The Longing (13 page)

Sir Rowan had been there, could as easily have been the one to raise her up and put the cup to her lips, but Everard had thought nothing of it until it was too late. As he had held her, he had searched for the lie of her, but it had not been there to find and he had accepted she truly was unwell. And then the words she had whispered…

I wish I had not seen it. Would that I had not.

What? That day in the garden when she, far different in appearance from the woman who had come to Wulfen, happened upon Judith and him? Was that what she wished she had not seen? If so, better yet had she not carried the tale to her brother.

Still, Everard regretted that when he had later returned to the tower room and she had pressed him to explain the reason for limiting her influence upon the boy, he had revealed the knowledge gained from Sir Elias that she bargained with her body. She had paled further, looking so stricken he had feared she might once more lose consciousness, but then came anger. When she had flung open the door to Judith and scattered his own sins between them, his anger had risen to meet hers. Thankfully, he had pushed it down, denying himself one more thing to regret where Susanna de Balliol was concerned.

At the sound of footsteps upon the dais outside the solar, Everard looked around. A moment later, Squire Joseph admitted Sir Elias.

The knight took one stride within. “Lord Wulfrith,” he said as the curtains fell into place behind him.

“I will not keep you long, Sir Elias, for there are few things you must needs know about your time at Wulfen.”

“Aye, my lord?”

“A missive shall be sent to the queen requesting an audience to prove Judas de Balliol’s claim to Cheverel. While we await a response, the boy will receive training alongside those in our charge. Hence, he shall sleep in the hall amongst the pages. If you insist on keeping watch over him, as is not necessary within these walls—”

“Is it not?” Sir Elias interrupted. “You saw what happened this eve.”

Everard raised his eyebrows. “The boy more than held his own, Sir Elias. I assure you, it was noted by the others, none of whom would make such use of my hall as Judas did.”

The man’s mouth tightened.

“As I was saying, if you choose to keep him under watch, you will do so from a good distance to avoid the appearance of coddling that ill-favors him amongst his peers. However, know that I would prefer you spend your time being useful to me.”

Sir Elias’s lids narrowed. “In what way?”

“I do not yet know the extent of your skill at arms, but as someone saw fit to knight you, it must be adequate. Thus, I would have you aid upon the training field where, of added benefit, you may more easily serve Lady Susanna’s purpose of ensuring Judas’s wellbeing.”

After a long moment, the knight said, “I see no reason not to accept.”

“Good.”

“And Lady Susanna? Where is she in all this?”

“Abovestairs, well out of sight for the duration. But do not think to find her in the chamber where you last saw her. I have moved her elsewhere to ensure she causes no more disturbance among those to whom my first duty lies.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “She is a prisoner, then.”

It was the same as the lady had concluded. “Necessarily so, for my only other option is to return her to Cheverel. And, if you are as fond of her as you seem to be, you will agree this is the better course.”

With a disgruntled air, the knight nodded and departed.

Everard closed his eyes and rubbed them, ignoring the temptation to grab an hour of rest before the evening meal was served. Resenting that his sleep had been nearly non-existent these past nights, he took up parchment and quill. First, he composed a missive to the queen, then one to his older brother to warn him that his presence at Wulfen Castle might be required earlier than expected. When—if—Queen Eleanor granted an audience, the keeping of Wulfen would fall to one of Everard’s brothers. Though the youngest, Abel, was due in less than three weeks, he might be gone again by the time an answer was received.

After setting his wax seal to both missives, Everard leaned back, gripped his temples to relieve the tension, then dragged his hand over his scalp. And paused over the bristles beneath his calloused fingers.

He did not mind the keen blade he applied as often as twice a sennight, for it had become habit these past eleven years, so much that he rarely thought upon what had driven him to shave his head that first time. But then Lady Susanna had burst in upon his life.

Had she guessed the reason for his shorn hair? If she had heard as much as Judith and he had feared, it was likely. In which case, she surely laughed at him, for it had been a dramatic gesture, even for one aged twenty and two.

