Betrothed (26 page)

He
had taken no more than two strides when he heard Isabeau’s terrified scream.

Isabeau
paused just inside the doorway. After being in the sunlight, she needed a
moment to let her eyes adjust to the dimness of the shadows. She pressed a palm
to the cold stone of the wall and fought the temptation to turn back. Leaving
Donovan’s side, even for the few hours before the evening meal, was harder than
she dreamed possible.

How
much harder was it going to be once they were married and she had to wave him
off to the king’s business?

She
took one blind step down the corridor she knew led to a back stair. Thank the
Saints for Maisie and Glenys insisting she be quick to learn the keep’s design.
As it was, Isabeau knew it would be too easy to get lost in the endless
honeycomb of rooms and passageways.

She
wrinkled her nose as a foul stench wafted passed her as if trying to escape out
into the fresh air. Obviously, this back corner had been overlooked in the
cleaning frenzy she had instituted while the earl was away. The smell could be
mistaken for the jakes with a fetid odor hanging over it. She would speak to
Maisie. Mayhap, a couple of the spit-turners would appreciate a cooler -- if
stinking -- task? 

Another
step and Isabeau’s foot collided with something soft, yet unmoving. When she
looked down she could not prevent the startled scream coming from her mouth.

A
crumpled body lay in a heap in front of her. When she closed her mouth over a
second scream, she caught her breath and concentrated. Even through the dim
light streaming over her shoulder, she recognized Granya. Isabeau wanted to
bend down to offer assistance but the old woman’s open eyes told her there was
nothing to be done. The woman had met her fate at the foot of the stairs—much
like her own mother nine years past.

“Isabeau?”

Donovan’s
concerned voice flowed over Isabeau like a blanket of comfort. She turned to the
source and flung herself into the arms of her betrothed.

“What
has happened, sweetling?”

Still
in the safety of his embrace, Isabeau turned and pointed a shaking hand towards
the body. “She’s dead, is she not?  She must have fallen down the stairs,
poor soul.”

Others
must have heard the scream. They crowded Donovan and Isabeau to the bloodied
mess. Donovan pulled her arms from his waist and set her back. In a heartbeat,
Eldred had guided her to the far wall, hushing her before handing her off to
Maisie and Glenys. The older man then went to Donovan’s side. Isabeau took
several deep breaths to calm her racing heart and tried to think clearly.

A
tragedy had occurred. She watched Donovan, standing tall and proud, taking
command of the situation. He soothed the bystanders with a small nod and simple
explanation before sending one of the spit-boys to get Father Matthias. He was
caring, yet she noticed he was also watchful; on guard.

Besides
the deadly results of the accident, what did he see?  She carefully looked
around. Forcing herself to look at the body more thoroughly, Isabeau stared at
Granya’s face. She had no liking for the cross bully but would not have wished
such a fate on her worst enemy. Bloody injuries marred the wrinkled face with
two straight lines. Were they caused as the old woman hit the edges of the
stairs in her headlong decent?

Father
Matthias pushed through the crowd, followed closely by two strong stablemen. He
took in the situation with one glance and stepped to the earl’s side. Again
Donovan conferred in a hushed tone too low for Isabeau to overhear.

“My
place is by the earl.” Isabeau straightened her shoulders and looked Maisie in
the eye. She brushed away the two women and moved to Donovan’s elbow. Donovan
did not welcome her when she touched his arm. He merely looked down from his
great height with the stoic air that could so easily turn her heart to ice.
         

“Isabeau,”
he said on a soundless sigh,
“ ’Twould
be best if you
went to your chamber. This is not for you to see.”

She
shook her head once, stretching her palm flat on his forearm. “I will stand
with you.” Then she looked pointedly at the gathered crowd. “I will not be seen
as a weakling in front of your people. You deserve a strong countess.”

He
looked at her, then shrugged and watched as Father Matthias gave rites for the
dead woman. Then the two men who had come with the priest, straightened the
body and lifted it easily.

