The Longing (10 page)

Then they might yet be within the walls. “See to your duties,” he said and hurried through the door another squire opened for him.

As he stepped down into the inner bailey, the great chains of the drawbridge rent the silence—the sound of descent rather than ascent, meaning there was no need to run. The portcullis would not be raised until the drawbridge’s journey was at its end and a final check was made of the land before the walls.

He passed from the torchlit inner bailey into the outer. Ahead and to the left, facing outward before the portcullis, were three mounted horses, and standing alongside the largest of the mantled figures was Sir Rowan who ceased conversing with Sir Elias the moment he caught sight of the one who advanced upon them.

When the last of the chains let out and the drawbridge settled to the ground with a great thump that rolled like thunder beneath Everard’s boots, Sir Rowan called, “My lord!”

Sir Elias looked around. Even in the dim, shuddering light of torches, there was something about the turn of his mouth that told he did not believe Everard had come to wish them Godspeed. “The extra mount for the boy is much appreciated, Lord Wulfrith,” he said.

Everard had ordered that it be provided for Judas to speed their journey, but now—

“That is, of course, if one is needed,” Sir Elias added.

Everard claimed the space vacated by Sir Rowan, noted the knight’s battered face looked little better in the dim light than it had on the night past. “’Tis not needed, for you are not leaving Wulfen—not this day.”

The knight raised his eyebrows.

Everard shifted his gaze past him to Judas who looked almost small and vulnerable upon so large a horse as he peered at the lord of Wulfen Castle. Everard inclined his head. “Dismount and return the horses to the stables.”

As the boy and knight complied, the woman on the far side remained unmoving. Though her face was turned toward Everard, it was too deeply shadowed by her hood to confirm she was pleased by the turn of events. But she must be.

Everard skirted the horses and halted alongside her. “I have said you may dismount, Lady Susanna.”

Her expression no more visible as she looked down upon him, she said, “Why have you changed your mind?”

For Judith. “For Judas,” he allowed, for it was also true. He looked to the right where the boy and Sir Elias followed Sir Rowan in leading their horses toward the stables. “Methinks
he
may be worth saving.”

He did not hear her sigh, but as he returned his gaze to her, he saw the plume of her long, slow exhale. However, sharply contrasting with her relief was her grip upon the saddle’s pommel—so tight her arm trembled.

“I thank you, Lord Wulfrith.” Her voice was not much more than a whisper.

Bothered by his inability to read her expression, Everard said, “You may wish to save your thanks until you know the conditions under which you will be allowed to remain at Wulfen.” Doubtless, she would be far from pleased.

“Anything you ask,” she said.

He narrowed his gaze on her—a useless endeavor. But even if her face could be seen, something told him it would not reflect what she had earlier implied. “’Tis good we are agreed,” he said and, though the side of him that had cause to dislike her was tempted to leave her to dismount on her own, he reached to her.

She made no move to lean toward him but continued to hold tight to the pommel.

“Lady Susanna,” he prompted.

“Forgive me, I…” A pitiful sound escaped her, her hand dropped from the pommel, and she fell forward over the horse’s neck.

Though Everard would later question whether or not she had been in any real danger of tumbling to the ground, he lunged forward and pulled her down into his arms.

As he settled her against his chest, her hood dropped back and torchlight cast the shadows of her lashes across the tops of her cheeks and lit a face so nearly bloodless he might have thought her dead if not for her breath upon the air. What disquieted him nearly as much was her weight. As thin as she was, he would not have expected it to require much effort to bear her, but not as little as this—and less even if not for her thick mantle and gown. Whatever Susanna de Balliol’s sins, fleshly or otherwise, she was not well.

Knowing what had unfolded before the portcullis had been in view of many of those upon the walls, Everard resented the spectacle that had surely distracted the young men from their purpose. And for this—always this—women were not allowed at Wulfen.

As he strode toward the inner bailey and the donjon beyond, he glanced once more at the one he had let in. Judas was worth saving, but Lady Susanna…

As Sir Elias said, it was likely too late for her.

