Betrothed
Authors: Lori Snow
B
etrothed
L
ori
S
now
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Lori Snow, 2014
All rights reserved. With the exception of short
excerpts used in articles and critical reviews, no part of this work may be
reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form whatsoever, printed or
electronic, without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
Edited by Julia Blaine and Gayle Heston
Cover art by James Schardt
Lori Snow is now in
Heaven, a place that, for her, probably looks a lot like Vermont. Her long,
long, long blond hair must make her a beautiful angel.
She had just finished
writing Betrothed.
Lori’s sister, Leanna,
and her friends Gayle Heston and Julia Blaine, want to help share her story.
Generous, talented and creative, Lori was always ready to help us.
able
of
C
ontents
hapter 1
1322
M
anor
d’
O
livet
Everyone in Christendom knew
the black and gold Bennington colors, lest they court the wrath of the second
Earl of Bennington, Donovan d’Allyonshire. Anyone with a shred of
self-preservation knew not to accost one riding under his pennant. Even the
least of his men rode with the warrior’s protection. The young messenger
sitting in front of Isabeau d’Olivet had been able to travel the countryside
with impunity.
And therein lay the crux of
Isabeau’s plan.
She now had the exact details
and skill to duplicate the Bennington livery. The difficulty would be in
finding time to complete her task without discovery. Her time was running out.
“Is the table as thirsty as
me?” squawked the messenger.
The complaint jolted Isabeau
out of her reverie. She righted the jug before losing more than a few drops of
cider.
Isabeau needed information
more than a drink. She wanted to stay and talk. To hear the tales the boy had
to tell of the great and honorable Donovan. But she couldn’t spend time
indulging her curiosity. She needed specifics on what others would expect from
a messenger of Castle Bennington.
“How long before you
return to Bennington?”
Malak, the courier,
tilted his head.
Isabeau skipped a couple
of heartbeats before he shrugged nonchalantly.
“I am to go to Montrose Keep
next, but I don’t leave ‘til morn.”
Chewing her lip, she made a
decision she wouldn’t have hesitated to make while her father still lived. “A
chamber in the west tower will be prepared for your use. The distance to
Montrose is not far. Do you think two days of rations will suffice?”
“Milady?” Malak raised his
eyebrows in surprise. “Is it allowed?” He’d expected to bed down in the grand
hall with the rest of the general household.
“You are the earl’s emissary,”
she explained. “You should be treated as such. If you need anything more, tell
Marly in the kitchen. She will see to everything.”
Isabeau thought it prudent to
change the subject before she changed her mind. Neither Simon nor his wife took
notice of the workings of Olivet unless it interfered with their own comfort,
but if they thought she was taking liberties, swift and painful consequences
would follow.
“What news did you bring from
his lordship to Lord Simon?” She watched the expressive freckled face.
His red brows drew together
under his fringe of ginger hair in a grimace. “If His lordship wished to send his
missives with gossips he would employ the cackling hens found in the kitchens,”
the youthful voice scolded with a hint of arrogance. He lost his ferocity when
his voice cracked. “That’s what was said to me when I was given my duties.”
“You don’t have many years.
Have you long been his lordship’s courier, Malak?” She waited while he
swallowed a bit of crusty bread.
“Just since he’s been back
from the battlefield. ‘Afore that, I had to learn to read.”
Isabeau nearly dropped the
knife in surprise. “You can read?”
Malak puffed out his chest
arrogantly. “My lord said that no man should be entrusted with that which he
can’t understand if need be. Mind you, some messages are only meant for the
rec---re…”
“Recipient?” She supplied the
word for him.
“Aye, the recipient. The earl
also knows that scribes may not always be available to prepare replies. Not
only do I
got
a good memory, but I can take the
dictates of replies.”
The boy had reason to be proud
of his accomplishments. Few people acquired such skill. Isabeau’s brother had
stopped all lessons at Olivet. Simon claimed the effort to teach and learn was
a waste of valuable time and labor.
“How old are you?” She felt
her cheeks warm at his sudden interest
Malek gave her his full
attention as a smile curled his lips. “I’m old enough.”
A wooden bowl thudded on the
table between them “Now, you be showing Lady Isabeau her proper respect,” Old
Blanche scolded in her raspy voice.
Isabeau jumped at the
interruption. She had been unaware of Blanche’s entrance into the hall.
The grin faded from the
teenager as he tried to stand. “Beggin’ your pardon, milady. I wasn’t meaning
nothin’.”
Isabeau tipped her head
towards the old woman. “There is no need to scare the boy. He did nothing
wrong.”
Blanche wagged her head on her
scrawny neck, wisps of her thin gray hair waving her disapproval from under her
dust-cap. “And you bein’ encouragin’. Hadn’t ye best be lookin’ after yer own
business? Marly in the kitchen kin take ker of the earl’s lad. Ye best be
on yer way. Lord Simon is about…”
Isabeau’d not garner more
information about Lord Donovan this day. She hoped she had what she needed. She
looked over her shoulder as she scurried toward the kitchens. The best way to
deal with Simon was to avoid him.
