Betrothed (3 page)

Carrie
grabbed the jug with her free hand, and stumbling to her feet, fled.

He
turned back to Isabeau. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. “I ought
to strip you bare and flail your flesh from your useless hide for your
insolence. You
will
learn your place.”

Reflexively,
her hands went to her head in an attempt to shield her scalp. He tugged twice
and then unexpectedly released his grip. Isabeau was thrown off balance and
fell to the dirty rushes.

 Simon
kicked out at her—a glancing blow only--as he stomped from the hall. He
continued to verbally curse. Why had he stopped? 

Shivering,
Isabeau dropped onto the closest chair—the as yet unused lady’s throne. Simon’s
restraint was more frightening than his rage. She dropped her face into her
hands and muffled the sob. He had blatantly struck another for her misdeed.

The
people of Olivet would truly be better off since her presence here only
elicited Simon’s ire. If she had any doubts as to her course of action, they
had been dispelled. She could no longer delay. She needed to get away from
Olivet. With a strengthening breath she stood on legs that no longer shook.
There was work to do.

Avoiding
any curious eyes, she made her way to the haven of her small room, sneaking a
significant supply of tapers on the way. She wouldn’t be making the household
inventory so hopefully the dip in stores would not be noticed until after her
departure. She barred her door and set to work.

Her
eyes burned and she lost count of the number of times she stabbed her fingers
with her needle. She sucked at the blood and returned to her stitching.

She
reminded herself repeatedly. She was doing the right thing. This plan was the
only course of action. She had to leave Olivet; go to someone—some place—
impervious to Simon’s retribution. A place she would be welcome and needed. For
a woman, few options were available. For a woman of Isabeau’s station, there
were even fewer. In fact, she had only one.

The
convent. She would take vows and serve God.

There
was some chance she would be turned away, but she had to take the gamble. She
would be going against her legal guardian. Simon would have rejected the
suggestion out of hand, had she approached him; even punished her for her
audacity in asking. The deed must be a “
fait accompli
.”

Once
inside the stone walls of the convent, Simon could do nothing. Could he? 
Would he bother to petition the church for her return or would he wish her good
riddance?  Would he punish another for her absence?

Isabeau
closed her burning eyes against the fear. In the course of time, Simon would
forget. Absent, she would cease to be a constant reminder of Simon’s hatred for
her. She would pray daily for the bodies and souls of those left behind in
Olivet Manor.

Surely,
as a bride of Christ, her prayers would lift swiftly to God’s ears.

Lighting
new tapers from the sputtering pool of the previous candles, Isabeau worked
through the darkest hours of the night. She counted the bells as she tied the
last knot. Rolling up the disguise, she hastily pushed it into her bag
.
She
raced to retrieve foodstuffs from the kitchen before anyone stirred.

It
didn’t take long to find the food packet readied for Malak and pilfer half of
its contents. Thankfully, her estimate of Marley’s generosity had been correct.
The cook had packed enough food for a week, let alone two days. Isabeau and
Malak would both have enough supplies for their travels. She added the bread,
cheese and meat pies to her bag and snagged a wine skin as well.

She
heard Marley call out instructions for beginning the day’s bread as she slipped
through the pre-dawn shadows to the stables. She needed to eat up the distance between
her and Olivet as quickly as possible.

Stealing
a horse was a deadly offense but she knew an animal was necessary for the
journey. Simon had made it clear that she owned nothing within the keep, not
even the palfrey their father had gifted to her.

What
she was about to do could get her hanged.

She
recalled the shattered expression on Carrie’s white face and the red mark on
her cheek. Isabeau shivered as she remembered the look in Lord Kirney’s eyes.

In
the stable, she hushed Meadowlark’s loud neighs of greeting. It had been weeks
since Isabeau had the opportunity to mount her gentle creature. Neither of them
had been allowed a suitable amount of fresh air to settle their bodily humors.
She had fond memories of her father teasing her about spending so much time in
the saddle. He bragged to her grandfather that she could saddle her mount in
the dark. She was about to test his theory.

She
could saddle any of the horses. The noose would be just as tight for one horse
as another. Isabeau knew in her deepest heart she wanted one last sentimental
ride on Meadowlark before she was either sequestered for a lifetime behind
stonewalls or hanging in the wind.

