The Merchant's Daughter (31 page)

“Lord le Wyse has a brother and sister?”

“He did have. They are gone now, poor things. His brother, the oldest and the heir, died of a fever several years ago, and his sister died in the Great Pestilence. When his brother died, Lord Ranulf’s life changed, of course. Around that time he was pursued by Guinevere — the woman he married. She only wanted him for his wealth and power.” Eustacia’s mouth twisted in distaste.

Annabel felt a pain in her stomach thinking about Lord le Wyse being treated badly, especially by his own wife. She submerged her head underwater and rinsed away the remains of the hair soap. Mention of the lord’s wife brought to mind the lord’s paintings, especially the one of the woman and baby lying dead in coffins. How much pain her lord had suffered! She tried to scrub away the images.

Clearly, marriage could bring pain as well as the happiness Mistress Eustacia had known. In going to live at the abbey, women would be her only companions, women she hoped were as kind as Mistress Eustacia and who only wished to live for God and His purposes. She wouldn’t have to be tormented with confusing thoughts or marriage proposals or violent attacks or inquisitions. God was finally saving her from all her troubles.

The only thing that gnawed at her was Lord le Wyse. He said he would miss her when she left. She remembered the way he had touched her cheek, so tenderly … but she was only a servant
to him. He wasn’t in love with her. She didn’t even want him to be. Did she?

She shook her head. She didn’t know the answer to that.

When Annabel sat down with the Bible that night to read, Sir Clement and Mistress Eustacia quietly left the room. She opened her mouth but was only able to get out the first word before Lord le Wyse interrupted her.

“I have something to tell you while we’re alone.”

“Yes, my lord?”

He sighed then said, “I received a missive from my aunt, the abbess at Rosings Abbey. I’m afraid you won’t be able to go as soon as I had hoped.”

Annabel was surprised not to feel some disappointment at his news. She waited for him to go on.

“My aunt tells me there is an illness that has spread through the abbey. No one has died yet, but it involves fever and a rash. She begs me to wait until she is able to send word that the illness is over.”

“Very well, then.”

Lord le Wyse’s expression was sober. “I’m afraid you will not be able to avoid being here when the jury begins their inquiries into the bailiff’s injuries.”

“I see.” This was grave indeed. She stared down morosely at the open Bible. The prospect of standing before the jury, in the presence of everyone who knew her and hated her family, terrified her.

“I will do my best to keep Sir Clement from revealing what he knows, and I won’t betray your secret.”

Annabel nodded.

“I’m very sorry you can’t leave yet.” Lord le Wyse looked grim, almost angry. “I know you’re eager to go.”

“It isn’t that. I’m afraid of having to answer the jury’s questions.”

“Of course.” The angry tone was gone, but now he looked despondent. “I will protect you as much as I can.”

“I know. All will be well.” She tried to look hopeful, to turn him from sad thoughts. His melancholy moods always made her want to cheer him up. “God works out everything for our good, remember?”

He stared back at her and half frowned. But how could God work this out? She had no idea.

“But sometimes I wonder if he’s angry with me,” she confessed, “and that is why this is happening.”

“Angry? With you? Why?”

She shook her head. “I did a terrible thing by possibly bringing about the bailiff’s death. He may not have been a good man, but I should never have reacted as I did.”

“But you didn’t —”

“No, I didn’t throw the stone, but what happened to him was my fault.” She looked up and pressed her hand against her chest, trying to push back the pain and guilt that seemed to suffocate her now as it did when she was lying in bed at night. “I am to blame for his death if he dies.”

“How?” By the look on his face, he clearly didn’t believe her.

“By carrying a knife around — out of fear! Shouldn’t I rather have trusted God to save me? I pulled out that knife and held it as though I meant to do him harm with it. But I was the fool, because it was no good to me at all. He had no weapon. He took mine from me.” Her breath was coming shallow and her temples throbbed. “If he dies, it will be my doing.”

“No, Annabel. It will not.” Lord le Wyse’s words were firm, but they only seemed to stir up more anguish in her. She felt the perverse need to convince him of her culpability.

“Yes, it will! I should have screamed. I should have screamed and screamed until help came. Why should I … think …” Oh, what was the use in talking about it? She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

“Annabel, listen to me. It was not your fault. You struggled. You tried to scream. You did all you could. I heard you when I was on my walk, but I didn’t reach you in time. Stephen heard you too, and he was closer. You have to stop torturing yourself.”

“But God must be angry with me. He intends to punish me.”

“No. A verse from First John reads, ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins, and purify us from all unrighteousness.’ Are you saying you don’t believe He will forgive you when he has plainly said He would?”

Peace washed over her. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

They sat looking at each other for a long time.

“The verse says, ‘If we confess our sins,’ so I must confess. I didn’t trust God as I should have.”

“And God forgives you.”

But does he forgive me for wanting you to hold me in your arms? For thinking about kissing you?
Annabel shuddered at the thought of her lord finding out.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I-I just wonder if God’s tired of hearing all my confessions lately.”

“I don’t think God gets tired of hearing you. I never could.”

The light was so dim she couldn’t read his expression, but his words made her heart flutter. As she watched the candle and firelight flicker over his face, she was struck with the thought that she knew little about him, about his family or past, except for the wolf attack and his wife’s unfaithfulness. “You said the abbess is your mother’s sister. Is your mother still alive?”