CHAPTER TEN

It was a feeling not unlike being borne upon water—the uncertainty of rising and falling over restless waves and the fear that when next one fell, they would go under. And not come up again.

Seeking to assure herself she was not in water, that she would not drown, Susanna told her lids to open. They refused and her body rose and fell again and she felt the prickle of water upon every inch of her skin that portended it would soon sweep over her and fill her nose and mouth. Thus, she promised herself she would but look out upon the waterless world for only a moment. Her eyes agreed and lids creaked open.

Above her, a ceiling. Left and right, the posters of a bed. In the doorway, a wavering figure that wavered no more when it disappeared. She would not drown. Not this day.

Her lids lowered and she nearly went adrift again, but the question of Judas pried her consciousness wider. “Where?” she croaked out of a mouth so painfully dry she thought drowning would not be so bad if she could only wet her lips and tongue before dying.

She forced her eyes open to narrow slits. The room was not the same as the one she had first been given—

She gasped.

When had she left that chamber where she had flung viands and drink against its door? This day? The day past? All she knew for certain was it had been before Everard Wulfrith appeared in the outer bailey and said her nephew might be worth saving.

Answered prayer. Nearly too late, but answered despite the sins of the one who had groveled for Judas to be blessed. Thus, the man who had refused to give aid had been moved to change his mind. As if unaware of the urging of God—or unwilling to acknowledge it—he had said he did it for Judas, but if he did it for anyone, surely it was for Judith. What did that say of a man who, with eleven years behind him, violated the castle’s edict that no women were allowed within and gave shelter to the son of a man he surely hated?

That he had loved and might still love the woman who had become her brother's wife…

Susanna sighed over something she had once hoped to attain herself, and which was too late to attain now.

Emotion filled her throat and she tried to unblock it, but it hurt to swallow.

She whimpered, turned her head to the right, and was grateful the bedside table was in that direction so she did not have to expend the strength to look opposite. The dagger she had surrendered upon entering Wulfen Castle lay there, but it was of no interest in light of the cup she had hoped into existence. Not caring what it contained providing it was wet, she turned onto her side and, with a shaking hand, reached for it. Her fingers fell short. With effort that dizzied her more than any amount of wine had ever done, she edged nearer. But still the cup exceeded her reach, and she thought that if she were not so dry, she would cry.

“Please,” she whispered and shifted toward the mattress edge. It was too much. Once more overwhelmed by the feeling of being upon water, of it sweeping over her, her quaking hand and straining fingers dropped to the table and she heard something fall to the floor.

Not the cup…

When she broke the surface, she could not say how long she had been under, only that her thirst was worse and she did not care to whom the approaching footsteps or voice belonged. All that mattered was the cup and, blessedly, when she opened her eyes again, it was still on the table.

Gripping the mattress edge, she dragged herself higher up the bed. The tip of one finger grazed the cup’s base, and a sob escaped her. It was as if someone played a cruel game, giving her hope for something that would ever be just out of reach.

And that someone was here, pulling her hand away, placing himself between her and the cup, raising her up, settling her against something firm and so warm that she only then realized how cold she was. All that had mattered was her thirst. And now there was no hope—

“Drink,” he said, and she felt the rim of a cup against her bottom lip, caught the scent of wine, and saw the red depths beneath her nose.

Yet more cruelty? Placing it within reach only to snatch it away?

She raised her chin and startled to find it was Everard Wulfrith against whose side she was pressed where he sat upon the mattress—his arm around her waist supporting her, his hand offering the cup, his body that smelled of earth and toil, his grey-green eyes frowning into hers.

“Drink,” he repeated.

For fear he would, indeed, snatch it away, she brought both hands up, clasped them over his upon the cup, and gulped as much as she could draw into her mouth.

“Slowly,” he said, easily overpowering her to lower the cup.

