Betrothed (21 page)

“Be
gone, dog
!.
Put me down. I can bloody well walk on my
own.” He tried to sit up but she pushed at his shoulder.

“Be
still.” Isabeau put all the authority she could muster in the order.

“I
said I could walk.”

“Put
your tongue in your mouth and close your teeth.” Isabeau commanded. “If you
insist on wiggling, they are sure to drop you on your cracked head.”

At
the top of the stairs, she raced down the corridor. After lifting the latch,
she gave the door such a hard push, it slammed into the wall. She moved so fast
she had crossed the room, climbed the dais and thrown back the bed covers
before they carried Donovan into the room. “Get him out of those clothes. I
will not have him continue to wallow in blood and manure.”

“Milady?”
Hemrick asked as the men gingerly settled Donovan on a bench in front of the
empty hearth.

“We
need a fire.”

“Milady?”
Hemrick repeated.

“What? 
Why are you not getting those foul clothes off of him?” She wanted to ignore
the man. Things needed doing.

“I
can handle the business from here.”

“I
am sure you are quite capable.”

“What
he means, sweetling,” Donovan interrupted in a crisp voice. “Get out of here
and close the door. Tis not the place for a woman yet unwed.”

“Oh.”
She blinked in surprise and then the heat rose in her face. “Well, yes. Of
course. I will return shortly so be quick.”

Though
losing some fire under retreat, she tried to recover some of her authority with
the slam of the door. She had not gotten enough momentum to be truly
satisfactory. Waving her hand at her burning cheeks, she stood just outside the
door.

“Well,
you heard Lady Isabeau.” She heard Hemrick through the wood. “Let us strip the
earl down to the skin. Do you have a sleep shirt, my lord?”

“No! 
I sleep as God made me,” Donovan growled.

“Well,
you have need of one today,” Hemrick answered in a sing-song voice. “You heard
her ladyship. She will return soon enough. Would you be such a lout as to
brandish your manly chest in front of her innocent eyes?”

“Damnation.”

Isabeau
ran with the echo of Donovan’s curse still ringing in her ears.

Breathless
and flushed, she burst into the main kitchen. Her hand against her chest, she
wheezed out a sentence on each exhale.

“Lord
Donovan has been hurt…  They need fresh cloths --warm water -- in his
chamber.”

“Yes,
milady.” A chorus of answers chimed back.

She
looked up. Kettles were already at the boil. Maisie held a stack of folded
linen. A sea of concerned faces stared back at her.

“He
will be well,” she said in a rush of reassurance as she straightened her stance
and searched for a shred of dignity. “He has a nasty gash in his head. Hemrick
said it was nothing. He just needs to clean the wound.”

She
felt them all take her measure. A red-eyed Glenys, who had been stirring a pot
over a fire, handed the wooden spoon to another woman and crossed to Isabeau.
She patted Isabeau’s shoulder with a strong and capable hand. The gesture so
resembled the one Isabeau had offered her only hours before that her eyes
burned.

“Now,
now, my lady,” Glenys crooned in her scratchy voice. “Hemrick knows what he is
about. Many a time, he has patched up a bump here and cut there.”

“Hemrick
is skilled enough,” Isabeau agreed firmly, as much to convince herself as those
surrounding her. “Already Donovan has the strength to be fractious.”

“There,
you see?” Glenys nodded. “We will make him some broth and green pottage when he
is ready. ‘Tis so rare we have the chance to pamper the earl. Once he has a
taste he may not want to leave his bed.”

Maisie
elbowed Glenys in the ribs. “We might want to remind him to save his vigor. He
is soon to wed.”

“Then
for a certain, he will be most reluctant to leave his aerie.”

“Aye,
all those steps up to heaven, the earl’s mother used to say.”

Both
women awarded Isabeau with ribald chuckles along with their jests.

“Enough
of your cackles, you two old partlets.” Eldred scolded as he entered the
kitchen from the opposite door. “Watch your tongue in front of her ladyship.”

Maisie
only laughed as she crossed to him. “I have heard many a bawdy word come from
your mouth.”

He
only harrumphed when she tapped his leathered cheek. Isabeau blinked when she
thought she saw him wink at the housekeeper. He turned his gaze back to her
before she had the chance to disguise her surprise.

“Lady
Isabeau, there is a matter requiring your immediate attention,” Eldred
addressed her formally.

“The
earl?” She asked with renewed worry.

“Nay,
the dog.”

“Jaffey?”

“I
believe that is what he is now called,” Eldred nodded. “They had to drag him
from the earl’s chamber but they can get him no further than the door. I am
surprised you can not hear his howl from here. The clamor is paining the earl’s
head.”

