A Lily on the Heath 4 (36 page)

But Judith would have none of her evasion, and when she did not respond other than slamming down a metal goblet on the table, Tabatha turned slowly. She held the fur blanket in a bundle protectively against her middle as she looked at her mistress. Then, drawing in a deep breath, she exhaled and said, “I do not know much, my lady. Truly. Other than what Nevril has told me.”

“And so it is Nevril now—no longer Sir Rabbit Stew?” Judith’s tones were sharper than usual. Knowing she was in a bad temper did little to alleviate it, for after meeting Violet, she had spent much of the day stewing about the situation and the mood had settled over her like a heavy cloud.

“Aye,” replied Tabby. Her eyes were downcast and her cheeks flushed pink. “He has asked me to wed him….”

“A man of war? A man in chain mail? Surely you set him on the right path and told him nay.” Judith heard how brittle her voice was, but at the moment, she simply couldn’t care. She was empty, bereft, confused.

“Uhm….” Tabatha was silent for a moment, then she turned. “I agreed. To wed him.”

“Indeed. And when were you going to approach me on this subject? Or was this meant to be yet another secret kept from me?”
 

Tabby shook her head, misery in every element of her posture. “Ah, my lady. ’Twas only just this morrow that he asked me. And then…everything happened. Now he fears you will not allow us to wed, and you will send everyone from Warwick away.”

Judith hmphed. The thought had indeed crossed her mind during the fit of rage that caught her up some time ago. But of course that was not practical. Nor was it necessary. Still. Once roused, she had a temper to match her flaming hair, and Nevril was right to be wary of her—at the least until her husband was there to bear the brunt of her fury, hurt and confusion.

Would he never return?

“What do you know of Violet? Why is she here? And why was her presence and identity kept from me?”

The maid snapped the fur covering over the bed and watched it settle into place. “Lord Malcolm sent her here, to be away from Warwick. He commanded that she be kept from your sight and out of your way. I do not know why, my lady,” Tabby added quickly as Judith opened her mouth to speak. “I truly do not.”

“I do not understand,” Judith fumed. “He has never spoken to me of a daughter—or of any child.” She recalled asking him, that very first night they’d spoken in the bailey at Clarendon. He’d never answered her.

Then a thought struck her, slightly easing her concern. She looked at Tabatha. “Is Violet his legitimate daughter?” If she had been born out of wedlock, that could explain why Mal hadn’t told her, and why he would have little to do with Violet. Many men did little more than acknowledge their natural children.

“Aye, she is the daughter of Lord Malcolm and Lady Sarah. The only child of their issue.”

Judith’s heart fell.
He never told me of her. Why did he never tell me?
 

Was he ashamed of Violet? Of the simple little girl who could never be a great lady? Did he simply mean to ignore her existence because she would never be more than a gentle, childish girl? Though it did not seem like the Malcolm she’d come to know, Judith was well aware of the import men set upon their heirs. Particularly sons.

One thing was certain. She was not about to neglect the girl as much as her father appeared to have done. Whether Mal liked it or not, Violet was a lady of Warwick.

~*~

At last. By God, at last
Mal could return to his wife.

The disease that filtered through Warwick had died away, in the end killing fifteen cows and bulls as well as six people, though several more had been infected. But there had been no new instances of the illness for over a se’ennight, and that was enough to give Mal the confidence to leave.
 

Back to Lilyfare. Back to Judith.
Back to Violet.
The rhythm of those thoughts, which he’d done his best to bury since arriving at Warwick, settled in his mind as he rode along. He felt a combination of trepidation and anticipation at seeing his wife again. But, by the rood, it had been well over two months since he’d touched her—and as he’d had no word from her otherwise, he must assume she was not with child.

Malcolm could not summon even a bit of disappointment over that conclusion, for that only meant he must try again. And she could not deny him that, tears or no tears.

At the least, that was what he told himself.

Malcolm pressed his party of men-at-arms to travel as quickly as possible. They had more than a day’s journey to Delbring, where they could take succor for the night, and then another half day to Lilyfare.

