The Redeeming (18 page)

If not that Gaenor had watched her brothers leave from the window of the lord’s solar and yet stood there a half hour later, she would have missed the arrival of the healing woman’s son. Having gained a glimpse of the small figure who sat on the fore of the saddle of one of two men-at-arms, she hastened from the donjon.

Just as the boy’s escort crossed the drawbridge into the outer bailey, Gaenor arrived amid flying skirts and beneath the weighty disapproval of the castle folk who stared after her.

Though she knew she ought to behave in a manner befitting the lady of the castle, she determined she would not be ashamed and gathered herself to receive the boy. However, as if she were unseen, the men-at-arms started to guide their mounts past her.

Knowing they could not miss her tall figure, nor her garments that pronounced her a lady—
their
lady—she placed herself in their path.

“There now.” She raised a staying hand.

The one at the fore, a thick unkempt man whose jowls brushed the collar of his tunic, scowled as he reined in. “My lady?”

She looked at the rider who drew alongside him. He was a gaunt, heavily-lidded man whose face bore a dozen angry scratches, evidence he had not been heedful of low-hanging branches.

Hoping his charge had not also been marked by his carelessness, she turned her gaze upon the boy. His face was soiled but appeared unblemished. Relieved, she sought his eyes that were just visible between strands of greasy blonde hair.

“I bid you welcome.” She smiled. “I am Lady Gaenor Wul—” No longer. “I am Lady Gaenor Lavonne, wife of Baron Lavonne.”

The boy stared.

“And you are?” Gaenor prompted.

“The urchin’s name be John,” the gaunt man broke the silence.

Urchin… Gaenor frowned at the man, then returned to the boy. “Greetings, John.”

Still he stared.

She stepped nearer, “You may hand John down.”

“Is that right?” the gaunt man-at-arms drawled.

“Huh!” grunted the other one.

Their insolence stung, especially as they laid it out for all to see—the milling castle folk, the garrison before the drawbridge, and those on the walls. However, Gaenor denied herself the satisfaction of revealing her displeasure lest it upset the child.

Putting steel in her gaze as her mother did when words did not suffice, she said, “That is right. Your lady commands you to hand down the boy.”

Something like worry slid onto the gaunt one’s brow. “I would, my lady, but—”

“Now.”

He exchanged looks with his companion, then lifted the boy out of the saddle. “As you will, my lady.”

As John came into her arms, Gaenor was assailed by an odor so potent her throat convulsed. The child did not merely smell bad. He reeked. Swallowing hard, she settled him on her hip. However, hardly a moment passed before he became arms, legs, and teeth that punched, kicked, and bit.

Despite the instinct to release the wild child, she held onto him lest her attempt to avoid injury resulted in him being harmed. And she paid the price when his flailing caused her to lose her balance and an ankle to twist beneath her.

No sooner did her backside take the brunt of the fall than nails raked her cheek and teeth chewed her shoulder through the material of her gown. More than her pained ankle, more than her ungainly meeting with the ground, more than her scored flesh, it was the boy’s bite that made her cry out.

As she dropped onto her back, the murmuring all around gave rise to voices, followed by shouts. Desperate to gain control before others came to her aid—if any deigned to—she looked from the boy’s snarling face above hers to the arm he drew back to deliver another blow. When she raised an arm to deflect his fist, the defense of her person caused him to hesitate long enough for her to catch hold of his left arm and reach for the other. However, as she curled her fingers around his right arm, he was wrenched from atop her.

“Filthy urchin,” snarled the jowled man-at-arms as he hauled the boy off her.

Vaguely aware of those gathering around, Gaenor scrambled to her knees and saw the man raise a hand to the thrashing boy he held by the back of his tunic.

“Nay!” she cried and, ignoring her pained ankle, lunged at him.

Though color suffused the man’s fleshy countenance as he looked from the hand with which Gaenor gripped his forearm to her face, his tone was all respect. “Such behavior toward a noblewoman is not to be tolerated, my lady,” he spoke loud for all to hear.

Why? And what had so soon changed his opinion of her? Gaenor glanced at the other man-at-arms who had also dismounted. “’Tis reserved for disrespectful men-at-arms only, then?” she demanded.

“What is this?” a voice burst upon the gathering that had fallen silent except for the boy’s spitting and grunting, and Gaenor knew the reason she had been given aid.

She looked over her shoulder at the two men who strode toward them—Christian who could not look more imposing were he twice his height, and Abel who could not look more lethal had the fire in his eyes leapt off his face.

“M’lord,” the thick man-at-arms hastened as if for fear of what Gaenor might tell, “the boy attacked your lady wife, and so I pulled him off her.”

As Christian took the last stride to her side, Gaenor released the man-at-arms’ forearm and winced as she attempted to settle weight on her ankle.

Her husband surveyed her face that bore the scratches the boy had dealt, then her gown that evidenced the dust and dirt of her fall. He and Abel appeared to have fared little better themselves, having surely been roused from practice at arms by the shouts in the outer bailey.

Nostrils flaring, Christian shifted his attention from the man-at-arms who held the boy at arm’s length to the gaunt one. “It cannot be said you were unaware of the boy’s disposition.” His voice was taut as he eyed the scratches on the man’s face that Gaenor had attributed to low-hanging branches.

“We were not unaware, m’lord,” the thick man-at-arms admitted. “The urchin made certain of that throughout the ride.”

Abel stepped forward. “And yet you did naught to prevent him from doing the same to my sister!”

“Sir Abel”—Christian turned his gaze on him—“’tis for me to deal with.”

