Sweet Bea (3 page)

The village was quiet this time of day. Most of the women were working the fields, their men eking a living from the sea. Not that he’d made many friends in the village. He stuck to himself for the most part. It was an attractive village. A tidy group of cottages overlooking the sea with their gray stone walls and mellow brown thatch. Not too large, but prosperous and thriving. The sort of place he might have settled, if he were of that mind.

The strike of steel on anvil rang from the forge. Lyman was within, plying his trade. This was Garrett’s half day and Lyman expected him later. He would spend the remainder of his day pounding out farm implements. He reversed his path and slipped behind a series of cottages so he wouldn’t pass the open smithy door. Lyman liked company and if he caught sight of him, the smith would want to visit. Garrett needed to gather himself.

Carefully he skirted a bustling cluster of hens. He’d found work with the local blacksmith. The forge was hotter than hell and the work hard, but it fed him and put a roof over his head while he drew Lady Beatrice into his trap. His timing was perfect. Sir Arthur was away from Anglesea. No keen eyes to watch his youngest daughter or question the new smith’s apprentice.

As soon as Lady Beatrice gave him the ripe prize of her virginity, he’d be off again, stopping only long enough to ensure Sir Arthur knew what Garrett had taken from his youngest daughter. Sodding Sir Arthur of Anglesea would pay dearly for what he’d done to Garrett’s mother. Behind the forge, large wooden shutters were open to allow heat to escape. Garrett ducked beneath the sill and crept toward the small hut Lyman had given him.

Lady Beatrice had been hot for him today. His rod throbbed in agreement. It was a good thing he lusted for Beatrice, or it might’ve made his plan a bit more difficult. Truth was, he wanted her and it fit neatly with his aim. Had she been any other girl, he might have pursued the same goal regardless.

It wasn’t her doing her father was Sir Arthur of Anglesea. She disarmed him at times, but he chose not to dwell on that. He wouldn’t be drawn from his quest for vengeance. It was unfortunate the innocent must suffer alongside the guilty.

The inside of the hut was dim after the bright sunlight. Lilly stirred on his small pallet. Garrett bit back a curse. He had only a few minutes and he wanted to spend them savoring his victory. Planning his next step. Lilly and her visits were an annoyance. She no longer demanded payment, but Lilly had her own mouths to feed. He gave her what he could spare.

Her gaze dropped to the front of his braies. “It looks as if you were expecting me.”

“What are you doing here, Lilly?” As if he didn’t know. The ache in his rod was persistent enough to stop him from sending her about her business immediately. As Lilly was here and keen, she could take care of it for him.

She rose and padded on the packed earth floor toward him. Lilly was pretty, buxom, and rosy-cheeked. Her hand slipped past his belt and curled around him. She murmured appreciatively as she stroked.

Garrett closed his eyes. Beatrice, flaxen hair streaming over his arm, her mouth full and soft, her lush body pressed to his. He groaned.

“You are a big lad, Garrett.” Lilly giggled against his ear.

The giggling irked him. He concentrated on the skilled motion of her hand.

“I am glad I could get away for a bit,” Lilly said. “It is not easy when Gil is up and about.”

Garrett caught her wrist. She looked up at him with a murmur of protest.

“Speaking of your son?”

Lilly rolled her eyes and stuck out her bottom lip. “Jesu, Garrett, but you fret more about my boy than his own da.”

“Where is your boy, Lilly?”

“He is with his auntie,” Lilly said.

“Did he eat today?”

“Aye, Garrett, the boy ate today.”

“And you bought him shoes with the money I gave you?”

“Aye, Garrett, I bought shoes. He will only outgrow them, you know.”

“Good.” Garrett released her wrist.

Lilly got back to work.

He liked Lilly; they were friends of a sort, but he wouldn’t tolerate her ignoring her young son. Not for the first time he thought Lilly might be seeing him as a replacement father. It was time to end their arrangement. As soon as she’d taken care of his aching balls.

Despite Nurse’s preparations, nobody called for Beatrice, so she visited her mother. She couldn’t believe her mother wouldn’t recover. Sir Arthur would have stayed if he knew his lady was in mortal peril. He adored his Lady Mary. Women older than her mother had babies all the time. Still, she couldn’t rid herself of the worry curled viper-like around the dark recesses of her mind.

