Betrothed (12 page)

Isabeau’s
first glimpse of Bennington Castle took her breath away. Even through rain and
mist, she could see the outline of massive stone walls. Crenellated parapets
edged the gray horizon like the teeth of a beast.

Would she be
pulverized within its jowls?

She shivered as
a rivulet of water trickled down her spine. She knew they still had a great
distance yet to travel but she longed for the warmth of a bright fire. Even the
gray mountain of rocks and all the challenges within would be welcome after the
torrent the heavens had bequeathed upon their heads.

Carrie
shivered beside her and Isabeau watched her with concern as she vainly tried to
find a comfortable position in the wagon. Neither of them dared issue a
complaint at the near breakneck pace. If anything, she thought, Carrie would
join her in wishing for more speed. They were both anxious to get to their new
home.

Even with the
late start, Donovan decided to press on to Bennington rather than stop at Sir
William’s manor. He had told her this when they stopped for a brief mid-day
meal, assuring her that if they maintained the same pace, they would make
Bennington before sundown.

The weather
had been an unforeseen complication. When the rain began to pelt the traveling
party, Carstairs dropped back to inform her they had already passed Sir
William’s manor. The earl was willing to find lodging should she wish, but
otherwise they would stay on the road to Bennington.

Isabeau took a
moment to check on Carrie before assuring Carstairs they were content to follow
Donovan’s wishes. So, they continued the journey with the swaying wagon
pounding their bottoms and the rain pounding their heads. Soon they were soaked
to the skin and Isabeau began to count each tree they passed.

When she had
first climbed onto the wagon with Carrie, Isabeau put her mind to work keeping
the younger girl occupied with something other than her pain. Isabeau started
with a campaign of constant one-sided conversation. She talked until her voice
began to crack.  Fortunately their stop for the mid-day meal was near
large creek. The cool water was welcome.

Once they
climbed back into the wagon, Isabeau decided to push for more than single word
answers from Carrie. She needed a longer respite from doing all of the talking.
“Do you think you will wish to visit your mama and papa?” she asked curiously.

“No.” Carrie’s
clipped out her response.

“Why not?”
Isabeau could not keep her surprise out of her voice. “I remember your family
as being quite affectionate.”

Carrie only
shrugged. Then gritted her teeth at the pain.

“There has to
be a reason,” Isabeau pressed.

She watched as
Carrie’s lips thinned rebelliously. She watched and waited. Isabeau had
acquired a talent for waiting while living in her half-brother’s household.
Eventually, Carrie’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The young girl shuddered.

“Some—sometime
ago, I—I went back to Mama’s cottage.” She tried to straighten some pride into
her shoulders but Isabeau detected the painful wince. “I did not want to go
back to the manor. Papa—Papa boxed my ears and pushed me out the door. He—he
said I were not to return. I had been given an opportunity and t’was not his
fault if I fell in a pit. I was his get no longer.”

“I am sorry. I
had no idea.” Isabeau instinctively reached out to pat Carrie’s arm in commiseration.

Carrie
shrugged again but Isabeau could clearly see the distress in the old eyes on
the young face.  

“What is your
name?”

“Beggin’ your
pardon, milady?” Puzzlement diluted the hurt, which was Isabeau’s objective.

“I was
wondering if Carrie is your given name or a diminutive.”

“I was named
for an aunt of my mother’s—Caitlin. Roddie—my brother—could not get his tongue
around it.”

Isabeau let a
smile spread across her face in the hope the expression would distract Carrie
from her bittersweet memories. She leaned forward conspiratorially, adding a
sparkle of bewilderment to the dull blue eyes.

“From now on,
I suggest my companion should use her given name.”

“Milady?”

“You will be
starting a fresh life at Bennington, just as I will be. I think as my friend
and companion, you should begin using your given name along with collecting new
memories.”

“My lady’s
companion?” Carrie sucked in her breath as she tried to comprehend her sudden
change in station in life.

“You are not
the only one who is going to a new home full of strangers. I would appreciate
having a friendly familiar face close by. Do you think being my friend would be
too much of a chore?”

“Oh, no,
milady,” Carrie—Caitlin answered breathily.

Isabeau leaned
back against a chest and felt the grin spread across her face. Already, she
could see the girl shedding the beaten down quality. For the next several
hours, Isabeau kept Caitlin occupied, reviewing the duties required of a new
chatelaine and her companion. Both of them would have their hands full. Isabeau
had not quite finished with her litany when the heavens opened up.