But Mal did not wish to delay even for a night of sleep on a soft pallet at Delbring. They would push on and rest for some short hours beneath the stars, well past Lady Beatrice’s estate, which would bring them to Lilyfare before the midday meal on the second day.

Yet the best-laid plans are oft disrupted, as Malcolm well knew, and later on when they were not far from Delbring they spied a fast-riding messenger bearing the standard of that estate.

“Ho there!”

Malcolm’s group paused when they were hailed by the Delbring messenger, a man-at-arms who was well-known to them. “Lord Warwick, greetings!” said Sir Gilard.

“Where do you go in such a hurry?” Malcolm asked, even as he eyed the sun’s distance from the horizon. Eight hours and he would be at Lilyfare…and in his wife’s bed. Just after midnight, but well before dawn.

Once there, he had no intention of leaving the chamber until the noon meal.

“I am come with a message to you, my lord. From Lord Bruse of Delbring.”

“Then deliver it, man, for we travel hard and fast,” Malcolm told him.

“Lord Bruse sends word of a plague that is spreading through our cattle. One of our villagers has taken ill as well, with the same red-orange spots that afflicted the cows. He is fearful for his wife, daughter, and infant son, and asks for succor for them until the plague has passed.”

Peste.
Now Mal would be delayed, despite his intention otherwise. “We have just come from Warwick after battling that selfsame illness. I will confer with Lord Bruse, for there is a treatment. Let us to Delbring.”

“Aye, my lord. He would speak with you. But Lady Ondine, Lady Beatrice, and the child are some leagues behind me. He has sent them out to be safe from the illness.”

“Very well. I shall talk with Lord Bruse, and his family may ride with us. But we are bound for Lilyfare, which is only some hours ride west. I have left Warwick closed, for I do not wish the illness to resurrect there until all have recovered. Mayhap Lord Bruse’s family will go with us to Lilyfare, where my wife will offer hospitality.”

“Then let us go on,” Sir Gilard said, relief clearly on his face.

A short time later, Malcolm was speaking with Bruse, just outside the gates of the bailey at Delbring. Lady Ondine’s and Lady Beatrice’s traveling party, whom they’d met on the way, waited on the side of the road.

“We had this very plague at Warwick,” Mal told him, noting that the older man seemed weary and worried. “Six dead and more than two dozen cattle before I learned of a medicine that will ease the symptoms and save most lives—except those of the very young and weak. ’Tis smart to send your infant son away.”

“There is a remedy?” Bruse’s eyes lit with hope.

“Aye. I learned of it in a letter from Maris of Ludingdon, who is very skilled in healing. ’Tis bearberry leaves steeped with rosemary. Drink it once the first spot appears. But we will take your wife, daughter and son to Lilyfare to ensure their safety.”

Bruse nodded, his face showing relief. “Many thanks, Malcolm. And felicitations on your excellent choice of Judith of Kentworth. I cannot say I am not disappointed Beatrice did not make a match with you, but nor can I fault you for taking a much wealthier bride.”

“’Twas due to no short-coming of your daughter,” Malcolm assured him quickly.

“Oh, aye, of course,” Bruse replied, waving him off. “And I do not believe Beatrice would have been such a good match for you anyway, for she is…ah…quiet. I did not even broach the subject with her, for now that I have an heir in Samuel, ’tis possible she may go to convent, where I believe she would be most happy. You appear weary, Warwick. ’Tis more than a bit exhausting to be newly wed, as I recall.” He grinned lecherously, obviously thinking of the recent marriage to his second, much-younger wife, Ondine.

Malcolm felt a pang of frustration and impatience at the reminder. “Aye, but ’tis a wearying of the best kind. Now, as I wish to return to such weary exertion,” he said with a hint of ruefulness, “’tis time for me to ride on.”

“Very well. Send word once you’ve reached Lilyfare, and I will advise when all is well here,” Bruse said. He went over to bid his wife and son, as well as his daughter, farewell as Mal chafed at yet more delay.