“I
will see to the matter,” Isabeau assured him even as she pivoted.

She
retraced her steps. Jaffey was as Eldred had said; standing sentry outside Donovan’s
door. Occasionally he punctuated his menacing growl with a fierce bark. Already
several scratches on the door gave evidence of his attempts to claw through the
wood barrier.

“Jaffey!”
she called in the firm tone Felix had taught her. “Stand down. Silence.”

The
well-trained animal complied, but as he sat on his haunches, he stared at her
with knowing eyes.

“I
am assured he will be fine,” Isabeau told the dog as she approached it. She stroked
the black head, absently noticing Jaffey’s tail thumped the floor in rhythm
with her caresses. “We owe it all to you, my brave protector. What if you had
not pushed me to the stables?  King’s Champion might have done more
damage. You saved Donovan. You will receive a just reward.”

 “Reward?”
Granya’s derogatory cackle breached the corner in front of Isabeau. “How
fitting that one of your ilk should think to reward lack of discipline. I
suppose you were the one who encouraged such willfulness in Bennington’s get.
It took many a lash to tame the wildness out of that one, after a visit to
Olivet.”

“You
beat Christian?  Why you miserable old—old bitch!” Isabeau snatched the
old woman’s cane with one hand and slammed her open palm across the wrinkled
face with the other. She did not feel the burning in her hand as the woman
staggered back against the corridor wall. “You beat Christian and have the
audacity to brag to me of the deed. How does that feel?”

Isabeau
stepped closer, Jaffey at her heels. She towered over the cowering woman. The
cane gripped tightly, her arm raised to strike.

The
bump of Jaffey’s warm body on her thigh brought Isabeau to her senses. She
looked at her hand—at the cane, and let out a sob. With all her might, she
threw the cane down the corridor before she turned her gaze back to the old
besom.

“Get
out of my sight. If I see you again, I just might throw you off the highest
parapet.”

She
watched as Granya pushed away from the wall and walked down the long corridor.
Nary a misstep and without the support of that evil cane.

When
the old woman came even with the stick, she paused a moment before bending over
to pick it up. She did so with a slow precision which belied her age.

She
stood and
  turned
to face Isabeau.

“Remember
this, you little slut,” the old voice carried loudly down the hall, “You are
not the countess d’Allyonshire, yet.”     
           
          
           
             

Donovan
heard Isabeau hush Jaffey when he barked one more time. Passion still quivered
in her voice as she lowered it to sooth the dog’s continued agitation.
Controlling his own rage over the confrontation in the hallway, he barely heard
the one-sided conversation continuing on the other side of the door.

“Yes,
she is a witch,” Isabeau said agreeably, “A vicious one at that. If she has the
brains of a slug she will stay out of our paths. If you promise to be on your
best behavior, I will let you peek in on our earl. He must be told of your
heroics.”

There
was a soft knock on the door. Carstairs opened it before Donovan could bid
Isabeau enter. Patches of red colored from temper colored her otherwise
snow-white face.

Isabeau’s
palm lay flat on the big furry head of her canine escort. She surveyed the
crowded room. Her attention immediately focused on Donovan. “I was hoping to
ask a boon. Jaffey is anxious to see the earl.”

“Damn,
Carstairs. Get out of Isabeau’s way and let her in.”

Carstairs
bowed Isabeau into the room with a sweep of his arm. Donovan bit back another
curse.

“Are
you well, my lord?” Isabeau asked as she approached the bed with the dog at her
side. The huge animal came to Isabeau’s waist and made her appear even more
delicate.

“Well
enough to be done with this fuss. As soon as I can get my clothes, I will be
back about my business.” He cast an irritated look toward Hemrick. “I am not a
babe, nor have I been run through.”

“Oh
no, you must stay quiet at least until the morn.” Isabeau rushed up the dais
and put her hand against his chest as if she could force him back against the
pillows. He wore the nightshirt Hemrick had foisted on him. “You took a severe
blow to the head. You must not rush your recovery.”

“I
am rushing nothing. Hemrick will tell you.”

Isabeau
shook her head. “My father’s stallion kicked his squire. All thought he would
be fine but by the next bells he fell dead as he walked across the bailey. You
must stay abed.”

She
lifted her hand from the dog’s head as she turned beseeching eyes towards Hemrick.
The dog immediately left her side and pushed through the earl’s men to sniff
around one of the marquetry mural panels decorating the stone walls.

“How
is he, Hemrick?”

“Well,
milady.” Hemrick swallowed as he cast a nervous eye Donovan’s way. “He is still
dizzy but he saw only one of me when I asked.”