With the
advent of rain, Isabeau found she must now concentrate on preventing her teeth
from chattering. She wondered how many of her plans Caitlin actually heard over
the wheel’s rumble and clomping horses’ hooves.

Settling back,
wedging herself awkwardly between two chests, Isabeau closed her eyes and tried
to picture their arrival at the Castle. She would be a bedraggled mess when she
met Bennington’s denizens, hardly a fitting introduction for Donovan’s bride,
their future countess. They would surely find her lacking.

Isabeau jerked
when Carrie shook her arm. She opened her eyes to see the gate of Bennington
looming over them. They rattled over the suspended wooden bridge and started
through the arch tunneling the granite barricade protecting the castle. As they
emerged from the passageway, she could see protected torches in the distance
bracketing the grand door. Just the outer bailey could house two manors the size
of Olivet.

She heard
shouts excitedly announcing the early return of the master as figures raced to
prepare the way. A fierce butterfly danced in her belly when she heard a loud
reference to the earl’s betrothed.

Isabeau pulled
up to sit atop the nearest chest. Defying the rain, she proudly straightened
her spine as she sat on her perch. She might be a drowned rat but she would be
a dignified drowned rat.

Donovan
suddenly appeared through the rain—a great hulking figure astride his black
stallion. He paced the wagon as it entered the inner bailey and approached the
ornate main door. Carstairs rode sentinel on the other side. When the
procession drew to a halt, Donovan bounded from his saddle and strode to the
wagon. Without a word, he simply raised his hands.  Isabeau had barely
found her footing when he gripped her waist. She had just enough time to brace
her hands on his shoulders before he swung her to the ground.   

His cloak and
tunic were as saturated as her garments but he seemed oblivious to the discomfort.
Beneath her palms she could feel his solid strength as he easily bore her
weight. Her toes danced lightly on the packed road as he settled her securely
on her feet. She could not prevent the shiver when he withdrew his large warm
hands from her middle.  

“Welcome to
your new home, my lady.” His deep voice competed with a sudden roll of thunder
but she had no trouble hearing him. His tones reverberated through her being
like those of a bass woodwind.

He stepped
back and offered his arm in courtly fashion. She inhaled deeply and released
her breath slowly through pursed lips as she placed her palm and forearm atop
his left arm, leaving his sword arm free. She walked at his side with as much
decorum as she could while ignoring the slurping of the mud as it sucked at her
slippers.

On the edge of
her vision, she was vaguely aware that Carstairs had treated Carrie to the same
care and courtesy.

Several people
awaited introductions to the newcomers. Wisely, they were inside the massive
door. Curling her hand tightly over his gauntlet, Isabeau prepared for the
initial onslaught.

“I’ll never
remember every name,” she whispered to her betrothed in a panic as she saw the
line winding through the great hall.

Donovan
briefly patted her hand. “I have been away for months at a time and find I have
to relearn names and faces myself. Do not try to soak it in just now. Give it
time.”

“Did you have
to mention the word ‘soak
?’
”
she
groaned. “The word has weighed over my head for the last several hours.”

A low rumble
reverberated Donovan’s chest and she felt it beneath her arm. When she looked
up, she discovered the vibration was a form of laughter.

As she looked
at the men and women staring at them, she realized a variety of reactions
colored their faces; a few were openly pleased that Donovan had found reason
for humor. One older woman, pinched of brow and puckered of lip did not bother
to hide her irritation.

Donovan drew
Isabeau to the head of the line and nodded to an older man. “Eldred, I would
like you to meet my betrothed, Lady Isabeau d’ —soon to be of Bennington.
Isabeau, this is my trusted steward Eldred. Beside him is Father Matthias,
Maisie, our head housekeeper and Glenys our chief cook.”

The four of
them were copious in their welcome and Isabeau smiled back brightly. She knew
she would be working closely with these four as she settled into her new
position. “Thank you for being so gracious in your reception. I know you had no
warning of my arrival.” She turned towards where Carstairs stood behind them.

“I would also
like to introduce my friend and companion, Maid Caitlin. She agreed to join me
in my move to Bennington.” Isabeau held out her free hand and beckoned the girl
forward. After a minute hesitation, Caitlin shyly stepped forward and dipped a
deep curtsy. Apparently, the respectful gesture won their approval for as a
group the quartet offered genuine greetings.

“Do you think
Maid Caitlin could be assigned the chambers next to those you plan to give
me?  Both of us are rather shy and would appreciate a close proximity
until we gain our balance.”