Jaw convulsing, Abel looked to Gaenor. “You are well?” He was almost breathless, and she guessed it was from the control required to keep from drawing his sword.

She inclined her head. “I have but myself to blame.”

“’Tis so, m’lord,” entreated the gaunt man-at-arms. “We did warn the lady not to allow the little beast so near—that he bites, scratches, and kicks.”

Gaenor could hardly be angered by the lie, for it was not a complete lie. He
had
protested when she had ordered him to relinquish the boy. But though it did not absolve him or the other man-at-arms of their amusement, she would spare them. If naught else, her mercy might sooner gain her acceptance as lady of Broehne, as well as ease Abel’s wrath that portended retaliation.

“Your man speaks true, my lord, I was warned,” she said. “But neither should the boy be faulted, for it was surely fear that made him behave so.”

Christian scrutinized her, and she knew he searched for proof that all was not as told. If he found it, might he finally prove worthy of his family’s name? Might he show himself to be as cruel as his father and brothers? Though she had been spared such knowledge of him thus far, now that they were wed and there was only Abel—

But what of the man who came to you in the chapel at Wulfen? Who kissed you by the stream?

That man had been Sir Matthew, a part played merely to uncover her vulnerabilities.

Christian looked to the man-at-arms who continued to hold the boy tightly though he had quieted. “Am I wrong in believing Lady Gaenor tried to prevent you from striking the child?”

The man’s throat bobbed. “After what the urchin did to your lady wife, I felt he must needs be corrected, m’lord.”

“Did you?” It was not a question. Thus, no answer was forthcoming and the man-at-arms lowered his eyes.

“You are John?” Christian asked the boy.

No response.

Gaenor held her breath as her husband lifted the boy’s chin.

“You are John?” he asked again, and from the narrowing of her husband’s eyes it was certain he had caught his scent.

Though the boy tried to blink away his awe that was surely born of the size of the man before him, his eyes grew larger. Finally, he whispered, “Aye, John.”

Christian nodded for the man-at-arms to release the boy. “You shall be punished for your assault on the lady, John, though not unjustly, for you are a child and surely acted out of fear as my wife tells.”

Relief fluttered through Gaenor. Still, for fear of disappointment, she did not allow it to fully spread its wings.

“However, be you five or fifty, you would do well to not further test my patience. Do you understand?”

A slight nod.

“Then let us see to that punishment.”

The boy tensed.

“We shall start with a bath,” Christian said.

Gaenor would not have believed it possible, but the boy’s eyes grew larger. “Nay!” He lunged opposite.

Christian made no move to thwart his escape, and it was not necessary, for Abel swept up the child as if he was an errant pup—one that not only reeked, but growled, kicked, and tried to bite the hand that held him.

“Cease this moment, or I shall personally see to your bath,” Abel rumbled. But John was too young to realize it was no idle threat.

Abel tossed him over his shoulder and, with a grimace that told he had also been struck by the odor, strode across the bailey as small fists beat upon his back.

Christian dismissed the castle folk and returned his attention to his men-at-arms. “In future, do you not better protect my wife who is now your lady, you shall suffer for your failing.”

“Aye, m’lord,” the men murmured.

Gaenor pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Christian’s warning had not been spoken lightly. If she did not know better, she might believe he was truly concerned for her wellbeing.

“See to your mounts,” he ordered.

They caught up their horses’ reins and hastened toward the stables.

“As for you,
wife
”— Christian eyed her—“henceforth you will heed my men’s warnings. Are we of an understanding?”

She did not wish to argue, but neither could she agree to something to which she was not certain she could adhere. “I shall be more heedful.”

He took a step toward her. “I did not ask that you be more heedful, but that you heed, Gaenor. There is a difference.”

She held his stare. “Aye, and because of that difference, I do not accede to the latter.”

He stared at her a long moment, then released a harsh breath and turned on his heel. “Come!”

Wondering if her ankle would bear up long enough for her to reach the donjon, she tested more weight on it. It twinged, but she would not beg Christian for assistance. Certain that if she went slowly she could make it on her own, she took a step forward. Her ankle held, but Christian’s patience did not.

He swung around. “What is it?”

She took another step, but could not move without a hitch.

He strode back and closed a hand around her arm. “What have you done?”

“I turned my ankle.” As his lids narrowed, she rushed to explain, “I lost my balance when the boy was handed down to me.”

“Do you not mean when he assaulted you?”

She shook her head. “As told, I am to blame for what happened.”

“That I do not dispute, but regardless of where the blame lies, it does not absolve others of their actions—or lack, thereof.”

Not until she clasped a hand over his that gripped her arm and felt him tense did she realize what she did, but she held on. “Pray, let this matter pass, Christian.”

Inwardly, she shuddered at the realization it was the first time she had called him by his name, and ached that, despite his deception and rejection, she liked it better than the name he had given her at Wulfen.

From the flicker in his gaze, he was also affected by her familiarity. But considering what he believed of her, it might be offense he took—a sharp reminder of what had first caused her to speak his name.

“Let it pass,” she said again, “even if only that my injury serves as a measure of justice for the wrong you believe I have done you.”

Ire flared in his eyes. “I am angered by your deceit, but once more you wrong me by thinking I would be gladdened to see you injured.”

Though tempted to point out that he was more familiar with deceit than she, as evidenced by their meeting at Wulfen, Gaenor chewed down the argument. “Then I apologize. Now, do you intend to aid me or nay?”

“I do not see that I have a choice.”

His words stung, but again she stamped down pride that would have her behave like a child by refusing his aid. “If you would lend me your arm—”

“That would require patience, of which I am sorely lacking at the moment.” He swept her into his arms and started across the bailey.