Memories of the Heart (19 page)

Although to secure his goals Lord James must deal with the likes of these two halfwits, he was not so foolish as to trust them even so little as one step further than necessary.

“Then why are we here?” Ulrich issued his demand from between clenched teeth. He had slipped away from Westbourne at no small danger to himself. Then he had joined his brother and the escaped prisoner for the journey to this site.

“Why, indeed?” James sneered in disgust. “I didn't summon you.”

“You ordered the Welshman's rescue.” The churlish Simeon argued with his leader. “And the success of that task could never have been accomplished without Ulrich's aid.”

Ulrich was stunned by what might almost seem praise from a brother who had never before wasted such effort on him. The next instant his bushy brows almost audibly crashed together in a stormy scowl. Simeon did nothing without purpose so what price this praise?

“'Struth,” Lord James nodded, mirthless humor turning his lips more clearly down than upward. “And the actions of you both are noted with my sincere appreciation. However, you were
not
instructed to bring the former prisoner to me here.”

“You would've had us abandon Lloyd only to be recaptured in Westbourne's forests?” Simeon gasped. “What reason, then, for tempting fate with our dangerous rescue of him?”

James's laughter mocked Simeon's questions. “Surely every Welshman is able to vanish in the greenwood without a Norman's help.”

Lloyd stifled a wry smile. It was true. Left alone in the woodland, he would never be found unless he wished it so.

“No matter,” James continued, glaring at the errant brothers. “Lloyd is here and you may leave him with me—” A vicious smile appeared on the man's thick lips. “But begone yourselves.”

While watching the unpleasant siblings retreat, Lloyd realized that each of these three men distrusted the other two. He could understand why Lord James took no risks by sharing his plans with the brothers. But it was plain to Lloyd that the Norman baron intended to defeat Lord Taliesan on King Stephen's behalf, thus earning his sovereign's gratitude—and likely the conquered and lucrative borderlands for himself.

Chapter 15

Ceri stepped from the solar and quietly shut the door behind. The hour was late and the corridor dividing the castle's highest level was only dimly lit by malodorous tallow candles set in metal rings intermittently driven like nails into wooden walls.

A faint sound, now familiar, caught Ceri's attention as she passed a door slightly ajar. But although the soft sound was the same, the location was different. The family chapel would remain unusable for so long as it was filled with the supplies of various village artisans who daily applied a fresh coat of color to panels depicting the life of Christ. Because Edith was barred from her preferred site for prayers, she'd apparently retreated to the at least temporary privacy of the shared bedchamber.

After delivering this evening's mulled wine to the solar where Lady Angwen quietly worked on the tapestry while Lady Blanche toiled on a smaller project of her own, she'd wondered why neither her aunt nor Lady Edith was present. Yet Ceri wasn't surprised to discover the girl humbly on her knees with a head of nearly colorless hair bowed deeply over hands clasped palm to palm. She'd come to realize it was the position most natural for Edith. Yet Edith's habitual failure to tightly close doors and ensure solitude was puzzling.

“Lady Edith—” While gently calling, Ceri wondered if the constant and near public prayers of this young bride-to-be were a subconscious cry for help to avert an unwanted alliance?

Face turning toward the open portal, Edith's expression was initially that of a tender doe startled by the hunter but soon softened by recognition of her visitor.

Ceri quietly pushed the door wider and stepped inside. “I've just come from delivering mulled wine to the solar, mayhap you…”

Beneath Ceri's tender gaze a single tear trailed down the girl's cheek. Wanting to comfort whatever had so deeply upset Edith, she moved toward the still kneeling figure and gently dried the damp streak with her forefinger. However, to Ceri's own distress that consoling gesture brought not peace but a flood of silent tears.

“What is it that troubles you?” Ceri asked again, compassion softening the hue of her eyes to a green mist. “I would do anything to ease your woe.”

Edith was warmed by sincere concern again given by someone so recently a stranger after she had known very little of that honest emotion from any other, save her twin. Then, slowly shaking her head, Edith mournfully answered. “No one can change what must be done nor alter the path that I must follow.”