“But
you agree he should rest until morn?” she pleaded.

“I
tolds ya, he has a hard head.”

“The
earl needs to rest.” Isabeau tapped her slippered foot on the stair, her hands
on her hips.

Donovan
blinked as she stubbornly lifted her chin in the air. He should have known she
had courage when he found her disguised as his messenger.

“He
will stay in bed,” she insisted again. “He must be nursed through the night.
What if he should take a turn in the dark hours?”

“Isabeau,
I will be fine,” Donovan assured her. “I am fine. There is no need for your
worry.” He sat up and lifted the blankets draped over him. The dizziness still
hovered, he acknowledged with a silent curse. He would have swung his legs from
the bed but he remembered in time his lack of leggings.

“The
earl has had some difficulty in remembering what happened,” Carstairs
interrupted.

This
seemed to immediately fuel Isabeau’s concern and Donovan could have knocked his
friend’s teeth down his throat.

“You
see. He needs to remain in bed. What other memories have been knocked from his
head?” Isabeau stepped higher on the dais and gently combed his hair back with
her fingers.

“Mayhap,
you could tell him what happened?” Carstairs prompted.

“King’s
Champion kicked him in the head,” Isabeau answered, though her attention still
seemed focused on Donovan.

“Impossible,”
Donovan said impatiently.

“Impossible.”
Carstairs echoed, much to Donovan’s satisfaction.

Isabeau
scowled—a pretty scowl—a scowl none the less. Bodies shifted. A quiet murmur
had filtered around the room.

“You
said that in the stables. Why is it impossible?  It is obvious what
happened. It was a hoof which left that dent, was it not?”

“Did
you see Champion kick Donovan?”

“No.”
The left side of Isabeau’s pink mouth crooked. “I found Donovan on the floor
under the horse.”

“How
did you come to be in the stable?”

Isabeau
smiled as she looked over at the hound still snuffling at the paneling. “You
can thank Jaffey for that bit of fortune. He herded me like a sheep towards the
stable. Once inside, he could not push me fast enough to Champion’s stall.”

“When
I saw you—and the blood…” She turned back to Donovan and for a moment her eyes
held him spellbound. “I thought you were dead. You did not move and you were
too heavy for me to shift even a little.” Donovan’s men-at-arms stirred
restlessly.

“You
tried to move Donovan?” Carstairs asked, an edge in his curiosity that pulled
Donovan’s attention away from Isabeau.

“Yes.
I could not just leave him there while I went for help. I was afraid the horse
would stomp him again. I opened the stall and grabbed his ankles and tried to
pull. When I could not move Donovan, I moved Champion to the next stall so he
could do no more damage.”

Donovan’s
heart raced as he comprehended the significance of Isabeau’s accounting. He
grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her attention back to him.

 “You
moved
Champion?”

 “Aye.
I told you, I could not leave him there.”

 “You
opened the stall door?” He waited for her nod while his gut tightened. “You
went into Champion’s stall—while he was in it?”

“I
had no choice.”

“You
led him out of the stall and into another?” Donovan could feel a knot forming
at the hinge of his jaw as he clamped his teeth together.

“Why
are you so upset?” Isabeau asked impatiently. “I was careful to always keep
myself between you and Champion so he would not accidentally stomp on you
again.”

“Carstairs?”

Donovan’s
lieutenant merely shrugged, though the concern on his face mirrored Donovan’s
own. “When I arrived, Lady Isabeau had the situation well in hand. You were
sprawled in manure while Champion seemed content enough in the next stall.”

Donovan
put a hand to his aching head.

“Isabeau,
do you know what you did?”

“Well,
of course. I just told you.”

He
shook his head with immediate regret as pain arrowed in back of his eyes. The
words seemed locked in his throat. He wanted to pull her into his arms and
squeeze the life from her in gratitude that she still lived. Or should he pull
her over his knees and paddle her?

“No
one enters Champion’s stall,” Donovan said through clenched teeth, “No one but
my squire and myself.”

“But…”
Isabeau pulled back as if burnt. She must have felt the heated ball of rage
building inside his gut.

“No
one!” he repeated empathically.

Isabeau
backed off the steps. He could read the hurt mixed with confusion on her face
but could not find the calm to soothe her.

“Isabeau,
King’s Champion is a large and powerful warhorse and somewhat temperamental.”

“Anyone
could see that,” Isabeau said. A hint of sarcasm marred her attempted prim
response.

“Mayhap
temperamental is not quite accurate,” Carstairs corrected. “Vicious is more to
the mark. While Champion will allow Sean, Donovan’s squire, to tend to him on
occasion, he has been tamed to only one hand.”

