The YIELDING (21 page)

She opened her mouth to protest but then sighed. “You are right.”

Was he? Immediately, Michael thrust aside his pondering. “Too, Lady Laura seems not of a mood to attend you. Surely more ill has not befallen her?”

Yet another pall seemed to descend upon Maude. “It has. Ere we departed for Soaring, word was brought that the one she was to have wed before she was—before her unfortunate tryst—will soon take another to wife.”

Only now? Four years after his rejection of Lady Laura? He must be nearly as bitter as Michael.

“’Tis a difficult time for Lady Laura, especially as she loved her betrothed.”

“Loved him, yet cuckolded him,” Michael said, unable to dampen his derision.

Maude’s eyes widened. “Do not speak of that of which you know little!”

“I assure you, Maude, I know well the deception of women.”

Regret swept the light from her eyes. “And more so now, hmm?”

He turned toward the door. “I shall have Lady Beatrix delivered to you an hour hence.”

Silence followed him across the chamber, but as he pulled open the door, Maude called, “I am sorry, Michael.”

No sorrier than he who had known to heed his head over his loins.

“You are to come with me, my lady.”

Letting the strands from which she had tugged a half dozen snarls slip through her fingers, Beatrix turned from the window to the young man who had entered her prison. “Now?”

Squire Percival nodded.

“The baron has come?”

“Nay, my lady.”

Then why was she summoned? Mayhap the blackguard was sending her to Broehne?

Though fear beckoned, she hardened her emotions. No matter the outcome, anything was better than the past ten days of visiting time and again the touch of a man she had thought she knew—a man she had feared could not be convinced to send word of her capture to Barone Lavonne but
had
sent word, proving she knew nothing of him.

She stepped from the window to which she had returned several times since Castle Soaring had lowered its drawbridge to visitors hours past. Whoever had come, it was likely for them she was summoned.

“Shall I be returning?”

“I was not told, my lady, but I expect so.”

Did he speak true? Of course, what did it matter? She had come with nothing and would leave with nothing, whether it was this day or a dozen more. “I am ready.”

The squire pushed the door wider and stepped aside.

As Beatrix approached it, she shuddered. As much as she hated her prison, she hated more what lay beyond. Determinedly, she drew herself taller and stepped onto the torch-lit landing.

Strange, she mused, but the air was somehow different here. Only her imagination? Or the smoke of torches? Though it was yet hours before darkness descended, it would be as night upon the windowless stairs ahead if not for the torches lighting the passage.

“I shall follow,” Squire Percival said as he closed the door.

He would not give her his back, for it would portend ill for him if he fell victim to a head injury or broken leg the same as his lord.

Beatrix began her descent, silently bemoaning the many chances she had been given that would have assured she never came near Soaring. Unfortunately, each time her God-bent heart had guided her elsewhere.

Halfway down the stairs, she trod on the hem of her gown. If not that she slapped a hand to the wall and Squire Percival’s fingers turned around her upper arm, she would have tumbled down the stone steps.

She looked over her shoulder. “Unhand me,” she said, surprised by the chill in her voice.

The squire released her. “I but wished to steady you, my lady,” he hastened as if for fear she might cry ravishment.

She nearly smiled. “Surely your…lord warned you of me?”

He blushed. “He did, but ‘twould be remiss if I did not offer aid.”

“Methinks your lord would see it different.” She turned forward again. As she continued her descent, she marveled at the words that had passed unfettered from her lips. But then, they were born of anger, her truest ally. For a moment, she was gripped with sorrow that her heart should be so hardened, but it was the only way she might survive.

She stepped to the landing and would have continued down the next turn of the stairs to the hall if not that Squire Percival said, “The second door, my lady.”

Was it the lord’s solar to which he directed her? Surely Michael would not summon her there—unless he had been laid abed. To counter the concern that rose within her, she reminded herself of what he had done to her and crossed the corridor to the chamber.

Squire Percival stepped alongside. Following what seemed a struggle, he said, “’Tis Lady Maude who summons you, my lady. Our lord’s stepmother.”

Then it was Sir Simon’s mother who had arrived in the carriage, doubtless to confront her son’s murderer.

Beatrix nearly allowed herself to be touched by the small kindness the squire did in preparing her for the meeting, but said, instead, “Let us not keep the lady waiting.”

He pushed the door inward and stepped back.

Two figures stood before the hearth, neither of whom was Michael. Tension easing, Beatrix looked first to the slight woman who occupied one of two chairs. Still lovely in spite of advancing age, she regarded Beatrix with hard, assessing eyes.

Simon’s mother, though her only resemblance to him was blond hair amongst the silver. Behind her stood Sir Canute, his countenance no more welcoming than the woman’s, and to the right, alongside the bed, was a young woman whose finery told she was also a lady.

Beatrix looked back at Simon’s mother. It was time she knew the truth about her son—providing she would listen to the story Beatrix had rehearsed without benefit of writing. Telling herself she did not care what pain she wrought, she raised her chin.

He knew he should stay away, but Maude’s reaction bothered him. She had been too willing to consider her son capable of that which Beatrix accused him.

Michael ascended the last step to the landing and halted at the sight of Beatrix on the threshold of Maude’s chamber. Despite her expressionless profile, she looked healthy—even more of an angel with her pale hair loose about her shoulders.

He watched her step inside, then considered Percival who stared after her with rumpled brow. Was he also bewitched?

