To the Lady Born (5 page)

He was genuinely baffled, watching tears drip off her chin and suppressing the urge to wipe them away.

“Can you please tell me why you must do this?” he truly wanted to know. “It is my understanding that Sorrell severely abused you, but it was one time. It was not as if the abuse went on for weeks, day and night, and I apologize if my words sound callous, but for an isolated incident in a lifetime that has surely known grace and peace, I fail to see why it is pushing you to the brink of suicide. Perhaps if I understood that, I could help you.”

She looked at him with an expression of deep pain and deep indignity. “I have already asked you to help me but you would not do it.”

He stiffened slightly. “I will not help you kill yourself.”             

“Then you cannot help.”

Weston wasn’t sure what more he could say. His compassion and concern for the woman was deepening. He continued to watch her as she silently wept, noting that her hands were beginning to turn white from being extended above her head and that the wound to her wrist wasn’t bleeding badly at all. 

He also noticed that she was shivering, something that was growing more pronounced by the moment. Her lips began quivering and turning blue with cold, and her face was unnaturally pale. Now in the icy box of the vault, the cold was seeping in to her.

Eventually, she fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.  When the guard came back down the stairs, noisily, Weston rose to his feet and collected the blankets from the man, admonishing him to be quiet. The guard proceeded into the cell with a huge bale of musty hay and tossed it into the corner. Being winter, he brought what he could find as there was no fresh hay available. 

As the guard quit the cell, his questioning gaze lingered on the still form of the lady. There was curiosity and some interest there. Weston caught the man’s expression and he grabbed him by the neck.

“Do you know who I am?” he snarled.

The guard, wide-eyed, nodded. “De Royans, m’lord.”

Weston glared at the man for a moment, silently implying his rank and power, before letting him go.

“You will spread the word that Lady Amalie is to remain untouched,” he said. “Any infraction, no matter how small, will be lethally met. Is this clear?”

“It is, m’lord.”

“Good. Send for some food. I am famished.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

The guard was gone and Weston turned his attention back to the sleeping prisoner. She looked so pathetic strung up with chains and he was beginning to feel caddish for putting her in such a position. 

A gentle knight should have a better way to restrain the lady but all Weston could think of was brute strength. Lady Amalie was determined to harm herself and he was determined not to let her. It would reflect badly upon him. But maybe there was a small part of him that couldn’t stand the thought of wasting all that beauty. She had been right - he might not have shown such regard had she not been so incredibly beautiful.

Weston crouched beside her as she slept uncomfortably. He could see that her hands were turning from white to an odd shade of gray and she was shivering uncontrollably.  It was freezing in the vault but he didn’t particularly notice; a body his size gave off a tremendous amount of heat.

He rose to his feet and made his way outside the cell to the keys hung on a big iron nail near the stairs.  Collecting a key, he went back into the cell and very carefully unlocked one of the shackles on Amalie’s wrist. He grabbed her arm before it could flop down, gently lowering it and supporting her limp body as he unlocked the other. 

Surprisingly, she didn’t awaken but he was expecting her to at any moment with the intention of putting his eye out. She remained limp as he gently scooped her up in his powerful arms and took her over to the pile of musty hay that was strewn with dirty blankets.

Weston lay her down upon the dusty blankets, studying her features now that she was at peace; it only served to reinforce his opinion that she was a magnificent beauty. Concern and knightly interest was beginning to transform into something deeper; he could feel it beginning to blossom. When it should have repulsed him, he found that he couldn’t muster the strength to resist. He rather liked the feeling he had when he looked at her.

Taking a second dusty blanket, he realized it was very rough and a quick examination showed it to be a horse blanket.  It smelled like mold. Making a face of disapproval, he checked the third and last blanket and saw that it was worse than the others. So he took what he had and gently draped it over her, carefully tucking it in around her slender body. He pulled it up over her ears, half-covering her face, hoping she would warm up and calm down now that she was asleep. Maybe the morning would bring a woman returned to her senses.