Maisie gave
her an odd look, glanced down the line before turning back and grinned
brightly.
“ 'Twould
be no trouble, milady. 'Twon’t
take but a moment to ready the countess’s chambers and those adjacent. I’ll put
the maids on it this moment. Why, we’ll warm you poor things up with a fire and
bath ‘fore a horse can flick a fly.”  

“Jesu!”
Donovan interjected, his cheeks were a dull red over the day’s growth of beard.
“I gave no thought to your comfort. You need to get warm and dry.”

“You are just
as drenched as I, my lord.” Isabeau, with difficulty, hid her grin at his
obvious discomfiture. She turned with a smile that included both Maisie and her
betrothed. “Why do you not continue with your introductions until our hearths
are set?  I am sure Maisie has already begun preparations for your
comfort, my lord,” she squeezed the man’s arm reassuringly. “Am I correct,
Maisie?”

“You be
correct, milady,” Maisie said proudly. “I put the earl’s water to boil when his
banner was sighted.”

“Thank you,
Maisie. Shall we continue, my lord?” Isabeau let out a quiet sigh of relief
before gently pulling Donovan along the line. Dunstan, the tall man-at-arms and
Lee—she lost track of his title—both had smiles for her.

She was not so
lucky with the old woman standing stiffly next to Lee. Isabeau could feel the
animosity lingering around the woman like a morning’s haze. She wondered that
others did not see the resentment as well. She looked at those on either side
of the woman and thought perhaps they did. A tension gripped them that was
absent in their own introductions.

“Isabeau, I
believe you mentioned having once met Dame Granya.” Donovan reminded evenly.

“Yes.” Isabeau
nodded. The few years since Granya’s visit to Olivet had not been generous to
her. Only her clothes and scarves seemed to be holding her skin to her bones,
though she stood straight enough. Wisps of thin white hair strayed from her
wimple to frame her apple-doll face. “I am happy to see you again Dame Granya.
How are you?”

Granya ignored
Isabeau’s proffered hand. She narrowed her dull eyes as she inspected Isabeau
and found her lacking. “We are all still grieving.”

The
rain had stopped. Dry and clean once more, Donovan emerged from inspecting the
blacksmith’s forge to breathe the cool outside air. The smithy’s skill pleased
him. He thought the man would do well at recreating the tools and weapons
Donovan had discovered in his travels for the king.

“You’ve
understood what I want, Kermit,” Donovan assured the anxious man. “Take on a
couple more apprentices and an additional fire boy. Bennington’s arsenal needs
replenishing. Also, I have diagrams of farm implements, too.”

Kermit’s
cheeks, made perpetually ruddy from standing over his fires, warmed scarlet.
“My lord, I would be honored with any task you set for me. I know some young
lads who could be suitably trained. There be another, a bit older than
custom—but he has a touch that could be honed like an edge on a grindstone.”

“You
know best. Should the need arise, I’ll speak to the fathers.”

“ ’Twon’t
be n-necessary, to be sure. I-I’ll
explain all. They all know the honor of becoming B-Bennington’s smithies.”
Kermit stuttered in his excitement at his suddenly elevated status.  

Whatever
else Kermit said was lost to Donovan when he heard a melodic peal of laughter
float over the outer bailey.

Donovan
turned toward the sound -- much like a child following the piper, he thought
ruefully. He watched as Isabeau – with her little maid -- entered behind Eldred
and Maisie through the connecting arch. The little maid was now Isabeau’s
companion, he corrected himself. He’d learned the girl had acquired a new
position as well as her new name. Caitlin bounced close behind Isabeau’s heels.

Eldred
waved his arms in an expansive gesture, which encompassed the grand space of
the outer bailey. Donovan surmised the old man was currently explaining the
weekly market day   sponsored by the castle. Isabeau spoke with a
smile and the old man laughed.

When
the attack came, no warning heralded its arrival except a single cry.

“A
moi!” The stringent command rang over the bustle of the people not in the
fields. Donovan quickly searched and found the source. The hound’s keeper,
Felix, was racing across the bailey losing ground to an enormous canine on
direct course for—for Isabeau.

His
hand on his hilt, Donovan began to run. He was not going to make it. He could
see it—knew it -- felt the knowledge deep in his belly.

The
distance was too great. The black and brown beast was almost upon her when
Isabeau finally turned towards the danger. She held up her hands in front of
her as her only protection but she did not run.

She
did not run! 

Did
she instinctively know to run would only enrage a predator faster?

Why
did everyone else seem frozen where they stood?  Only he and the dog were
moving and he was not moving fast enough.