Ceri quietly pursued what seemed the most likely source for Edith's distress. “Do you regret your soon coming betrothal to Lord Taliesan?”

“We will never be wed,” Edith flatly stated, guilt darkening her eyes.

“You don't intend to wed Lord Tal?” Despite having assumed that this girl wished to escape the proposed union, Ceri was disconcerted by her tone of finality and worried over the revelation's timing. “The betrothal is only days away.”

“I will wed Christ,” Edith responded with a strained smile. “Then, as is my destiny, I'll retire to a nunnery and spend the length of my earthly days in prayerful worship.”

“But what of Lord Tal?” Ceri's anxiety for him paradoxically joined worry for the success of Edith's dream to put a tremor in her voice. That she had no more desire to see the union sanctified than had Edith only made Ceri feel guilty for having pursued her own selfish quest.

The question brought a fresh storm of tears from the young girl burying her face in shaking hands while gulping out, “He is the price that must be yielded for the right to claim my destiny.”

Ceri realized infinitely more was involved here than merely the prospect of future betrothal oaths broken—a stain upon the one committing such a wrong, yet only that.

“But what of Westbourne's alliance with Farleith? What of Tal?” Ceri firmly refused to let the panic within show.

“I don't know.” Edith's sincerity was as obvious as her despair.

“How can Tal be a price to be forfeited?” Nothing Edith said made sense to Ceri which only made matters more perplexing.

“A daughter is valuable only in the bonds to be formed and confirmed by marital union.” Edith gazed forlornly into Ceri's troubled eyes. “I am my father's only daughter and he refuses to waste such a useful pawn on the church. Thus he won't allow my retreat into the Abbey of St. Anne, a religious house near our keep which he endowed.”

Ceri's puzzlement showed in the faint frown marring a smooth brow beneath ebony ringlets escaped from her coiled braids. “But then to become a nun do you mean to defy your father's will and enter holy orders without his approval?”

“Nay.” As Edith fervently shook her head strands of extremely fine hair became tangled in pale eyelashes. “He would soon arrive to fetch me home and the good sisters of the abbey would have to surrender me to him as their patron.”

Ceri persisted in her attempt to understand the other's reasoning. “Then how do you plan to win the goal to be a nun?”

“My father bartered with me.” As Edith confessed a shameful truth her sad smile took on a rueful, downward curve. “In return for my willing compliance in coming to Castle Westbourne and faithfully reporting all that I observe, he agreed to later give me over to the abbey life.”

Ceri frowned. This deceptively simple revelation set warning fires ablaze.

Was it possible that danger lay not, as many assumed, in Bendale but rather in Farleith? Edith had clearly been sent to spy on Tal. But what of any use to Lord James of Farleith could be learned?

Hah, Ceri berated herself for acting the moonstruck fool too distracted to see what stood plainly before her. What difference did the nature of stolen news make? With whatever knowledge was gained the baron intended to conquer Westbourne, taking Tal's home and perhaps his life.

She must act to see her love protected—and maybe Edith's dream won.

Dropping to her knees at Edith's side, Ceri placed one forefinger beneath a small chin and gently but insistently lifted the girl's wan face until their gazes met.

“Do you believe Christ will welcome a bride who comes to him by the slaying of another of His children?” Ceri calmed her own apprehensions to speak with the earnestness of a faith she was certain Edith shared. “The priests say that God forgives all who honestly seek redemption, but do your actions demonstrate either honesty or a sincere desire for forgiveness?”

Edith's shoulders shook while gasping sobs accompanied a fresh torrent of tears. Ceri took the girl into a gently consoling hold.

Once Edith's composure was regained, the two of them talked seriously far into the darkest hours of night. And by the time Ceri rose to depart, hopeful plans had been laid which were meant to see the menacing beast of looming evil tamed.

*   *   *

“Prithee, Lady Edith—” In a seemingly pain-frail voice, Blanche called from her position stretched out atop the bed with a cool cloth on her brow.