Weston sank down on his buttocks, hovering at the edge of the hay as he watched the lady sleep. All the while, his mind was whirling with thoughts and ideas on what he was going to do with her should she wake in the morning and resume her attempts to take her life. He honestly couldn’t fathom what would drive the woman, or anyone for that matter, to such lengths.

Weston had spent his entire life in some manner of battle or warfare mode, in a manner in which he was always attempting to protect his life. To willfully attempt to take one’s own life had him troubled; it was against God’s command and against the understood code of honor. It was the act of a coward.

Deep down, however, he understood suicide better than most although it was something he pretended didn’t exist in his thoughts. Even when the soft river of memory began to flow through his mind, he angrily dammed the flow, unwilling to allow it to flood his mind. But flood it did - before he could stop the tide, he remembered his father, the strong and powerful knight who had taken his own life when Weston’s mother had run off with Weston’s own grandfather. It was a hideous black mark on the family honor, an honor that had meant a great deal to Weston’s father. The man couldn’t accept that his wife had left him for his own father. 

Weston had been six years old at the time but he still remembered the shock of that dark and horrible night.  To think of it again sickened him and he shook his head as if to shake off the terrible memories, struggling to dry up the river of memories. He didn’t want to relive it.

Maybe that’s why he was baffled by the lady’s attempts to take her own life. He’d never understood that kind of torment, something that would drive one to destroy God’s greatest gift. He couldn’t tolerate weakness, not when he’d dealt with such family drama that he’d spent the past fifteen years struggling to rebuild the good de Royans name.

As he gazed at the shivering and sleeping lady, he knew he wasn’t going to let this woman put a blemish on the reputation he’d worked so hard to achieve. He wouldn’t let her damage the de Royans’s name like his father and grandfather had.

As Weston pondered both the dilemma and his determination, he gradually came to realize that the lady was quivering violently in spite of the blankets. He rather hoped he would be able to leave her at some point and settle himself in to Hedingham, but as he watched her shiver and shake, he knew he couldn’t just leave her that way. The blankets weren’t doing any good and he couldn’t build a fire.  So he used the next best thing; his substantial body heat.

It was all very practical and innocent. Carefully, he moved his enormous body next to the lady and silently lay down next to her.  She was wrapped up in the horse blanket as he settled against her and carefully put his arms around her, pulling her against him. 

He could feel her cold face through his tunic so he pulled her tighter, hoping to warm her somewhat.  But what he didn’t bank on was the fact that he liked the feel of her against him; burrowed in the blanket as she was, there was a significant barrier between their bodies so, in theory, he shouldn’t have been able to even feel her. But he did. He wasn’t sure how, but he did. And he liked it.  Without realizing it, he pulled her closer.

It wasn’t much of a movement but it was apparently enough. His pleasant thoughts of the beautiful lady were his last as Amalie opened her eyes and realized that he was holding her in a very intimate position. 

Before Weston could draw another breath, Amalie howled with terror and her cold hands shot up through the blanket, emerging somewhere near her neck and catching him right in the face. Weston grunted as his head snapped back and stars burst before his eyes as the lady’s fists made contact with his nose. 

It was enough of a jolt that he lost his grip on her and she bolted from his arms. As he sat up, wiping the trickle of blood from his nose, he watched in astonishment as Amalie literally tried to climb the walls in her attempt to get away from him. But there was nowhere for her to go so he sat on the straw, watching her try to claw her way out of a stone wall, so much panic in her movements that it was truly an astonishing and horrible sight.

Weston didn’t move to comfort her because she was like a wild animal and he knew that any attempts from him would only fuel her panic.  So he sat back, silent and still as stone, until she exhausted herself.

Eventually, she crumpled into a corner in a heap of frantic breathing, and that was where she remained until she gradually fell into a fitful sleep. Or perhaps she passed out; Weston couldn’t be sure. Either way, Weston didn’t even try to cover her with the blanket. He was afraid it would set her off again. So he continued to sit there and watch her, shocked at her behavior. He’d never seen anything like it.

Well after midnight, he left the cell and locked her in, returning through the snowy bailey to the keep where he found Esma and Neilie sleeping in a small alcove in Amalie’s dark, warm room.  He woke the women, explained the situation, and sent them down to the vault with blankets and furs.