“NO!”

Her
scream echoed his as the animal leapt through the air. He noticed the macabre
scene as the canine stretched through the air towards it prey. The dog matched
Isabeau in size. When the beast hit her, his weight easily took her down to the
muddy ground. Donovan saw her struggling ineffectually against the writhing
bulk atop her. She braced her hands against the front haunches and valiantly
tried to straighten her arms.

It
was not enough.

Still
several strides away, Donovan pulled his blade from the sheath. The edge sang
as he cut through the air and prepared to impale the creature.

“Geoffrey,
a moi!” The hound’s keeper screamed as he raced towards Isabeau, a bridle
swinging in his hand. “A moi!”        

“Geoffrey?”
Isabeau squirmed beneath the onslaught, her face red and streaked with tears.
“This is J-Jaffey?”

Suddenly,
she threw her arms around the thick neck and pulled the animal closer. The
black muzzle buried in the crook of her neck, Isabeau began to shake.

Donovan
raised his sword, about to behead the dog but Felix pushed in front of him.

“No,
my lord. Please. He means no harm.” The hound’s keeper pleaded for mercy. “He’s
young. I will discipline him. Please do not kill him.”

Only
then did Donovan realize the dog had not sunk his teeth in to tear out Isabeau
neck, but instead had laved her face with his tongue and canine drool. Laughter
caused her breathless shakes.

“This
is Christian’s Jaffey?” Isabeau asked as she attempted to turn away from the
wide pink tongue still baptizing her. “But he was just a puppy.”

“Aye,
Milady. ‘Twas Lord Christian’s pup, right enough,” Felix answered absently as
he continued to stand between Donovan’s sword arm and the frolicking duo.

Donovan
slowly lowered his weapon and stared at his betrothed. The soft mud had
cushioned her fall but now coated the back of her head and gown. Her front had
faired no better. The substantial paws left their marks from neck to hem.

Even
with her hair a tangled muddy mess, she chuckled as she gave a final heave. She
pushed the enthusiastic canine hard enough to roll to her side and affect an
escape. When she held her hand towards him, Donovan automatically reached out
with his right. The widening of her eyes reminded him he still clutched his
sword in a white-knuckled grip. He changed stance and clasped her wrist with
his left one and yanked her to her feet.

The
dog whined as Felix put the leather collar around his neck and then began to
attach the leash. He hunkered down for another leap.

Isabeau
continued to laugh but she scooted behind Donovan and peaked around his
forearm.

“I
am not a bone to gnaw, you naughty hulk,” she scolded the dog. “I have not
dried out from our trip and now I have to change yet again. What will my
betrothed think?”

“That
you defended yourself against a vicious tongue lashing and successfully
repelled the attack.” Donovan shook his head as he stared at her mud.

Isabeau
looked down and groaned. “Is there a well or trough other than the moat?”

“Aye,”
Donovan answered. “Why?”

“I
can hardly traipse through the castle corridor in this condition.” She flared
her skirts with dirty hands. “I’ll have Caitlin pour a couple of buckets over
me to get the worst of the mess off. I should be put to right well before sexts
and mid-day meal. Eldred and Maisie, we will have to postpone your delightful
inspection. Now, the water?”

Donovan
could not help the answering grin that widened his mouth. A snick echoed as he
slid his blade home. Empty-handed, he offered his arm in formal invitation. She
wiped her hand on her skirt before resting her fingers upon his with as much
aplomb if gowned in gold cloth and about to curtsy before the king.

Jaffey
whined and pulled against his lead. Isabeau looked back and ruefully shook her
head.

“You
might as well come along, you scoundrel,” she scolded, but she reached out to
scratch the top of the black head. “You have more mud than fur and you were the
cause. You are not escaping the cold bath.”

Isabeau
strode towards the round water trough near the west gate with her shoulders
thrown back and her chin lifted. Donovan became aware of the curious eyes
carefully tracking their progress and the growing procession at their backs.

Forgetting
she was no longer just a maid, Caitlin raced ahead to get a bucket. She had it
ready on their arrival.

Isabeau
stared at the bucket and sighed. “You might wish to step back, my lord. You
could find yourself the victim of another deluge.”

Donovan
took her advice and hastily stepped backwards. He wondered if she should
retreat to her chambers and order a tub. As the future countess, should not she
be displaying more decorum?  More dignity?

Isabeau
turned her back to Caitlin and stooped to be closer to the girl’s reach. “If I
wait any longer it will only harden and turn me into a garden ornament.”