Her mother had looked tired and a trifle wan, but seemed in good spirits. For once, she and her mother had been in perfect accord.

Winding down the staircase, Beatrice wanted to do something to cheer her mother up. Mayhap she could gather her some fresh flowers from the meadow. Or finish her embroidery without the entire thing becoming an unrecognizable snarl. There wasn’t much chance of that happening and flowers were too commonplace.

She wanted to do something to take her mother’s breath away. Something big, that would stand out in the family history. Garrett’s face flickered across her mind. Such a thing would certainly warrant mention in the family history. Unfortunately, for all the wrong reasons.

Voices drifted up the stairwell. Henry, her brother, spoke.

Her uncle replied.

Beatrice quickened her step. Visitors were always welcome, and her uncle, doubly so.

“You should not have come here,” Henry said.

Beatrice stopped. She couldn’t have heard right. Henry was as fond of Godfrey as she.

“This is madness,” Henry continued.

“Calm your fire, Henry,” Godfrey replied. “And keep your voice down. Anyone might be listening.”

The screens were empty. Nobody was in the dim corridor leading to the kitchens. The people of the keep were preparing for the evening meal.

“She shouldn’t have come.” Henry’s voice came softer now as he heeded their uncle’s warning.

“I had no choice.” Faye?

Beatrice’s heart gave a happy leap. Her sister was here, too. She took a quick step forward.

“You have placed us all in terrible danger.” Henry’s words stopped her a second time.

“Where else would I go?” Faye replied.

Beatrice’s pulse quickened. She should announce herself. If she did, however, the conversation would stop, as it always did when she approached. Beatrice hesitated. Her mother wouldn’t approve of listening to a conversation that didn’t include her. Perhaps, because her mother didn’t need to listen in secret. Nobody ever kept things from Lady Mary.

Beatrice stole closer and peered through the decorative carving at the top of the screens.

Henry and Godfrey stood at the opposite end of the hall, their heads close together.

Faye stood nearby, dressed for traveling with her hood thrown back. Her pale blond hair had escaped its braid and mud splattered Faye’s cloak to the knees.

Beatrice had never seen her sister as disarrayed.

Her nephews were here, too.

Beatrice almost gave up her hiding place.

Sir Gregory, the knight who always accompanied Faye, stood patiently to the side with the children. Little Arthur curled up in the large man’s arms. His sweet face was pressed against the knight’s tunic, his mouth open in sleep. Young Simon gripped Sir Gregory’s thigh with one arm. The knight dropped his hand and touched the top of Simon’s golden head, his large, rough hand so gentle on the child. Gregory took no part in the quiet conversation between Godfrey, Faye, and Henry.

Damn. She couldn’t hear them from here. Of course, if somebody were to remain concealed beyond the group, behind the great tapestry portraying one of her father’s numerous victories, then that person would hear everything said. And one could reach the tapestry through the chapel.

Beatrice crept out of the screens passage and raced back up the stairs. She slowed as she crossed before her mother’s chamber, but pelted the rest of the way toward the secondary staircase. From here, it was easy to slip through the back of the chapel and find the entrance concealed by the tapestry. She was breathing heavily by the time she reached the small alcove beside the entrance. She took a moment to calm her breathing before she snuck closer.

“Do you have the money?” Godfrey asked.

“Nay.” Henry sighed and muttered something Beatrice couldn’t quite catch, but she did hear the word scutage. The king had levied the tax once again, shortly before her father decided to join the other barons in their Army of God.

“Is there any truth to these allegations?” Godfrey asked as parchment crackled.

If she dared peer around the edge of the tapestry, she’d be directly in Henry’s line of sight. She contented herself with merely listening.

“Of course there is no truth,” Faye replied. One of the children murmured and Faye lowered her voice. “My father would never abuse his position as sheriff in such an unconscionable manner.”

“Of course he would not,” Godfrey replied in his smooth, deep voice, good for stories and soothing. “But the king does not have to provide evidence to damn your father. The rumor alone will cause dissent amongst the rebel barons. The burden lies with your father to prove the king wrong.”