Isabeau
bypassed the sidesaddle and pulled a smaller travel saddle from the pegs. She
lugged the saddle back to Meadowlark when she thought she heard the stirring of
a stable boy. She waited a heartbeat more before sucking in air and deeming the
way clear, backed into the shadows against the wall and held her breath,
praying.

Her
father had been right. She could saddle Meadowlark in the dark.

She
stroked the blaze on the long nose. Tugging the reins downward enough to lower
Meadowlark’s head, she whispered into the animal’s ear.

“Please
be quiet ‘til we get beyond the gate and then you can fly like a bird. We’ll
stretch into the wind as we did as children. No one could catch us. No one will
catch us now.”  Isabeau wondered if her words were plea or prayer.

She
secured her pack to the back of the saddle and led Meadowlark from the dark
stables into the bailey. The stars had already faded and dawn colors streaked
the sky when they reached the road outside of the east gate. It was little used
and rarely watched. Hearing the latch fall back into place behind her, Isabeau
knew she had already gone beyond the threshold of regrets.

Praise
God, she had taught herself to ride astride. Never had she dreamed she would
use the skill in such a bold deception. Pray her disguise was true.

Isabeau
hiked up her skirts and settled into the saddle. She leaned close to
Meadowlark’s mane, and gently squeezed her knees. With a soft snuffle,
Meadowlark began a brisk road-eating ramble.

Isabeau’s
instincts were to start out at a full gallop but such an action was foolhardy.
It was still too dim for fast travel. What good would all her planning be if
Meadowlark broke a leg in a rodent hole?

She
pushed her horse as fast as she dared, all the while waiting for more light and
searching for a suitable place to change into her disguise. She wanted any
early risers who saw her depart to see Lady Isabeau in an old dress rather than
the earl’s messenger leaving twice. If Simon decided to send out searchers, she
did not want them armed with an accurate description.

A
click of her tongue and an easy tug on the reins brought Meadowlark to a halt.
Isabeau surveyed the area closer and then slid from her perch. A well-worn path
led into a patch of trees. She led her palfrey into the grove and twined the
reins on a stout tree branch. Cooing encouragement and gratitude to the animal,
she smoothed her hand down the long neck.

“This
won’t take but a minute, I promise you. Then we’ll be on our way and soon you
will be able to run flat out.” She patted the rear flank as she released the
bulging pack.

Shaking
out the black and gold livery, she hung them over a tree branch and stripped
out of her apron, dress and under-dress. Draping them haphazardly over another
branch, she began to scramble into the breeches and discovered the task wasn’t
as simple as pulling on a pair of woolen stockings. She could put one leg in
the garment but when she attempted to slip her left foot in she promptly lost
her balance, landing on her bottom. The mossy ground cushioned her fall but not
her dignity. Nor her inadvertent oath.

She
cursed aloud at her lack of feminine grace and then giggled. Was she already
getting into the character of a young male taking on the world?  She
reminded herself to get it out of her system before she reached the convent.
The Abbess would surely frown on language peppered with blasphemies.

Isabeau
wiggled into the breeches and pulled them over her hips before she tried to
stand again. She secured the ties and then pulled the tunic and message pouch
over her head. In her makeshift plumage, she must keep a large distance between
herself and those she passed on the road. Solitary travel had always been her
strategy.

She
would be cautious.

She
would be discrete.

She
needed to get back on the road and put some ground behind her.

Quickly
she rolled up her old clothes, attached the bundle to the quaddle, and mounted,
urging Meadowlark back to the road, allowing her a swifter pace now. She
resisted the temptation to go full gallop, for she had a long trip and it would
do her no good to spend her horse on the first leg of journey.

The
sun was directly overhead when she reached the first fork in the road. The
right led to Sir William’s holdings and the left road led to Mandrake. Beyond
Mandrake was the convent.

She
knew the crossroad near Mandrake would hold the most risk. It was at the edge
of the village proper. At least the junction was on her side of the village and
she wouldn’t have to go through or around the settlement to continue her quest.
But people would be nearby. Some might remember Malak passing through not many
days before.