“It
will be as you say, my lord,” said Father Matthias as he readied to follow the
men. “Dame Granya will be laid to rest after Vespers, next to
countess
Marta. Pray they find peace in their
companionship.” The priest spoke with a voice meant to calm and console but
Isabeau only shivered.

“Her
ladyship and I will join you in prayer,” Donovan assured Father Matthias. He
laid his palm on Isabeau’s hand where it still rested on his arm. “Is that not
so, milady?”

Isabeau
took a deep breath and nodded agreement. She could not quite comprehend the
undertones in her betrothed’s voice. She had no abiding love for the bitter old
woman, only pity—and, if she were being honest, anger at the old woman’s
cruelty. But she would pray for mercy for the dead woman’s soul and forgiveness
to her own lack of grief.                   

Isabeau
looked down at the floor rather than let Donovan see the truth in her eyes. He
had a disconcerting way of reading her thoughts. It was then she realized
something was missing from the scene.

“Donovan?”
she whispered as she turned her face up to his. “Where is her cane? I know she
has no real need for it but she carried it everywhere. She twice tried to beat
Jaffey with the thing and after she confessed to
..”

“To
what did she confess?” Donovan prompted.

Isabeau
licked her lips then swallowed back the bitterness. It would do no harm now to
reveal the old woman’s actions. She was beyond Donovan’s wrath and Christian
was with God as well.

“She
thrashed young Christian with it—she did not just confess, she bragged of it. I
was tempted to consign the cursed wood to the fire. As I said, she did not need
the aid to walk; merely as a handy weapon.”

“I
came to much the same conclusion,” Donovan agreed, “That she could walk without
it.”

“What
was she doing on this back stair without it?  Sneaking about the castle?
Up to no good?”

“All
excellent questions, sweetling.” Donovan patted her hand. “You have been
putting Bennington through its paces since your arrival. Everyone is busy with
the change. I would venture the woman was merely trying to escape work. She did
not strike me as industrious.”

Isabeau
tried to believe his conclusions but she still felt something was amiss.
Searching his blue eyes, she realized that if he thought any different than his
words, he would not confide in her.

Perhaps
he thought death to be a man’s business. They were the ones who went to battle.
They were the ones who wielded the swords. But was it not women who kept vigil
over the dead until burial? 

She
mused the fragility of life, the possibility of sudden ends. A shiver raced
through her. God offered no guarantees. Only the day before, she could have
lost Donovan to his warhorse’s hooves. She glanced at the makeshift bandage on
his bicep. Or today to the knife of a faceless assailant. Suddenly, heat
flooded her cheeks, then as quickly receded. She might never have known the
bliss of making love with Donovan.

As
if he knew the direction of her thoughts, Donovan lifted her hand to his lips
and rested a kiss on her fingers. He waited until she looked back into his
bottomless blue eyes. “All will be well, Isabeau. You will see.”

She
nodded and looked away, breaking the thrall he so easily cast. The stairs
loomed up into the shadows, angled to the right out of sight. Even stairs
offered death.

“You
will have a care, milord.” She couldn’t help the plea though she had meant it
as a command.

“Aye.
I have much to live for these days.”

“Why
does Bennington have to be so huge?  Why so many stairs?  If I did
not see another, I would be happy. First my mother, then Dame Granya. I was but
a child when she fell. Both she and her babe died. They tried to save my baby
brother. Cut him from her womb, but it was too soon.”

“
Jesu
.”
Donovan slipped his arms around her, offering her silent comfort. “I had no
notion. I am sorry.”

Isabeau
tried to shed the morose ghost of the past. “It happened a long time ago,” she
reminded herself as much as Donovan. She could feel him motion to someone at
her back.

“Her
ladyship has suffered a shock. Please, help her to her chamber and stay with
her will she rests.”