Weston wisely surmised that he was past the point of no return in his attempts to comfort Lady Amalie, so he sent her familiar women to her aid. He was genuinely sorry that he’d not been able to ease the situation with Amalie; he sincerely would have liked to. Whatever was on the lady’s mind, whatever she was going through, he was unable to make a difference.

But in the same breath, he wasn’t about to give up.  Perhaps this was an opportunity to do for her what he couldn’t do for his father; perhaps he could show her that taking her life was not the answer to her troubles. Perhaps this was a battle he could win.

He had no idea the confrontation he was in for.

CHAPTER FIVE

He was always around.

Five days since Weston de Royans had taken command of Hedingham Castle, Amalie found that she couldn’t draw a breath without the man being near to hear it.

Esma and Neilie were always with her, too; she was positive it was because de Royans had commanded it.  Although she’d known the women since birth and they were always very conscientious, the lengths they were going to in making sure one or both of them was always by her side were too attentive to not be suspicious.

They were close enough to notice that she wasn’t feeling well physically as well as mentally.  As the days passed and her health declined, so did the desire to throw herself from the battlements. Amalie had always been a strong and practical woman and her behavior as of late had been uncharacteristic, borne from desperation more than anything else.

The truth was that she didn’t want to die, not really. But the sentence she was facing as a result of that horrible night was becoming increasingly apparent, at least to her. More than anything, now she was simply feeling numb. Numb and sick.

The sixth day of de Royans’s command, Amalie awoke late into the morning, having spent a restless night with vivid dreams. Burrowed deep in her warm, cozy bed, she opened her eyes to see that the room was fairly light, giving a hint of the late morning hour. It was quiet, bright and peaceful and she lay there a moment, settling her mind. It was like days of old, before the chaos of Bolingbroke.  She almost felt happy again as the peace of the morning settled.

Rolling on to her side, she was immediately struck with a wave of nausea and suffered through a few dry heaves. The brief happiness she had felt only moments earlier was gone as reality washed it away. As she lay there, panting and struggling to overcome the nausea, Esma quietly entered the chamber with warm water and other implements in her hands. Amalie covered her face with a pillow so Esma wouldn’t see her misery.

Esma saw her lady moving about and immediately set to helping her rise. As she chatted about the fact that the clouds had gone, leaving a bright, white winter wonderland outside, she pulled back the oilcloth from the windows to allow fresh air and light into the room. Then she went to the wardrobe to select the lady’s clothes for the day. It was all Amalie could do to sit up in bed without retching again as the old servant went about her duties and chatted.

Ignoring the woman as she began to pull out garments, Amalie made her way to one of the long lancet windows, gazing out over the brilliant white landscape.  She drew in a few deep breaths, clearing her mind and fighting down the nausea. By this time, Esma had her garments and her toilette laid out, and Amalie sat down as she had a thousand times before as Esma prepared her for the day.

Dressed in a heavy white lamb’s wool sheath and a heavy, soft crimson brocade surcoat, she was warm and fortified against the chill weather.  Esma took her long, straight blond hair and brushed it vigorously, bringing out the natural shine and softness.  From the nape of her neck, she braided a section of hair into a long rope and wrapped that around Amalie’s head a couple of times, pulling her hair away from her face and creating a lovely halo of hair around her head. 

Anchoring the braid behind both ears with small tortoise shell hair pins, she rosied-up Amalie’s pale complexion by vigorously scrubbing her cheeks with warm water and finely crushed apricot seeds, an old family recipe.  Amalie had porcelain skin, soft and smooth, now with a rosy scrubbed appearance. The end result was beautiful.

Depressed and ill-feeling though she might be, Amalie looked like an angel. The façade masked the turmoil beneath and it was the first time she’d allowed herself to be groomed in weeks. Whilst hiding out from Sorrell, she’d lived like an animal in dark rooms and tunnels. There hadn’t been any semblance of civility. 

With de Royans’s appearance, there was no need to cower in the dark.  He had promised safety and since his arrival, he’d delivered. She was starting to emerge from the black and horrific state. But the gnawing fear still lingered.