He
causally glanced around at his people gathered around the trough. An
interesting blend of expressions colored the many faces. Amusement and
curiosity was predominantly lighting the countless pairs of eyes. He detected
guarded suspicion but no evident hostility. In fact, as the water began to wash
away the muck, so did even the wisps of suspicion seem to trickle to the soft
ground.

Had
she known such an easy and public resolution would have this affect on her
acceptance as Bennington’s countess?  He saw seen how Olivet’s people
quietly remained steadfast to their lady in spite of the danger from the new
master. Their loyalty to her certainly was founded on more than their dislike
of her brother and sister-in-law.

Maisie
stepped forward to aid Caitlin with a second bucket while Isabeau gallantly
endured. Only her blue lips gave clue to the cold sluicing down over her head
and shoulders.

Perhaps
to provide a distraction to her discomfort, Isabeau focused on the whining,
black and brown dog. The animal still strained against his restraint apparently
trying to get to his lady. He pulled so hard towards Isabeau he dragged his
keeper until he could sit in front of her.

She
bent down—she did not have to bend far—to frame his big face in her small white
hands. Face to face, almost nose to nose she spoke to the dog as if to a child.

“If
we are to continue being friends, you will bathe and learn not to knock me
about like fresh game. You will behave in an appropriate manner as befits
Bennington Castle. Do you understand?”

Much
to Donovan’s surprise the dog answered with a short clipped woof as if he
actually understood her demands. A couple of short barks followed, accented
with thumps of a great tail on the ground.

Isabeau
nodded sagely, smoothed a caress over a pointed ear and curled her hand around
to scratch the brown throat. “Oh, Jaffey, I miss him as well.”

Donovan’s
throat tightened as he realized she was offering the dog her condolences on the
loss of his own son. He stepped back—one step, then two.

This
creature had started as the puppy he brought across the water as a gift to
Christian. How had Isabeau
…
  Then he recalled the
tale she told him only a few days hence. Christian had willfully insisted—as
only a child could—on taking his beloved puppy with him when Marta had dragged
their son across the countryside.

“You
had best finish your own bath in front of a fire, my lady.” Donovan commanded
as he stepped back again and then turned away.  When he saw the amusement
fade from Maisie’s face he knew he sounded gruff rather than concerned. He
could not stay to explain. He was not ready to explain.

He
had just reached the inner bailey when the old crone, Dame Granya, toddled into
his path. Today, she bent over her cane, her boney shoulders hunched. He had
discerned ages ago, that she only used the prop when she wanted an audience.

“Good
morn, Dame Granya.” He moved to circumvent the woman but she reached out with
one of her crooked claws to catch his sleeve.

“Oh,
my lord,” Her scratchy voice rattled out, as brittle as her frame. She shook
her head balefully.
“ ’Tis
such a disaster my lord.
You poor man.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Why,
the girl’s behavior, of course.” Her grip curled tighter on his sleeve. “Her
actions do no credit to your house. My Marta would not think of making such a spectacle
with an animal, nor would she have further sullied your reputation by making a
game of being drenched in the middle of the open bailey. She has no sense. She
will never fit in—never take Marta’s beloved place in the heart of Bennington.”

“You
do not think Bennington will welcome a new countess—not even one as young and
beautiful as Lady Isabeau?”

“Well,
obviously she is young -- beautiful. But without Marta’s comportment, my lord.”

“She
does not have much in common with Marta,” Donovan agreed bitterly, but the
sarcasm slipped by Granya.

“Dare
I ask if yours was an arranged betrothal?  Was she prepared to become
countess?  She seemed quite burdened last eve while settling down for bed.
I do not think she wished to be here.”

“Do
you not?” What
was
the old woman aiming at?

“How
soon do you plan to wed?  If I were you, I would have the gamekeeper get a
good supply of sparrow eggs. Perhaps the healer has a few shells in her hoard.”
She uncurled her fingers to pat his arm in a false conciliatory fashion. “You
will need something to ease the hazardous road to her marital bed. But you know
best.”

He
nodded and slipped away from the aged wretch. Had the old woman been aiming a
bow, she would have scored a kill to the heart. The shells of sparrow eggs were
the main ingredients of many aphrodisiacs. Had she mixed the potion and poured
it down Marta’s throat those years ago? What had the old woman heard?
Was
Isabeau a reluctant bride?

Isabeau
was not Marta. That, Donovan felt -- knew -- of a certainty. But how could he
be sure his scarred body or the act itself would not repulse her?  She
would honor her vows, but would she sob even before he left her?