Isabeau
leaned closer to Meadowlark’s mane and urged a swifter pace. If she could find
a place to rest the night just before Mandrake—some place safe and out of
sight—she might be able to circumvent the village in the early morning before
many stirred.

With
that stratagem comforting her tired mind, she sat straight in the saddle with
renewed determination. She had devised a plan, she had begun the execution of
it and now she was only a day away from completion. With any luck, Simon hadn’t
even noticed her absence.

Her
energy began to lag a few hours later as she fell into a doze and nearly
slipped from the saddle. She awoke with a jerk and caught the pummel before she
completely lost her seat. Only her skilled horsemanship prevented a serious
tumble.

The
hollowness in her belly reminded her that not only has she deprived herself of
much needed sleep but that she had forgotten to break her fast in the
excitement of her escape. She passed a couple of fields before the line of
trees again paralleled the road. She found a small break in the greenery where
she thought she could rest—safe from any travelers’ eyes.

The
scrub was thigh high when she slid from the saddle but it didn’t seem to be
filled with thistles and prickles so she gamely led Meadowlark off the road.
She thought she heard something and stopping, hushed Meadowlark long enough to
listen. She almost let out a whoop of joy when she recognized the sound of the
babbling of a stream.

Cool
water. Isabeau hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she heard that welcome
sound. She watered Meadowlark and tethered her near a patch of tender grass
before tending to her own needs.

Not
wanting to dig too deep into her supplies, she ate only a small meat pie. The
light meal seemed to suit her for the time. If the hunger pangs returned she
could nibble later. Kneeling on the water’s edge, she splashed water on her
face and then cupped her palms for several draughts.

 “Are
you lost, lad?” A deep voice with a touch of humor boomed from the break in the
tree line she had used.

The
unexpected intrusion startled Isabeau. She nearly tumbled headfirst into the
creek. Catching her balance, she slowly turned to the large man dressed in
black striding towards her.   

“Nay.”
Her voice cracked and she tried again, this time remembering her role and tried
to deepen her tone. She pulled her hat even tighter on her head. Praise be, she
hadn’t taken it off. “Nay, sir. I know my way.”

“Then
what are you doing here?  What are you about?” Now, a scowl twisted the
firm mouth. The scar marking the side of the interloper’s face from temple to
jaw-line was difficult to ignore. The white line did not make his countenance
hideous; just fierce.

“I
am about the business of the Earl of Bennington.” she stated with false
bravado.

“Are
you now?” The man—heavens, he was big—took two more lengthy strides, placing
his bulk between Isabeau and her horse. His gauntleted hand rested securely on
the hilt of his sword.

“Aye.”
Her voice cracked again.
“ ’Twould
be unwise to
interfere with Bennington’s messenger. His revenge would be swift and vicious.”

“Would
it, now?” The smile that curved his mouth twisted the fear churning in her
belly. It appeared he had no fear for the legendary Donovan d’Allyonshire,
second Earl of Bennington; King Edward’s favored warrior. So why would he fear
her—no matter her guise? 

“Carstairs?
A moi,” he called over his shoulder as he continued his steady approach. Another
figure filled the opening in the trees and Isabeau knew she was lost.

Pray, let them kill me quick.

“Aye,
my lord?”

The
first man waved a gauntlet in her direction—not his sword arm, she noticed.
“This pup states quite boldly that he is doing Bennington’s business.”

“Does
he?”

Isabeau
could feel her color leach under the intense scrutiny of both men.

“ ’Tis
the Bennington livery, all right,” The
second man added after he made a head to toe survey. “How many Bennington
messengers are on the road?”

Isabeau
took a step back and slipped on the slick bank. She would have gone backwards
into the water if not for the snake-like reactions of the first man. He grasped
her forearm and yanked her forward. “Just the one.”

“And
even I can tell that is not young Malak. For one thing, he is much too quiet,”
the second man commented humorously.

“What
has happened to my man?” the scarred one demanded menacingly as he shook her.
“As you so rightly brayed, my revenge is swift and vicious. What have you done
to Malak that you wear his clothes?”

Isabeau’s
mouth went dry as she comprehended exactly who had crossed her path.

By the saints, she was dead.

She
tried to find words—any words that could save her life. Of all people to meet, she
never dreamed she would encounter the earl himself. She swallowed and coughed
on the dry knot in her throat.