“She died seven years ago. My father died last spring. My brother and sister have been gone a few years as well. The worst may have been my sister — she died the same week as my wife and child.”

“I’m so sorry. That is grievous indeed.” He was all alone. “Were you married long?”

“Two years.” He blinked twice, as though he were erasing all emotion from his face and voice. “But there was no love between us — at least, not on her side. She never cared for me.”

Annabel swallowed. Her heart seemed to expand toward him, reaching out to him. He had endured so much pain. She longed to do or say something to comfort him.

“In truth, no one knows if the child born to her was mine or … his. Though I was determined to claim him for my own. After all, it wasn’t the child’s fault his mother was … as she was.”

“You speak of it as if it is no longer painful, but I know you must have suffered.” If ever anyone deserved a noble, loving wife, it was Lord le Wyse.

“Time,” he said, pausing and leaning back in his chair. He stared into the fire. “Time blunts the pain and creates a mist over one’s memory — at least in the case of death and sorrow. Other types of pain linger longer.”

No doubt he was thinking of his wife’s betrayal. How could anyone be so false? Annabel hated her with an intensity that took her breath away.

“Perhaps time is an inconsistent healer,” he said, “but God can purge even the most painful memories.”

What was Annabel’s most painful memory? Her father’s death? Bailiff Tom’s lifeless body in the forest? Nay, it was the terrifying moment when she realized the bailiff wanted her to marry him and was willing to resort to violence. Raw fear had shot through her stomach as he grabbed her and kissed her. Fearful thoughts dogged her steps from that moment to this.

But God had taken care of her. When the bailiff was near, a protector was always there as well. Usually it had been Lord le Wyse, and Stephen had appeared the final time.

Lord le Wyse’s questioning look brought her out of her reverie.

“Shall I read?” she asked.

“As you wish.”

The book opened to the second epistle to Timothy. Her eyes centered on the verse, “For the Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and self-discipline.”
Forgive me for my timidity, God. It did not come from You. I pray you will cast out this spirit of fear. And replace Lord le Wyse’s pain with a spirit of joy.

Chapter
17

Three days later, Sir Clement and the hun
dred bailiff went through the village of Glynval and neighboring villages gathering the men and women who would form a jury for the inquest into the attack on Bailiff Tom. Come morning, the inquest would begin.

Sir Clement had already spoken to the jury about the evidence the body presented. Ranulf had only tonight to evade Sir Clement’s questions about whether he had extracted the name of the bailiff’s attacker from Annabel, and to convince Sir Clement not to question Annabel before the jury.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, Ranulf came around his dressing screen as the coroner stopped at the fireplace to warm himself. “Sir Clement, do you have a moment?”

“Ah, Lord Ranulf. I was hoping to see you tonight. Have you discovered whom the maiden Annabel is protecting?” He smiled and rubbed his hands before the warmth of the fire, but Ranulf saw a sharp eagerness in his eyes that contradicted his casual stance.

“I have.” Ranulf stepped forward and leaned against the side of the stone hearth.

“Who is it?” Sir Clement was all attention once he turned his body to face his friend.

Ranulf considered each word before speaking. “It is someone who was protecting Annabel.”

“Protecting her? From the bailiff?”

“Yes.”

“So the teeth marks
are
Annabel’s.”

Ranulf winced as he realized this might create a direct link placing Annabel in violent conflict with the bailiff. If the jury asked her if they were her teeth marks, she would have to say yes.

“The point I would like to make to you, Sir Clement, is that this person is no man of violence. He was simply trying to keep the bailiff from hurting Annabel. He is a man … that no one would ever think …” How should he say this? “His heart is pure, and the assault of the bailiff was an accident resulting from a man’s desire to protect a childhood friend.”

“Accident or not, I need to know this man’s identity, to question him. The truth must come forth, Lord Ranulf, for truth is paramount.” The coroner spoke softly, as though trying to lull him into a sense of trust. “Who is he?”

But Ranulf couldn’t betray Annabel. “I will not tell you.”

“Then the jury and I will be forced to question her tomorrow at the inquest.”

“Sir Clement, believe me, this was a terrible event, but it will serve no purpose to reveal the person, who no doubt feels very badly about what he had to do to protect an innocent maiden. I ask you, pray, do not press it further.” He had vowed not to get angry but to speak calmly and pray for God to touch Sir Clement and bend him not to question Annabel. But Ranulf could already feel his face growing warm and his jaw beginning to clench. “Why must you put this village through more anguish?”

“For the sake of truth, my friend. Truth and justice. Justice is everything.”

“No, justice is not everything. There are more important things than justice.”

Sir Clement frowned. “What is greater than justice?”

The answer came to Ranulf in a blink, as though whispered to his spirit by a familiar voice. He murmured, “Faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is love.”

“What did you say?” Sir Clement leaned forward, his eyes fastened on Ranulf’s face.

“Mercy. Love.” His heart thumped then seemed to soar above him to the very clouds, but painfully, like a bird with a wounded wing. His breath went out of him as he spoke the words. “Mercy and love are greater. For us mortals, love is greater than justice.”