Everard drew his hand away, and this time when his thoughts drifted, they went to the day following Lady Susanna’s blunder in the garden.

It had not been easy to get Judith alone, for Alan de Balliol was taking no chances. Though the wedding was to have been held in three days’ time, that morning it was announced it would take place that very day.

Everard had knocked two guards senseless in order to steal Judith away, but when he had entered her chamber, she had not received him as expected. Her reddened eyes evidenced she did not wish to wed the man chosen by her father, but she said, “I cannot go with you, Everard.”

“You can, and you will.” He pulled her near. “You love me, do you not?”

“I do, but marrying Alan is a promise I must keep.”

“That is your father’s promise.”

“It is as good as mine, for even if he supported me in breaking my betrothal, never would he accept you.”

“Because the Wulfriths side with King Stephen.”

“Aye.”

Everard’s resentment welled. How was it possible politics could wield more power than love?

Judith smiled sorrowfully. “My family shall ever support Duke Henry’s claim to the throne, as do the de Balliols. Thus, it would be folly to allow my heart to travel down a road different from the one it has long been set upon.”

“Judith—”

“Enough!” She pulled free, fumbled in the purse upon her belt, and thrust her hand forward.

He stared at it, not wanting what she wished to return though she had vowed she would never remove it from her person.

“Take it.” She opened her fingers. In it lay the brilliant ruby he had pried from the hilt of his Wulfrith dagger weeks earlier as proof of his love.

He returned his gaze to hers and saw no wavering there. She was first the good, self-sacrificing daughter, second the woman who loved him. “’Tis yours,” he said, “want it or nay.”

She lowered her hand to her side. “I shall never stop loving you, Everard.”

He clenched his fingers into his palms to keep from taking hold of her, kissing her, trying to persuade her to do what she would not be persuaded to do.

Swallowing hard as if so great an effort might clear the tears from her eyes, she reached up. “There will be another whose hands know what mine have known.” She pulled her fingers through his hair. “As there should be.” She rose to her toes, touched her mouth to his, and dropped back on her heels. “Farewell, Everard.”

He had gone and, hours later, watched from the bordering wood as the sounds of the wedding celebration rose above the walls and assaulted his ears like clanging anvils.

When he had returned to Wulfen Castle, it was with a clean-shaven head and no word of explanation—his secret longing. But possibly secret no more.

She had said she would eat more, and she had. But it was not much. And now Squire Joseph stood at the door with more viands.

“My lady?” He raised his eyebrows, glanced past her into the chamber.

Susanna did not wish to appear ungrateful, but she hesitated before stepping aside so he could carry the tray within. As he did so, she looked to the knight upon the landing.

Sir Rowan inclined his head, and she was relieved to see no evidence of offense upon his aged face. Earlier, when she had finally risen from bed to avail herself of the garderobe, he had stepped to the threshold—no farther—and asked if he could be of service. She had declined and all but closed the door in his face. Though she might be little more than a prisoner, it did not seem much to ask to be afforded whatever privacy could be had.

Squire Joseph returned to where she stood, now bearing the first tray of foods from which Everard Wulfrith had threatened to feed her. “Cook has also prepared a draught to aid in digestion,” he said. “He tells that you ought to drink it some minutes before eating.”

Susanna blinked. “I thank you. And Cook.” Only after the squire stepped past and started down the stairs did she realize there was another whom she ought to thank—Everard Wulfrith, for the draught was surely his doing.

Tightening her grip on the door handle, she dropped her chin to hide how painfully moved she was by the kindness once more shown her—and by a man who surely believed her unworthy of such consideration.

“Lady Susanna?”

She startled to find Sir Rowan’s hand upon her arm, lifted her head to see if his face could be as easily read as others’ who sought something for something—or those who sought something for nothing. There was no gleam in his eyes, no quivering nostrils, no grin about the mouth. And there was nothing forceful about his grip.

“May I help you to the chair?” He nodded at where she had earlier pulled it near the bedside table when she had kept her word to eat more. It was far too near the bed.