“Do you feel like sitting in the solar today, m’lady?” Esma asked her as she put away the hair brush and comb in the enormous old wardrobe used by generations of de Vere women; it had carvings of angels scratched into the doors. “You have not worked on the gown you have been preparing for Lady Cecily’s wedding. Would you like to work on that today?”

Amalie could tell by the tone of Esma’s voice that she was trying to force her back into a sense of normalcy.  She appreciated the attempt but was disinclined to show an enthusiastic response. Instead, she sighed faintly.

“I do not believe that shall be necessary,” she said quietly. “I am quite sure that I am no longer to be invited to the nuptials.  My brother’s flight has left me a social outcast.”

Esma tried not to agree, even if it was the truth. “But Lady Cecily has been your friend since you were both small girls,” she insisted. “She has been adamant that you attend her wedding.”

Amalie rose from the stool she had been perched on. “And her father is equally adamant that a disgraced de Vere be excluded.” She put her hand on the woman’s arm when she opened her mouth to protest. “Have no fear; I shall finish the embroidery on the dress and send it to Cece as my gift. Even if I cannot attend the wedding, I will still send her my love.”

Esma smiled sadly, watching Amalie pace towards the lancet window again.  “I’ll take you down to the solar now, m’lady,” she said in a tone that was hopefully encouraging Amalie to leave her chamber. “Neilie and I will bring your meal to you.”

Amalie waved her off. “Nay,” she shook her head. “No food; not right now. I think… I think I might like to take a walk. The sun is shining and the land is wintery white.  ‘Tis quite lovely outside.”

Esma murmured softly, “You always did like the snow, Ammy.”

Amalie cast a glance at the woman, grinning weakly at the sound of her nickname that had been given to her at a young age. It made her feel safe and comforted in troubled times.  It brought back memories of days when her life had been carefree and easy.

“Where is Owyn?” she asked. “He can escort me for my walk.”

She spoke of the young soldier who had risked his life to protect her from Sorrell; he was the only man she trusted, de Royans included.  But Esma shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ve not seen him in a few days, m’lady,” she said. “But I will send someone to find him.”             

Amalie came away from the window. “Nay,” she said pointedly. “You find him.”

Esma was torn; de Royans had given her strict orders never to leave the lady alone. “Forgive me, m’lady,” she suddenly rubbed at her knee. “My old knees have been paining me. It would be faster if I sent someone else to find Owyn.”

Amalie wasn’t fooled; she lifted her hand as if to ease the woman’s mind. “Have no fear, Es,” she said softly. “I will be fine. Please do as I ask.”

“But….”

“Go,” Amalie cut her off, adding softly. “Please. I promise I will be safe and whole when you return.”

Esma nearly refused again but thought better of it; she wasn’t in the habit of doubting her mistress’ word.  So she nodded in resignation and quietly left the room. Her behavior was all an act; once she cleared the door, she took the stairs in a panic. Finding Owyn wasn’t her objective; finding de Royans was.

It was bright and chilly outside as she rushed through the half-frozen muddy lake of the lower bailey in her hunt for the commander. The old woman asked a couple of soldiers if they knew where de Royans was and they directed her to the small chapel near the outerwall. De Royans was known to pray daily and she did not want to interrupt him, but she felt that she must. She asked a soldier to enter the chapel and bring forth the commander.  It wasn’t long before de Royans’s appeared.

He emerged from the small, crescent-shaped chapel with two of his knights in tow. Dressed in a tunic, breeches and boots against the cold, he looked half-dressed and fairly out of place among the heavily armored knights.  Esma watched, twisting her hands nervously, as he sent his knights along their way and made his way down to her.

He was such a big man that the old woman shrank back as he approached. She was positive the ground shook when he walked as the mud sloshed under his enormous boots. Weston came upon her, concern on his face.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “Who is with Lady Amalie?”

Esma looked as if she was about to cry. “She awoke in good spirits this morning, m’lord,” the old woman told him. “She is dressed and says she wants to go for a walk. She sent me to find Owyn to escort her.”

