotion surged her nausea again and she marched up on him, pulling Aubria from his arms. Snatching Colton’s little hand, she glared furiously at her husband before leading the children down the flight of stairs. Weston’s gaze lingered on her a moment before following.  He didn’t give his mother, standing in the doorway of her chamber, as much as a hind glance.

Amalie took the children outside but instead of heading towards the caravan now poised for departure in the bailey, she entered the keep. She began calling for Neilie, as the woman was older and did not travel well, and was therefore not attending the tournament.  By the time Amalie hit the third floor of the keep, Neilie appeared and took the children from her.  

With the children tended, Amalie continued to the fourth floor chamber she shared with Weston and slammed the door, throwing the bolt. Then she promptly went to the basin and proceeded to vomit up all of her breakfast.

Sick and heaving, she heard someone try the door latch. She knew it was Weston but she continued to heave until there was nothing left in her stomach. She could hear Weston knocking on the other side of the door.

“Go away, Weston,” she shouted, miserable and sick. “Go to your tournament and leave me alone. You are mean and insensitive and… and… cruel!”

She was still bent over the basin when the door suddenly exploded.  Weston came barreling through, crashing through the splintered wood and iron; he had kicked the door so hard that pieces of wood had literally flown all over the room. Momentum carried him to the other side of the chamber before he could regain his balance. 

One of the pieces from the flying door struck Amalie in the hand and she gasped as she pulled the knife-sharp shard.  Blood began to stream immediately.

Weston saw the blood right away, ripping off his helm and tossing it to the bed as he made his way to his wife. But his gesture had terrified Amalie and she tried to get up and run away from him, but ended up stumbling.  Cowering, she began to weep loudly as blood streamed down her arm.

Weston came to a halt when he saw how frightened she was.  His fury instantly abated and he put his hands to his face, wiping at it, struggling to compose himself.

“Ammy, I am sorry,” he said softly. “I did not mean to injure you.  Let me see your hand.”

Amalie yanked it away from him as he tried to grab it. “Why… why….,” she sobbed. “Why did you do that?”

He looked back at the remains of the door, realizing he had burst in like a mad man.  But he had been angry and disoriented and hadn’t thought on his actions. His jaw ticked heavily as he reached down to grasp her, pulling her up off the floor even as she wept and struggled.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I… I let my anger get the better of me. I should not have and I am sorry.”

He led her over to the bed but she was still trying to pull away from him. “Why did you do that?” she sobbed angrily. “What if I was standing by the door? You would have killed me!”

He was coming to feel very foolish, very disturbed. “I knew you were not standing by the door,” he told her. “I could hear you retching.”

She finally managed to pull away from him, stumbling onto the bed and holding up her bloodied arm up as if to defend herself from him. “I have never seen you do that.”

He sighed heavily, laboring for calm.  All he could do was shake his head. “I do not like being locked away from you,” was all he could say. “I will never be kept from you, not ever.”

“You frightened me.”

He could see that; her bloody arm was still up and she was leaning away from him in fear. Now he was coming to feel overwhelming pain.

“Do you truly need to be frightened of me, Ammy?” he asked softly. “Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever threatened to hurt you?”

She shook her head and the arm came down.  Then she fell on the bed, sobbing into the coverlet. Weston stood over her with his fists resting on his hips, feeling like the biggest lout in the world.  He did the only thing he could do; he lowered himself to his knees and took the non-bloody hand into his massive glove.

“I cannot apologize enough for frightening you,” he murmured, kissing the fingers. “I explained my reasons, weak as they are.  Please know that I am deeply sorry. I would sooner throw myself on my sword than hurt you in any way.”

She lay there and wept and he finally stood up, going to the basin and collecting a linen cloth that they used to dry their hands with.  He went back to the bed, wearily, and began to wipe the blood off her hand.  By the time he started to wrap it, she had stopped weeping and was gazing up at him with red-rimmed eyes. He kissed her hand as he wrapped it.

“You told me that you were going to leave me behind,” she sniffled. “Would you really?”

He puckered his lips contritely. “Nay,” he admitted. “I was angry.”

“But why? What did I do?”

“You did not come out to the bailey. I had to hunt you down. And then you pressed me about inviting my mother and it angered me.”

She was quiet as she watched him finish off the wrapping. “Do you realize that every time I come within close proximity of your mother, you bark at me as if you hate me as well?”

