The YIELDING (18 page)

Bitterness digging a deeper hole within him, Christian asked, “And what would Geoffrey have done, Father?”

“His duty, of which you are woefully incapable.”

Christian dragged the door open, stepped into the corridor, and closed the door behind him.

“Lord!” he rasped, panting with the effort to contain his seething. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he yearned for Aldous’s approval. Was it worth the cost? Worth going against all he knew to be wrong? And if he did yield, would Aldous give him the respect due a man? Or would the youngest son forever be an unworthy boy in the shadow of the man Geoffrey had become?

Christian dragged a hand down his face. This was not the life he had envisioned when he watched his older brother being groomed toward it.

Lord, what would you have me do?
he asked the one he had rarely consulted all these years.

The answer settled immediately upon his heart.
Return to Me.

But not at the monastery. Not to tonsure and habit. Not to manuscripts painstakingly illuminated by candlelight. Rather, he was to remain at Broehne and seek God upon his knees.

Christian closed his eyes. He was not ready. Not yet.

Through a hall nearly beset by night came Michael’s squire. “Tidings, my lord!”

Though Michael knew what such tidings would render, he put aside the missive he had written and returned the quill to the ink pot. Beside him, Canute clasped his hands atop the journal to which he posted the demesne’s income and expenses, a task that had been given over to him upon the death of Soaring’s steward some months past.

Squire Percival ascended the dais and halted before the lord’s table. Flecked with mud from toe to crown, evidence of his urgent ride across the rain-soaked country between Broehne and Soaring, he waited.

No missive, then. Michael frowned. It was rare for Lavonne to send word mouth to mouth. “Deliver the tidings.”

“My lord, Baron Lavonne commands me to tell you he is pleased.”

“And?”

“Naught else, my lord.”

Michael leaned forward. “He did not inquire as to my progress in locating Lady Beatrix?”

“He did not, my lord.”

Lavonne knew, then. But how? Sir Robert could not have known it was Beatrix who had accompanied him to Soaring. Only—

Torchlight glimmered on Canute’s bent head, but though he surely felt Michael’s gaze, he did not look around.

Returning to the night past, Michael heard again his friend’s argument that Lavonne be delivered word of Lady Beatrix’s capture. Could it be? Surely not, and yet…

He had entrusted Canute to send tidings to Lavonne of his return to Soaring. Had he told more? Betrayed?

Canute looked up, and the answer was in his eyes.

If not that Squire Percival shifted his weight, reminding Michael of his presence, rage would have unfurled. Holding Canute’s gaze, Michael ground his teeth.

As Baron Lavonne knew Michael’s infirmity prevented him from delivering Lady Beatrix, would he venture to Soaring himself to return her to Broehne Castle or send another to bring her to trial? For a moment, the thought of Beatrix’s fate caused Michael to fear for her, but he reminded himself of Simon’s death and told himself it was probably best that the baron knew—providing he did not waver from his vow that justice would be given. Even so, Lavonne knew only because of betrayal.

Michael looked around. “You have done well,” he told the squire in a voice so tight it nearly snapped.

“I thank you, my lord.” The young man strode from the dimming hall.

The moment the great door swung closed, Michael gripped the table’s edge and thrust to his feet. “You betrayed me!”

Slowly, Canute rose. “Betrayal was not intended, my friend. Lest you lose all again, it had to be done.”

Michael slammed a fist to the table. “By faith! I decide what must needs be done!”

Canute took a step forward. “After Edithe, did you not secure my vow that I not allow you to make so dire a mistake again?”

“I was barely twenty years old!”

“Aye, and for a tumble in the lady’s bed you forever tainted the name of D’Arci and set yourself on a road without end.”

Remembrance of the woman who had lured him in and named it ravishment, stoked Michael’s fire. Leg aching, he turned a hand around the wooden staff that had borne much of his weight this day.

“If you allow your head to lead and not desire,” Canute said, “you will agree that I did what had to be done.”

Then Canute believed he wished to bed Beatrix? That he felt something for her other than loathing? That—

Hell’s fire!
Regardless of the betrayal, Canute believed right. Desire had refused him his course. But though he had nearly kissed Beatrix, she was responsible for Simon’s death. He must not forget it.

A hand fell to his shoulder. “Name it what you will, I but kept my vow and shall not be sorry for it.”

Michael met the knight’s gaze. “Leave me.”

After a long moment, Canute said, “I shall depart Soaring this eve,” and turned and traversed the dais.

As he strode toward the stairs, torchlight bounding about the walls and spinning gold among the rushes crushed underfoot, Michael closed his eyes. Try though he did to forswear the good of the man he had long called friend, he could not. Canute had sacrificed his position of household knight to deliver Michael from the wrath of Edithe’s father, had taught Michael how to fight not for show but to win, and had been as a father to him. Concern, not malice, was what had made him send word of Beatrix’s capture.

Michael drew a long breath. When the woman no longer poisoned his blood, he would be grateful. He opened his eyes. “Leave, if that is your wish. If ‘tis not, still you can be of use to me.”

Canute turned. Though he had told he would not be sorry for what he had done, regret was in his eyes. “I shall remain.”

Michael inclined his head. “Well met—providing the vow I once extracted no longer stands.”

“As you would, my lord.”

“I would, and henceforth Squire Percival shall tend Lady Beatrix.” Squire Percival who would need to be warned to take care with the lady lest she render him unconscious or lame—a warning he had not needed to issue to Canute.

“Anything else, my lord?”

“That is all.”

The knight ascended the stairs.