She started to protest, but then the rim was against her lips again, and he said, “Slowly, Lady Susanna, else you will not keep it down.”

She tried, but time and again he had to pull the cup away and draw his thumb across her bottom lip to prevent droplets from falling upon her bliaut.

He could not have liked the amount of time it took to drain the cup, which surely seemed as long to him as it did to her, but finally the last drop was had and he set the cup on the table.

She tilted her head back against the bulky muscles of his arm and shoulder and peered into his face. “More,” she whispered.

He lowered his gaze to hers, and she thought that she was almost as near to him as Judith had been that day in the garden. The garden…

“That is enough drink for now,” he said.

…where
besotted
Susanna de Balliol had come upon the lovers. And from whom she had fled. “I wish I had not seen it,” she murmured and lowered her lids over eyes that burned. “Would that I had not.”

Wondering what she spoke of, Everard stared into her pale face until her chin dropped and head fell against his shoulder.

Thwarted. Still, he conceded that what he had come to settle between them could be done later. After all, if she truly wished his help, it was already settled. She but needed to know what was required of her.

As he started to ease her out of the crook of his arm, he caught a glint of silver and followed it to the chain that slanted across her collarbone. He knew he trespassed, but he drew it forth and an oblong pendant slid from the neck of her bodice. The scent of roses that hovered about Susanna de Balliol grew stronger, and he did not need to locate the catch to know the pendant contained crushed petals. His mother wore a similar necklace on occasion.

He turned it in his hand and was surprised—and disturbed—by the thought that roses, with their deceptively soft petals that made one forget the thorns, did not suit this woman. Rather, sweet woodruff that had once scented the air around her—

Chastising himself for letting his thoughts loose, he lowered the pendant.

Sir Rowan appeared in the doorway. “My lord?”

Though relieved the knight had not shown himself moments earlier, Everard was discomfited that the man had witnessed the haste with which his lord had moved to aid the lady. Of course, what man of honor would not have done what he had, for she had so far extended herself to reach the cup that she had nearly tumbled out of bed.

“Sir Rowan?” he said as drew his arm from around her and gently settled her upon the pillow.

“You would have me tell Squire Joseph to wait on the food?”

Everard drew the coverlet over the lady who, despite the room having been warmed by the day’s sunshine coming in through the open window, had been so chill where she leaned against him that the heat his body had generated from hours of training had quickly cooled.

“I will tell him myself,” he said—and instruct him to see to the lighting of the brazier though it was rarely needed during daylight hours at this time of year.

He stood from the bed, bent and retrieved the sheathed dagger from the rushes where Lady Susanna had surely knocked it in her quest to reach the cup, and set the weapon on the table.

As he crossed the chamber, he reflected that only once since his knighting at Wulfen had one of the tower rooms lodged a woman—his sister, Lady Gaenor, when it had been necessary to hide her from King Henry who had ordered her to wed Baron Christian Lavonne. In the end, the king had his way and Gaenor had spoken vows with their enemy-turned-ally. Blessedly, what could have been a miserable marriage was quite the opposite. It seemed a miracle, but all of Everard’s siblings had wed well, and he rejoiced in their happiness and the children born to them. That path, however, was not cut for him, and he had determined he would remain keeper of Wulfen Castle until it was time to pass the privilege to one of his nephews. And then…

Then he would grow old alone.

Halting before Sir Rowan, he glanced across his shoulder at where Lady Susanna lay so still. “When next she awakens,” he said, “send word.”

The day had dimmed—yet another day in which she had barely been present since her arrival at Wulfen Castle. Guessing the one who had earlier summoned Everard Wulfrith remained nearby, Susanna lay unmoving and tried to take stock of her state before the lord of Wulfen Castle once more appeared.

She was thirsty, though not as painfully as before. Hungry, so severely that she as much feared filling her belly as leaving it void. Weak, though her bones no longer felt as if without substance. And her head… It did not ache at the mere opening of her eyes, but that did not mean she would not feel as if stabbed when she moved.