To be in his sight was to remind
him of her existence and his grievances. Whether her transgressions were real
or imagined, he found a way to punish her. Since her father’s death, life at
Olivet had become a torment.
Simon exhibited none of their
father’s high chivalric mores and his few guests behaved in a barbaric manner.
Lord Kirney had ogled Isabeau’s bosom upon his last visit, making her skin
crawl. She didn’t understand all of his comments, but she knew they were
vulgar. He seemed pleased when she looked puzzled. His smile and the light in
his eyes followed her into nightmares.
What strange conduct for a
man reputed to be so close to the
king.
Why, Kirney
was even cousin to the earl, the liege lord over them all. Could it be because
Lord Kirney had been guardian to Syllba before Simon took her to wife? Would
those connections give him reason to think he need not behave in a courtly
manner?
Isabeau shook her head
whenever she thought of Kirney -- which she tried to avoid doing. She would
just keep away from the man as much as possible.
In the kitchens, the
preparations for the evening meal proceeded nicely with few grumbles. If the
servants lacked the exuberant camaraderie of her father’s time, she tried to
ignore the loss. With a last glance around the room, she slipped out the door.
Isabeau was almost to the weavers’ shed when Arneau, her brother’s lackey,
intercepted her.
“His Lordship be wishing to
see ya in his counting room, milady.”
She nodded, stepping away from
the short round man. “I will be right there, Arneau. I just need to check on
the weavers.” She wanted to check on the supply of dried goldenrod as well. The
correct hue was all important for a successful disguise.
The man moved his foot and his
protruding belly, halting Isabeau. “Now ’twould be best,” he warned in sharp
tones.
A wave of fear seized her from
head to toe. Had Simon already discovered she had given the guest chamber to
Malek? She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was an Olivet,
not a coward.
She took a calming
breath. “You say Lord Simon is in his counting room?”
“Yes, milady.”
Isabeau reversed her
direction, doggedly placing one foot in front of the other. Avoiding Simon’s
summons only made the punishments worse.
How many times had the
temptation to run reared its head? How many times had futility killed the
idea? To affect a successful escape, she needed to stick to her plan.
As she knocked on the door,
waiting for his voice, a trickle of cold sweat slid down Isabeau’s spine. If Simon
had already left, the beating would be worse when he found her later.
“Come!”
Isabeau entered and closed the
door behind her. To leave it open would encourage Simon’s verbal taunts.
“It took your lazy self long
enough to get here. Wasting time in the solarium with one of the old man’s
books?”
“No, my lord. I was seeing to
the comfort of the earl’s man.”
“The earl’s man?”
For a moment, Isabeau thought
she saw fear in her brother’s eyes, but the expression quickly passed.
“Oh, you speak of that little
whelp. Waste of time. Not when we have company coming.”
“Company?” A glimmer of
excitement quickened Isabeau’s heart. “Is the earl to arrive?” Forgetting her
new place in the household, she began to review the preparations for receiving
an important personage.
A stinging blow across her
shoulder blades recalled her attention. Luckily, she caught her balance before
she pitched forward to her knees. Why hadn’t she noticed the riding crop in
Simon’s right hand?
“My lord?” She gulped back a
sob.
“You forget you place, little
sister.”
Isabeau shivered at Simon’s
echo of her own thoughts.
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Now, I want you to see that
the best rooms in the east wing as well as the solarium are prepared for our
guests.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Don’t you even want to know
who will visit, Little Izzy?”
She hesitated and
another strike landed on her back. She bit back the cry before correcting her
error. Any answer would have been wrong. “Yes, my lord. Who is coming to visit,
my lord?”
“Why, it is your beloved friend,
Lord Kirney. He will be staying at Olivet Manor a few days while we finalize
our alliance.” Simon traced the edge of her jaw with the tip of the crop.
“And this time,” he warned, “This time you will show him proper courtesy. You
will personally serve him his meals. You will accept his compliments. And, you
will tend his every need and comfort. Do you comprehend?” The crop traced the
line of her throat and shoulder.
Isabeau swallowed back bile.
“Yes, my lord.”
“His
every
need and
comfort, little Izzy.”
“Yes, I understand, my lord.”
And she was very much afraid she did. “When will he arrive, my lord?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
Wavering, Simon stepped back.
“Well, get on with your duties. You have much work to do.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Isabeau
didn’t wait for another reminder or another blow. She scampered from the room.
By his look, Simon wanted to beat her into the floor—again. What stopped
him?
Suddenly, she was more afraid
of not getting a beating than if he had liberally peppered her back with bloody
stripes.
Isabeau knew she had run out of time.