“My
--my lord. I meant no harm. I have done no harm. Malak should safely be on his
way to Montrose as we speak. He was to leave Olivet Manor this very morn.”

He
shook her arm again. “Then what is the meaning of this?  How do you come
to be wearing his clothes?  Did you even leave him his breeches?  Or
is he going bare-assed?”

Her
cheeks began to burn. “I swear Malak has come to no harm, nor is he—bare-assed.
I wear a copy of his livery only.”

His
intense dark blue stare of appraisal sent shivers through her. “A poor
imitation of my livery. You can thank shoddy tailoring for adding a few hours
to your life, pup.”

“Please,
let me go. I only wished to travel un-accosted. I hoped no one would hinder my
passage. I meant no ill.”

“I
don’t believe you.” He pulled Isabeau towards Meadowlark and then grabbed the
palfrey’s reins with his free hand. “I’ll not let you out of my sight until I
have proof Malak has come to no harm. You say he was at Olivet this morning?”

“Aye,”
she nodded breathlessly.

“Carstairs,
tell the men there will be a change in our travel plans.”

“Aye,
my lord.” Carstairs turned back to the road.

“We
now travel to Montrose with a stop at Olivet on the way.”

“No,”
Isabeau sobbed. She tried to recover but she could feel her hope withering. “I
tell you, Malak is no longer at Olivet. He is on his way to Montrose.”

“What
are you?  A thief?  Did you rob Olivet of a bobble or two?  I’ll
have Carstairs go through your packs before we set out. I’m sure Olivet will
know what to do with a petty thief.”

She
stumbled, trying to keep up with his long legs. Her head brushed against the
earl’s shoulder and shifted her worn hat. The movement apparently caught his
eye for he turned his attention back to her and he halted so fast she cannoned
into him. Again, he kept her on her feet.

“What
is this?” He whipped the cap off before she could blink, revealing her braids.
“A female?  Just who are you?”

Isabeau
wanted to cry but she tilted her chin and held back the tears burning her eyes.
“I’m Lady Isabeau d’Olivet. My brother is Simon, Lord d’Olivet.”

Letting
go of both Meadowlark’s reins and her cap, he gripped both her arms and lifted
her to her toes. “What is the meaning of this?  What fool idea got in your
female head that you would venture this far from home in such a pitiful
masquerade?”

“It
wasn’t pitiful,” she defiantly snapped. “I didn’t have time for my best
stitches. No one else but you would have accosted me.”

“And
just where were you headed?”

There
was no hope for it. Isabeau briefly closed her eyes and licked her lips. “I was
on my way to the Sisters of Saint Ignatius.”

“The
convent?” His anger turned to astonishment. “For what purpose?”

“Why,
to take vows?  What other reason?”

He
recaptured the reins and began to usher her back to the road. “What other
reason could there be?  Do you know how far the convent is?  You have
another full day’s ride. On your own?  I wager you have never slept alone
beneath the stars in your pampered life. And you thought to go such a
distance?”

At
the road’s edge, he threw her up into the saddle and gave the reins to
Carstairs. “I don’t believe you. In fact, there is little about your tale that
I credit. A lady of gentle birth taking to the road without escort?  In
the guise of courier?  We will go to Olivet and verify your story.”

Isabeau
rode in silence. She gripped the saddle until her fingers turned white and her
nails cut into the leather. What was she to do now?  She would not only
have to face Simon’s punishment but now she had brought Bennington’s wrath down
about her ears. He thought she had brought Malak to a dire end. He had little
reason to trust her or show her mercy.

She
tried to remember the tales her father had told her of Donovan’s heroic
exploits. How his battle campaigns had brought victory in the name of King
Edward III. He fought without fear. His battle-plans were without flaws. He
meted out justice with a cool and relentless hand.

Though
only in his twenty-seventh year, he had worn the mantel and responsibilities of
Earl of Bennington for nearly a decade. His father had fallen in battle,
fighting for the king and Donovan became liege lord of Isabeau’s father as well
as the other noblemen in the region. His every action had become legend among
his people as with every mission, he exceeded his father’s deeds. Where some
knights might go tourneying -- adding prestige and riches -- Bennington went to
battle.