Edith, one hand already on the door latch of the bedchamber she shared with this other lady guest, meekly glanced back toward the speaker.

“As you reach the dais in the great hall, tell our hostess that I beg leave from the day's last meal.” Blanche limply pressed trembling fingertips to the folded cloth. “Yesterday's nasty assault on my head has returned. And I fear the throbbing pain can only be quelled by seeking a quiet evening in the gloom of this deserted chamber.”

Edith nodded, recognizing the unspoken demand for privacy in Lady Blanche's choice of words. “I will carry your message to Lady Angwen—and pray for your relief from pain.”

Blanche suspected a hint of mockery lay in the other's offer of sympathy. However, now was not the time to challenge this young girl, Taliesan's unfortunate choice for bride.

Once alone in the chamber, Blanche hastily rose to garb herself in a voluminous, dark cloak with a hood well able to hide bright hair and cast her face into impenetrable shadow. Certain that no others remained on this level, she crept silently down the hallway. Then, standing in the landing's gloom, she waited until the sound of distant footsteps on stone faded into the dull roar of the rapidly filling great hall.

Blanche's next challenge lay in remaining unseen by houseserfs ever moving between kitchens and crowded hall while she stepped from stone stairwell into and then through entrance tunnel to reach the outgoing portal. After descending the exterior's wooden steps, she rushed toward stables left deserted while the evening meal was in progress.

Guardsmen posted above the incoming gate and along the parapet walkway would be watching for movement beyond the palisade walls and uninterested in figures passing from one spot to another within the castle's own courtyard. She meant to be hidden amongst stable shadows before Taliesan returned from his day's duties.

Blanche's wait was longer than expected. However, because her purpose was too important to put at risk with foolish impatience she forced restraint over the instinct to compel a quicker resolution.

At last the creaking chains of a lowered drawbridge announced the earl's return. Blanche smiled yet remained unmoving in the shadows while listening to the firm echo of hooves. The approach of a single horse reassured her that Tal was returning alone. Saddle leather creaked as he swung down to lead his magnificent steed into a waiting stall.

“Tal,” Blanche quietly spoke, tone carefully modulated to hold both concern and allure. “I've come seeking a private word with you.”

Having welcomed the rare gift of being alone, Taliesan went still against this proof that he was wrong, unpleasantly wrong.

“Lady Blanche—” Tal turned an impassive face toward the call's source. “What would you have of me?”

“
Lady
Blanche?” The faint reproach in repeated words implied wounded feelings. “Surely we know each other far too well for such chill formality.”

Her words, rather than warming Tal's response, added ice to his voice as he said, “Much has happened since last we spoke less formally.”

“Aye,” Blanche nodded with a fine show of regret. “Many things, not the least of which was a beginning to the war for royal succession.”

“'Struth.” Tal was grateful that she hadn't gone on to remind him of their unsavory liaison which he'd regretted since the day in his youth when it had begun. “You wed King Stephen's staunch supporter, the elderly baron, Sir Huge of Borrough, while I stand loyal to my foster father's sister, the Empress.”

“Mine was an unfortunate alliance formed to secure my brother's safety against royal retribution.” Blanche studied Tal's expression. It was clear that he didn't view her words as a worthy explanation. Thus, she attempted to rouse his sympathy.

“Don't you see, the king would never attack Bendale so long as his supporter was wed to me—even though Morton has yet to find the will to choose a single path or leader to follow.”

“Mayhap.”

The man's succinct reply left it clear to Blanche that in his eyes this further explanation in no way strengthened her excuse. Plainly her words, rather than moving them closer, had inserted a wedge that widened the divide between them. Still intent on mending the breach, in an unnaturally sweet voice she reminded him of another fact.

“You clearly understood such logic when you employed the same in choosing as bride the daughter of another of the king's supporters.”

“Is that why you crept through the night to ambush me here?” A wry thread of mockery curled through Tal's tone as he asked, “Do you mean to warn me against wedding the innocent Edith for fear it will end as badly as did your marriage?”