Isabeau
pushed back from the comfort offered by Donovan’s solid arms. She was not a
wilting flower, unable to withstand a late frost. She was about to loudly voice
her protest when she caught the slight jerk of his chin. Turning slowly, she
saw Caitlin at the edge of the crowd not two arm lengths away. The girl was a
pale as milk and making a poor attempt at disguising her trembling hands by
clasping the together at her front.

“I
think you are not the only one to have a shock.” Donovan whispered for
Isabeau’s hearing alone. “I think your wounded bird needs tending.”

“Aye,”
Isabeau’s pique evaporated. “I see your point. Come, Caitlin.” Isabeau held out
her hand as if she was indeed the one needing succor. “I think we will use
another stair. I have no wish to tread these steps.”

Caitlin’s
fingers were snow cold when she clutched Isabeau’s hand. She linked her arm
with Caitlin’s and led her through the thinning curious crowd.

On
the way, Maisie nodded to them and said she would be sending up some mint tea.
The two remained quiet all the way to the countess’s chamber. Isabeau hoped the
privacy would inspire wisdom. Granya’s death had greatly affected the girl. Or
perhaps it was death in general.

Isabeau
wanted privacy. She needed to think. At times Isabeau had felt the air vibrate
as if the ground had just been struck by lightning. Was she feeling only the
repercussions of the castle’s recent tragedies—the losses of the countess and
the heir—or did Isabeau sense a coming storm
? 
Yet she kept her own
counsel for Caitlin’s sake.

“You
should rest Milady,” Caitlin suggested in a thread voice. “Let us pull chairs
in front of the window. I think we would both benefit from a breeze.” She
suited her actions to words and started dragging one of the chairs closer to
the window, careful to stay in the shade. When Caitlin settled her own chair in
the slanted sunlight, Isabeau shook her head and moved it into the shadows as
well.

“If
I have to act the part of lady then so shall you,” Isabeau stated, wishing to
distract her companion.

“Milady?”

“We
will start by keeping you out of the sun. Then walking.” When she knew she had
drawn the girl’s attention away from her fear, Isabeau focused on the
immediate. “What has frightened you?  Granya’s death, horrible as it was,
is not all that troubles you.”

How
Isabeau was sure of this, she could not be certain. Caitlin had endured so
much. Why would the death of someone the girl disliked cause such grief? 
Not unless…

“Carrie?”
The answer was so urgent, Isabeau forgot for a moment her plans for the girl.
“You had nothing to do with Granya’s fall, did you?”

“Oh
no, milady!” Caitlin gripped the chair back. “I swear by all the Saints, since
the day you gave me her sleeping room, I made sure to stay away from the w-w-w…
From the lady.”

Isabeau
had only a moment to ascertain the veracity of Caitlin’s claim but she thought
she saw the truth. Whatever frightened the girl, it was not guilt over death of
Dame Granya.

The
door from the corridor opened after a staccato tap sounded. Glenys led the way,
closely followed by one maid carrying a tray laden with mugs and a linen
covered basket. Maisie trailed after Dorcas who carried a huge pewter pitcher
with a lone ribbon of steam coiling over the rim.

Isabeau
sensed the other women needed to talk. Though they had no love for Granya, they
had still lost one of their own to a careless accident. It could have claimed
any one of them.

Glenys
fussed over both Isabeau and Caitlin as a mother duck over her ducklings.
Isabeau abruptly remembered Glenys had recently suffered a very personal loss,
one that affected her future as well as her family.

Everyone
was soon settled, a mug of warm liquid cupped in hands that ranged from white
and supple to wrinkled and spattered with age spots. Isabeau observed these
women who now were, and would continue to be an important part of her life.
They each in turn had welcomed and counseled her when they could have easily
treated her as a pariah
.

They
were good women, proud to be in service to the Earl of Bennington.

“Glenys?”

“Aye,
milady.” The older woman looked up from her deep contemplation of the green
liquid in her mug.