Michael turned his palms up and stared at their quaking caused by his anger. In all this world, was there no one he could trust? Did all lie? Did all betray? It would serve him well if he but accepted it. And now he had every reason to.

He eyed the journals laid open before the chair where Canute had sat. All appeared to be in order—just as his old friend had appeared to be trustworthy. Michael stepped his staff forward and eased into the chair.

An hour later, surrounded by servants and men-at-arms who had bedded down on benches and scattered pallets, he closed the books. All was accounted for. In that, Canute had not failed him. Only with Beatrix.

Michael looked to the ceiling that the failing torches no longer lit and wondered if she slept. Likely—just as she ate. According to Canute, who had twice recounted it though Michael had not asked, she fared well. Still, Michael was tempted to drag his infirm leg up the stairs to see for himself. But the longer he stayed away, the easier it would be to forget he had spent a long, dark night covering a murderess who pretended to be an angel.

He reached for the staff he had propped against the lord’s chair. As he levered to his feet, he caught sight of the missive he had just finished writing when Squire Percival returned from Broehne. It was to his stepmother, informing her that her son’s murderer was had.

Would it bring her to Soaring? He prayed not, for the woman’s health was not as it should be. Indeed, it had turned worse following Simon’s death. For a moment, Michael reconsidered sending the missive, but he had given her his word. Too, even if she made the journey, it would do her good to know justice was at hand.

Michael looked to the stairs where a man-at-arms stood at his post. Though the soldier’s face was averted, he surely knew the challenge his lord faced in gaining the solar. But he would not offer aid, for it would not be abided. However, once abovestairs, Michael would give himself over to Percival, for it was the duty of a squire to assist his lord in disrobing. Of course, now it was also his duty to keep Beatrix.

Michael stepped the staff forward and descended the dais. As he started across the hall, a shadow freed itself from the darkness, causing him to sweep a hand to his dagger.

“My lord?” a husky voice caressed the night. “You would like?” The woman stepped into the light, a smile on her face, a hand on her hip.

It was the same wench he had several times promised himself since his return on the day past. “Nay,” he said. “Ask again on the morrow.”

Footsteps.

Roused from a dream, Beatrix peered across the dark to the door. Why did Sir Canute come at so late an hour? Or was it him?

For a moment her heart beat faster, but her ears told that the stride of the one who approached did not belong to one who was lamed. Not the blackguard, then. Which was well—unless whoever approached did so to deliver her to Baron Lavonne.

Trying to calm her heart with the reminder that she longed to defend herself at trial, she levered up and dragged the homespun blanket around her.

Light shone beneath the door and the footsteps fell silent.

Mayhap Sir Canute had located a psalter? Hope reached tentative roots through her, but she pulled them back. Though thrice the knight had tended her this first full day at Soaring, he had said nothing of her request.

The key scraped and the door opened, causing light to rush in that was so bright she was forced to duck her chin.

“My lady?” asked one whose voice was too callow to be spoken from the lips of the gruff knight.

She gripped the blanket tighter. Who was he? More, was he from Broehne? She peered through narrowed lids at the young man in the doorway.

He raised the torch higher. “My lady, I am Squire Percival.”

She did not know the name, nor the sparsely bearded face that shone golden in the torchlight. “What is it you wish?”

“My lord has sent me—”

“Baron Lavonne?”

“Indeed not, my lady. My liege is Lord D’Arci.”

Relief wended through her. “And Sir Ca—?” She foundered, but finally recalled the knight’s name. “What has become of Sir Canute?”

The squire stepped farther into the room. “Lord D’Arci’s man is occupied with other matters, my lady. Henceforth, I am to tend you.”

Beatrix tucked her feet deeper beneath her. She could not say she liked the older knight who had brought her food and water, but it was worrisome that his attentions had turned elsewhere. Was it possible he had gained D’Arci’s displeasure in attempting to deliver her a psalter? Aye, though it was also possible her request was forgotten the moment the knight agreed to it.

“For what did your lord send you at…middle night?”

The young man’s eyebrows rose. “’Tis past middle night, my lady. An hour hence it will be sunrise.”

Could it be? It seemed she had hardly laid down. But then, set apart as she was, and with such constant silence, it was difficult to know the passage of time.

“I should bring viands to break your fast?”

“I would be…grateful.”

“Anything else?”

Would he tell? Sir Canute would not have. “I would know how your lord fares.”

Could a face be bounded by doors, it would close up as tight as the squire’s expression. “I shall bring your meal anon.”

Nothing lost in asking, she told herself, and would have begged for a psalter if not that he and his torchlight withdrew from the chamber. As much as she longed to call him back, she did not.

The door closed, dousing her in darkness.

Beatrix stared into nothingness and wondered what the squire would not tell.

Michael D’Arci was well, she assured herself. He would soon enough walk without hitch. Or so she prayed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He ought to call her to him. Ought to lay with her and be done with this ache. But as with each time he thought it this past fortnight, he went no further. As with each time she offered, he told her to ask again on the morrow.

Glowering at the wench whose hips swayed as she moved about the solar, Michael rubbed his bearded jaw and told himself it was because of his leg that he did not accept what she offered. Though it was healing well, it still bothered him. More, a quenching of desire was not worth the risk of further injury. Beatrix, attended by Squire Percival these past weeks, had nothing to do with his abstinence. Indeed, she had returned to that place where she belonged—guilty of murder. It was amazing what time had wrought.

Michael leaned back in his chair. All that stood between Simon and justice was Baron Lavonne who had yet to collect the accused.

As often happened when Beatrix came to mind, Michael reached to the purse on his belt but stopped himself from pulling forth the pale tress. Why did he persist in holding onto it as one might a talisman?