“If he were here,” Henry continued stiffly, “he would answer these ridiculous charges in an instant. The king only charges him now because he is not here. It is despicable.” Something thumped the table and made Beatrice jump. Must be Henry. He was a table pounder.

The baby’s startled wail cut the air.

Hurried footsteps and Faye shushed him.

“It is called politics, dear boy.” Godfrey spoke quietly. “And it is a battleground on which you had best tread warily.”

“I cannot send for my father,” Henry said.

“But you must.” Faye’s voice shook.

Beatrice desperately wanted to see what was happening.

“It is impossible,” Henry snapped.

If it were a simple matter of answering charges, her father should be here to do so. She wished she knew how it all worked, but her knowledge was somewhat vague. Her oldest brother, Roger, might explain it to her. Henry would rather have his toenails drawn than explain things to a simple girl.

“Indeed,” Godfrey replied. “Not with the way matters are poised in London. I am not long back from there and tensions are high. Arthur must remain in London, for the sake of the kingdom.”

Her father shouldn’t stay in London. He was needed right here, by his family.

“We have to do something.” Faye spoke. “As soon as Calder realizes I am gone, he will look here for me.”

Why would Faye’s husband not know she is here?
Faye never did anything without approval. She’d been Sir Arthur’s flawless older daughter, married brilliantly, and spent her days being Calder’s perfect wife and mother to his heirs.

“You might have thought of that before you rushed heedlessly for Anglesea.”

Boots rapped against the floor.

Beatrice wanted to smack Henry for speaking thus to Faye. She held her breath to hear Faye’s response.

“I needed to warn you of what Calder plans.”

“I understand, Faye, but by being here you have placed us all in danger. Calder will come for you.”

“He will not come for me.”

“He will come for his boys then.” Henry could be such pompous oaf at times.

“Whist, children,” Godfrey chided. “We have enough trouble without fighting amongst ourselves.”

Beatrice wanted to cheer her uncle.

“Can you pay the sum your father is being accused of stealing?”

Fabric rustled in the silence. Henry spoke. “Nay. I would not do it, regardless. It goes against everything in me to pay money to that thieving scoundrel.”

“That thieving scoundrel,” said Godfrey, “is your king. I would have a care how you speak of him. Especially if you do so where people can hear.”

“Nobody is listening now,” Henry grumbled, his voice growing softer as footsteps moved away.

I am.
Only part of the conversation made sense to her. The king had accused her father of stealing money. It was preposterous. Anyone who knew Sir Arthur would recognize the idea as ludicrous. The king knew her father. He’d been great favorite with King John. Then something had happened. She didn’t rightly recall because she had been a few years younger, but she did remember her father’s anger and lots of visitors coming to the castle to speak with him.

Mostly what she remembered of that time was her betrothal. The first of the three. And how it had ended. It was one of the first times her father had ever raised his voice to her. She shouldn’t have punched Ralph in the nose, but he had pulled her hair.

“What of Calder?” Godfrey asked.

She would’ve asked about that before now.

“Calder is King John’s man,” Faye replied. “He plans to stand with the king against father.”

“Calder has joined sides with the king?” Godfrey asked. “This is a surprise.”

It was indeed.

The footsteps approached again, tapping quickly as their owner paced, probably Henry.

“Aye,” Faye said. “He despises the French. He would lief see the king keep his throne than see it given to a Frenchman.”

“We all despise the bloody French.” Godfrey chuckled. “But they are a necessary evil. After seeing how he ousted John at Bouvines, King Philip may have the might to tip this in our favor.”

“Still.” Henry made a noise in the back of his throat expressive of his displeasure. He normally saved those for when she was in sight. “I had not thought to see the day we would offer our throne to a Frenchman.”

“Like many, I do not see the alternative,” Godfrey said. A chair creaked. “John’s reign is a disaster. Richard was bad enough with his incessant wars. He nearly made beggars of the lot of us. The timing is diabolically clever,” Godfrey continued. “You are shorthanded here. Your father left you only enough men to hold the keep. Calder has the perfect excuse to lay siege here.”

“I had to come,” Faye said. “Calder is changed. He is not the man I married.”