He didn’t say anything; he continued to hold her hand, staring at it, and she sat up.  Her free hand went to his face, stroking his cheek tenderly.

“You told me that you were not disturbed with my contact with your mother but it is clear that you are,” she said softly. “We never have harsh words but with the introduction of your mother, now we have. I do not like it.”

He grunted. “Nor do I,” he agreed.  “I do not know why I behave that way. I know you do not mean harm.  It has nothing to do with you. Every time I see my mother, I feel such rage. That is all I have ever known with her.”

Amalie gazed at him, thinking of the revelations his mother had told her.  She began to seriously doubt if he would ever ask his mother the truth of what had happened all of those years ago and she was fairly certain that if he ever found out she had withheld such information from him, it might damage the trust between them.  Although Amalie had promised Elizabeth she would not tell Weston, she didn’t think, in good conscience, that she could keep such monumental information from him.  He had a right to know.

“But that is not all you have ever known with me,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his neck.  He responded by enfolding her in his warm embrace, his face in the crook of her neck. “Please do not speak so harshly to me when I have done nothing to deserve it.”

He nodded, his lips against her collarbone. “I will not do it again, I swear it,” he murmured. “I am so sorry, Ammy. Please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you so.”

She hugged him tightly, ignoring the poking of the armor. “You are forgiven,” she kissed his cheek. “But I have something I must tell you. I must be honest.”

His face was still pressed into the crook of her neck. “What about?”

She sighed faintly. “Do you trust me, West?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he pulled back to look at her as if confused by the query. “What manner of question is that?”

“Please answer me.”

“Of course I do. I would trust you with my life.”

She put her hands on his cheeks, gazing into his amazing and handsome face.  “Given the dynamics of your family and your feelings towards your mother, I had a serious conversation with her,” she said softly. “I did it because I love you, West, and I am greatly concerned with your attitude towards her. I do not want you to be on edge for the rest of your life, living in the same keep with a woman that you hate.  It is not good for you, or for us.  You see what that hatred does even to you and I.  So I asked her to tell me the truth of what happened and she did. Will you hear me explain it to you?”

He looked at her, feeling the familiar anger rise, struggling to keep his composure by reminding himself that Amalie only asked out of love and concern.  Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely angry about it. He suspected she would sooner or later. He couldn’t think of a good reply so he simply kissed her and released her from his enormous embrace, rising to his feet.

“Perhaps someday,” he said quietly. “But not today. I have a tournament to focus on and I do not want to be distracted.”

She nodded. “I understand,” she murmured, climbing off the bed to stand next to him and unwrapping the careful wrap around her hand in the meantime. “But will you allow me to say one thing about it?”

“If you must.”

She grasped a huge glove, gazing up into his dark blue eyes. “Then I will say only this; you do not know the entire story and until you do, I would ask that you show at least some measure of consideration towards your mother.  Please, West; it is important.”

“I do not know if I can.”

“Can you do it for me? It would make me very happy.”

He sighed heavily and tried to avert his gaze but she would not let him.  She pressed herself against him and put her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her.

“Please, West,” she begged softly. “I know it is difficult. I know you do not want to.  But I would not ask if I did not feel strongly about it. I want you to show the woman the same consideration you would show any other noble-bred lady. Be polite; that is all I ask.”

He gazed down at her, a mixture of uncertainty and refusal on his face.  But she smiled at him and he could not resist; he nodded his head, once, but it was enough.  Amalie put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her level, kissing him on the cheeks sweetly.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I love you very much.”

He returned her kisses. “And I love you,” he whispered. “Now, can we go?”

She grinned, releasing him as he went over to the bed and collected his helm.  She watched him put it on his head and adjust it.

“Will you do something else for me?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her as he straightened out the helm. “What is it?”

“Ask your mother to come with us. I fear she will not come if I ask her.  She knows that you do not want her to attend so the invitation must come from you.”

He paused, gazing at her with big eyes as he geared up for an argument.  But he didn’t get very far; the expression on her face softened him, weakened him, and he knew it would be of no use to argue or refuse. It would only upset her and he didn’t want to see her upset. He’d already upset her enough. So he nodded in resignation.

“Very well,” he grunted.

She pointed at the shattered door.  “Go now,” she instructed steadily. “Ask her politely, please. The children and I will meet you in the bailey.”