“Do not fear me,” the knight said. “I am certain Lord Wulfrith gave it much thought before appointing me as your…”

She looked back at him, wondered at the sheepish look that did not fit the man who had refused to admit a woman to Wulfen. “As my jailer?”

He shrugged. “I suppose I am that, but it cannot be helped in a place where women are as rare as a rose in winter.”

Rare but not entirely unheard of? “Then I am not the first Daughter of Eve to breach Wulfen’s walls?”

He pulled his chin back. “Daughter of Eve? I have always thought Sisters of Mary a more fitting name for men’s other halves.”

Again, he surprised, for it seemed most men preferred the derogatory reference to women over that which bestowed upon them the virtues of the Virgin. Those at Cheverel, especially her brother, had certainly been fond of equating women with the one believed to have been man’s downfall.

Cautiously warming toward Sir Rowan, she asked again, “I am not the first Sister of Mary to come within Wulfen’s walls?”

There, a slight grin and a glimpse of teeth that was not at all wolfish. “You are not, my lady.”

Though Susanna longed to know more of what he alluded to having an intimate knowledge of, she did not think he would further enlighten her. “I would have you assist me to the chair if still you do not mind,” she said.

He took a firmer hold on her arm and drew her across the chamber.

“I thank you,” she said as she lowered onto the seat.

He turned to the bedside table, retrieved the cup from the tray, and handed it to her. “Before you eat,” he reminded.

She did not like the smell of the liquid, nor the taste, but the promise of relief from the roiling at her center made her drain it to the drop.

Sir Rowan relieved her of the cup. “Give it a few minutes, then I would suggest the meat pie ere it cools further.” He started back across the chamber.

“Sir Rowan, shall I always find you outside my door?”

He peered across his shoulder. “That depends upon Lord Wulfrith—and the reason you ask.”

Meaning if she intended mischief, she would ever be under the eye of whomever was set outside her chamber. Despite how considerate Sir Rowan seemed to be, she did not like that, for it made her state of imprisonment all the more suffocating.

More, though, it stole from her the opportunity to test the limits of her prison walls. Not that she meant to defy Everard Wulfrith—at least, not openly. Somehow, she must find a way to at least see Judas from a distance.

“Good eve, my lady,” Sir Rowan said.

“And you, Sir Rowan.”

He closed the door, and she leaned forward and chose the warm meat pie he had suggested. Unlike the draught, it smelled wonderful. And yet, her second bite was no less bland than the first. Was it her, or did Wulfen’s cook lack skill in the art of spice? Regardless, the half of it that she swallowed stayed down.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He hated this, though he was better than most of the pages whom, he determined, would become increasingly familiar with his back—at least during this accursed pre-dawn exercise when he was made to run the wood. Providing he proved as accomplished when it came time to demonstrate his skill at arms, it was his face with which the others would become familiar.

Such imaginings drove Judas onward and, despite the stone-weighted belt about his waist, it was not long before he began to overtake even the squires.

What think you of this?
he silently put to the man whom he longed to pass though he knew he would not likely come within sight of the one who had twice denied fathering him. If what Lord Wulfrith spoke was true—

I hope it is. I do. Far better de Balliol blood than Wulfrith.
After all, had Alan de Balliol been cuckolded, would not his conduct toward the child birthed by his wife have been justified? Would not his scorn and cruelties have been his due? Though Aunt Susanna would not agree, it seemed a good reason for Judas to wish himself a de Balliol. Otherwise, he would have to rethink his hatred of the man who had named him, might even be compelled to pity him. And that he did not wish to do.

Of course, there was another reason it was preferable to be a de Balliol, and that was Cheverel. Once he was lord, no one could ever again make him feel inferior or sling his name around. All he had suffered would not be for nothing, the price paid in full. And Aunt Susanna…

He growled in remembrance of Lord Wulfrith who believed her nephew hid behind her skirts. That had stung, the anger Judas had made no attempt to hide earning him lesson two—exercise self control. And he would. He would bide his time, and when the opportunity to seek out his aunt presented itself, he would take it. And Lord Wulfrith could wallow in his ignorance.