“Me.”
Donovan stated flatly.

“Oh.”

He
watched her right hand flutter over her heart. A strong rat-a-tat sounded at
the door, disrupting the conversation and forcing Donovan to swallow further
admonitions.

Carstairs’
stilted movements as he crossed to the door gratified Donovan. He had not been
the only one to comprehend how close Isabeau had come to being savaged beneath
Champion’s sharp hooves.

The
castle triumvirate—Maisie, Glenys and Eldred—with Father Matthias close on their
heels entered Donovan’s chamber.

“We
have come to tend to the earl,” said Eldred, spokesman of the group. They
stepped from the hall and briskly edged Carstairs out of their way. Some
protector he proved to be—allowing an old man to push him aside.

Donovan
looked around the room at the other people already taking up space—his squire,
the stable master, two of his stable-hands, Hemrick and three of his own
men-at-arms. Not to mention, Isabeau and Carstairs—and now these four?

“By
the Saints!” He flopped back against the bolster and instantly rued the bit of
temper as his head throbbed. “Is there anyone left to defend Bennington or has
everyone crowded in here?  Bloody hell!  I am not at death’s door so
I have no need for so many to mop my fevered brow nor do I need the services of
a priest.”

Donovan
sat up as an idea occurred to him.

“On
second thought. I do need your services Father Matthias. I wish to wed. How
soon could it be arranged?” Damn and blast but he could no longer give Isabeau
the freedom to choose. The girl needed protection. His name would be a start.

Father
Matthias ambled forward, his ever-present small volume of scriptures clutched
against his round belly. “Why now, if my lord so wishes.”

Donovan
understood the irony in the priest’s voice. He was d’Allyonshire. He could do
as he wished with none save the king to gainsay him.

“Provided
the bride is willing, you could be married in a thrice,” the priest added
scrupulously.

“No!”
Isabeau shook her head as she took a step back, one hand in front of her, palm
out, the other still on her heart. She offered a lame explanation. “You are not
well enough to take such rash action.”

Donovan
turned his gaze on her as she continued her retreat. The color of her blush
spread down her throat to her neckline. Would the warmth reach her sweet pink
nipples?  He thought it might. He also thought of a couple of stratagems
whereas he could test his theory.

“You
must rest, my lord.” Isabeau stood there, defiance in the set of her shoulders,
the skirt of her gray gown streaked with stable gore, her bodice streaked with
his blood.

She
could not have been more beautiful—except as she had been that night—naked in
his arms, flushed with her first release.

“You
were right,” she continued to ramble. “This room is much too crowded. Everyone
must leave so you can rest. You will be more rational in the morning.”

“On
the morrow then,” Donovan pushed as he searched her shiny eyes. They appeared
more green than hazel.

“Nay,”
she whispered, her hand dropping from her heart to her belly. “Not until…”

Her
voice trailed away as she must have remembered the crowded room.

He
watched her. Everyone continued to watch her. The avid curiosity in the room was
palatable. But rather than shrivel under the scrutiny, she pushed back her
shoulders, then smoothed a stray tendril of chestnut hair from her temple.

“A
fortnight,” she offered.

“A
sennight,” Donovan countered quickly as he scented weakness. He hoped the jolt
of triumph in his belly did not reflect on his face -- though he felt like
crowing.

“A
sennight,” Isabeau agreed softly as she nodded slowly. “But you must promise to
rest. Maisie will have a light supper brought here for us. I will sit with you
while you sleep.”

The
housekeeper bustled to Isabeau’s side before he could make a comment and
further his betrothed’s embarrassment.

“’Tis
not seemly,” Maisie fussed. “You will not spend the night in the earl’s
chamber. Least’ways, not till you are wed.”

“But…”

“Now,
my lady, you listen to Maisie.” Glenys rushed to Isabeau’s other side and
patted her shoulder. “She and I will be honored to watch over his lordship’s
slumber to ease your worries. I will see to a proper sickbed repast for the
earl. If you wish, the three of us will join him in his meal.”

Donovan
rolled his eyes at this perpetuation of a fictional illness but he could see
some of the rigidity leave Isabeau’s shoulders. She either prepared to
surrender or she truly worried about his hard head. The notion she cared for
him generated a foreign weight in his chest. Did she feel a measure of
affection for him?  Something beyond that of a female for her lord—an
affianced woman for the stranger who was now her betrothed?

Maisie
took command of the situation. She began to shoo all the men towards the still
open door as if they were chickens in the yard. Clucking her tongue against her
teeth she fanned her hands until only Isabeau, Carstairs, Hemrick, the two
women, and the dog remained.