Now he must needs ride slowly because of the ladies, and they would be forced to stop for the night. But, even with that adjustment in his plans, God willing he’d be at Lilyfare by twilight on the morrow. And then he would have all of the night with Judith.

And mayhap part of the next day.

That thought cheered him enough, and as they set out, Mal rode over to greet Ondine, Beatrice, and Samuel—the boy of less than a year old. The fact that Bruse now had a male heir, which would necessitate a smaller dowry for Beatrice, had been only part of the reason Mal had been uncertain about a match with her.

Lord Bruse’s family rode in a comfortable, covered cart, which was the cause of the slower pace. But one of the shutters was open, leaving the opportunity for him to trot along next to the ladies and converse.

“Greetings, Lady Ondine and Lady Beatrice,” he said. “We shall travel only three more hours and then we will stop for the night. If you wish to ride ahorse for a while, Lady Beatrice or Lady Ondine, I can arrange for it.”

“Nay, of course I will stay with Samuel,” said Lady Ondine.
 

“Oh no, my lord,” said Lady Beatrice, who, as usual, seemed scarcely able to look at him, let alone speak. “I am content here inside this cart.”

“Very well,” Mal said. “Is there aught you need?”

“Nay,” said Lady Beatrice.

As he looked down at her dark blond head and remembered her docile expression, he was overcome by a sudden, fierce wave of gratitude that she had not become his wife after all. “If you are in need of aught, send word and we will stop.”

And with that, he trotted off, intent on hurrying their speed as much as possible.

Despite his attempts, their pace remained excruciatingly slow. If it wasn’t Ondine who needed to stop, it was Beatrice. Or the child must be let out of the cart to toddle about, and one must take care that he didn’t run beneath the horses or fall into the creek where they drank. The party stopped for the night at a small inn on the roadway a good ten hours from Lilyfare at their rate of travel, and though Mal swore he could see the lights of the village that was his destination, he was forced to make up a pallet on the ground as the inn had only room for the ladies.

He could not sleep that night, and his yearnings to be on the road were so strong that he decided he would ride ahead on the morrow—once they were within several leagues of Lilyfare. He was so intent on this, as he walked through the forest after stretching his legs for the third time in an hour, that he wasn’t paying close enough attention.

It was dark and he didn’t see the small hole in the ground. He stepped in it, catching his foot at an awkward angle. The next thing he knew, he
flumped
to the ground with a heavy, ignominious thud. He felt a streak of pain along his ankle, and when he furiously pulled himself upright, he found he could not bear weight on that foot.

Letting loose a string of curses that had Rike and Gambert rushing sleepily into the forest after him, Mal hobbled back to the camp, his ankle throbbing with pain. As his squires hovered uselessly, he bound his injured foot up tightly, then lay there on the ground, glowering up at the night sky, livid with himself and whoever had caused him such malfeasance.
 

As he’d feared, the next morrow his ankle was swollen and so tender to the touch he knew he could not ride ahorse.
 

When Rike ventured to suggest that Mal could sit in a cart for the remainder of the journey, he exploded.

“
A cart?
I will ride in a bloody cart on the day I am on my deathbed and not before!” he roared, flinging a mug in the general direction of the hapless boy. “Ride into Lilyfare like an ailing invalid? Are you
mad
?”

After that, all of his men avoided him—and his throwing distance—while they packed up and prepared to leave. The ladies came out of the inn and were apprised of the circumstances.

“Lord Malcolm will not travel to Lilyfare with you this morrow,” Gambert explained. “But we shall be your escort, and Rike” —who looked miserable, still holding the short straw he’d drawn— “shall remain with my lord until he can travel.”
 

Mal was hardly able to muster a civil farewell to the ladies, but at the least, with their departure, he was offered a chamber in the inn. Rike helped him hobble into the public room where he settled in a chair by the fire, propped up his foot, and commenced with ordering mug after mug of ale.