He digested her words. “I will therefore ask the question again; who is with her right now?”

Esma was guilty and anxious. “No one, m’lord,” she said. “She sent me away. She would not let me send someone else for Owyn.”

“You left her alone?”

“I did, m’lord. She forced me to.”

Weston’s jaw ticked as he brushed past the old woman on his way to the keep. By the time he got half-way across the bailey, he was running.

***

Alone for the first time in days, Amalie felt some relief. She also felt a distinct sense of freedom. She returned to the lancet window for a few minutes, enjoying the limited view she had of the snowy landscape, before deciding she was feeling well enough, and brave enough, to venture from her chamber unescorted. 

She didn’t need to wait for the young soldier; she’d been traversing Hedingham’s massive keep all her life and was rather disgusted to realize how fearful she was to maintain that familiarity.  Gathering her cloak, a heavy fur-lined garment with great slits cut out for her arms, she slipped it on as she quit the chamber.

Amalie mounted the narrow spiral stairs that led to the roof of the keep. She shoved back the heavy door, dumping some snow onto her, but the hatch had apparently been cleared by the servants so it wasn’t particularly heavy or dirty. As soon as she stepped out onto the wooden roof, she was hit by not only the brilliant sunshine, but also the brisk temperature.  It was glorious. 

Taking a deep breath, she felt contentment for the first time in weeks but the despondency that had caused her suicidal behavior was still there, still weighing heavy.  Pulling her cloak tightly about her, she was comfortable as she stood in the cool sunshine, gazing out over the Essex countryside.

She lost track of time as she stood there, lost in thought, trying to reconcile the events of the past several weeks. Somehow it was easier to absorb everything in the brightness of the new day. She couldn’t easily think of that horrible event or of the weeks that followed, but she could clearly think of the day Weston de Royans arrived and saved her twice from taking her own life. 

She hadn’t thought much about the man since that night in the vault other than when he was following her around although pretending that he wasn’t. Her prevalent thought of the man was that he was indeed handsome with his blond comely looks and his big, muscular frame, but beyond that, she couldn’t and wouldn’t think of anything else. De Royans was here to execute his orders and nothing more.

“Lady Amalie?”

A soft, deep voice started her from her thoughts and she turned to see de Royans standing behind her.  In the brilliant sun, she had to take a second look at the man; she’d only seen him in the dark, or in the snow, or otherwise shadowed. She had to admit that her reaction was one of approval - he was dressed simply in breeches, heavy boots and tunic, and little more.  Odd for most knights, he wasn’t clad in layers of mail or protection. His dark blond hair was cropped close, glistening flecks of gold in the sunlight, and the dark blue eyes were intense.  In truth, she’d never seen such a handsome man. He looked like a god.

“Sir Weston,” she greeted, pulling her cloak more tightly about her in a subconscious move of self-preservation. “How my I help you?”

Weston was staring at her far more than he should have; groomed appropriately, she looked absolutely delicious. He’d been watching her for days, purely out of duty, but he had to admit he liked looking at her. 

He’d been preoccupied with his tasks associated with commander of Hedingham but as the days passed, he came to realize that he awoke every morning with Lady Amalie on his mind.  That thought weighed more heavily as the days passed and now, as he gazed at her in the brilliant new morning, he was starting to think he was insane - insane because this woman, this distraught, crazed woman, was starting to mean something more to him than a mere captive.

After a long pause, he answered her question.  “Aye, my lady,” he replied. “There is something you can do for me. You can escort me on a walk.”

Amalie looked at him, her big green eyes absorbing his statement. When it occurred to her that Esma ran straight for de Royans and not Owyn as requested, she lifted an eyebrow.

“I am sure you are quite capable of walking by yourself,” she told him. “I have requested another escort.”

Weston just looked at her. Then, he chuckled softly, ironically, his big white grin and dimpled cheeks causing Amalie’s heart to leap strangely.

“My lady, I understand that you are more comfortable with Owyn, but you must understand that the man has other duties that do not include you,” he said. “Therefore, I would be honored if you would accompany me on my walk.”