Michael stepped forward, causing the squire’s head to come around and a flush to run up his face. Aye, bewitched, meaning he would likely have to be relieved of his charge.

The ascent having strained Michael’s injury, he leaned into the staff as he neared Maude’s chamber.

Squire Percival stepped aside.

As Michael entered, he was pleased to see Beatrix’s back was turned to him. But she surely knew he had come, her shoulders tense and hands at her sides gripping the material of her gown such that her skirts were hitched, allowing a glimpse of ankles. Doubtless, his staff had alerted her to his arrival.

Past Beatrix, he met Canute’s gaze, next Maude’s. Ignoring the gratitude that shone from the latter’s, he glanced at Lady Laura. Though she could not have missed his entrance, she stared at oft-nibbled nails that contrasted sharply with the splendid gowns in which his stepmother clothed her.

It seemed Maude was determined to have her present though Michael had sent Sir Canute to her. True, Lady Laura was her companion, but a confidant in matters such as this?

Though tempted to dismiss her, Michael knew it was not his place. He closed the door and stepped alongside it.

Maude stared at Beatrix. “So, the woman I see before me is that who murdered my son.”

It was some moments before Beatrix spoke, but when she did, there was an edge to her voice as of one forsaken by innocence. “Your son was not murdered, my lady.”

“He yet lives?” Maude’s sarcasm was pained.

Beatrix splayed her hands amid the folds of her skirts.

“Tell, Lady Beatrix,” Maude continued, “why did you drive a dagger through my son?”

“You are certain you wish to know what happened between us?” Beatrix’s head listed right. “I ask because that which you would have me tell, a mother would not wish to hear of her child.”

Though she spoke without the falter to which Michael had become accustomed, she did so stiffly as if she read the words. As she had been denied writing instruments, he guessed she had rehearsed the tale over and again. It made her sound insincere and would surely go against her at trial. Telling himself he was pleased, he glanced at Maude.

“I knew my son well, Lady Beatrix. ’Tis I who shall judge whether you speak true or false.”

“Then I shall tell all as I have not yet been allowed to do.”

Lies that Michael did not want to hear. Putting a shoulder to the wall, he gripped the staff harder.

Beatrix returned to that day at the ravine and felt a chill sweep her. She saw again Sir Simon’s face, heard his taunting, felt his touch.

Dragging herself back to the present, she hoped Lady Maude had known her son better than Michael had known him for a brother—Michael who was at her back and who had proven how little
she
knew of him when he sent word of her capture.

“Do you or do you not intend to tell all, Lady Beatrix?” Lady Maude prompted.

“Pardon, my lady, I…at times, words elude me.”

Lady Maude’s lids narrowed.

“As you surely know, I accompanied my sister when she fled marriage to Baron Lavonne. The following day, the king and the baron’s men overtook us. Sir Ewen…”

Remembering the knight’s sightless eyes, she gave a small shake of her head. “Though Sir Ewen and I attempted to lead our pursuers away from my sister, your son and another knight followed us. Sir Simon pulled me from my horse and as…Sir Ewen fought the second knight, your son…”

You know the tale, Beatrix. Tell it!

“Your son touched me as a man should not touch a lady.”

Hearing Michael shift his weight, Beatrix mused at the irony that, after all the time they had spent together, this was how he should learn the truth. Not that he would believe any of it.

“Touched you, Lady Beatrix?”

“Aye. My…” Unable to summon the word, though not because it was unavailable, she laid a hand to her chest. He touched me here and…”

She had not realized how uncomfortable it would be to speak of it. Though this past week she had rehearsed aloud her defense, it was ten-fold more difficult spoken in front of others.

Lord, if I cannot do it before these few, how am I to do it at trial?

She replenished her breath. “Your son touched me as if I were a harlot.”

Lady Maude’s hands on the chair arms whitened. Before Beatrix could ponder her reaction, a movement at the bed drew her gaze. The lady there had stepped back to stand alongside the far bedpost with her head lowered.

Who was she? And why was she here? When Beatrix looked forward again, she saw Sir Canute had laid a hand to Lady Maude’s shoulder as if to reassure her.

Beatrix swallowed. Where had she left off with the telling?

“You say Sir Simon touched you in the presence of the other knight?” It was Sir Canute who asked. “Naught was told of that.”

Beatrix met his cool gaze. “As the other knight was engaged at swords, he did not see.”

“Convenient.”

Though anger bade Beatrix to argue, she knew she must stay the course if she was to tell all. “After the other knight put his blade through Sir Ewen, he ordered Sir Simon to release me that I might go to my brother’s man. It was from Sir Ewen I gained the Wulfrith dagger. Ere he died, he…bade me to use it if needed.”

“And so you did,” Lady Maude returned to the conversation.

“Not with intent. When the knight who killed Sir Ewen left me alone with your son that he might rejoin the effort to capture my sister, ‘tis true I…threatened Sir Simon with the dagger. I fled, but he caught me at the ravine and again dragged me onto his horse—again sought to v-violate me.”

“Astride a horse?” Lady Maude scoffed.

“’Twas only the…beginning. Certes, he intended more.”

“So you say.”

“’Tis true.” Vaguely aware that she was losing the thread of her thoughts, Beatrix stepped forward. “Do not think me so fool and innocent that I do not know what a man wants when he touches a woman so—what he intends when he does it against her will.”

“Thus, for having touched you, you killed my son.”

“Nay! When he tried to take the dagger from me, our…struggle caused his mount to rear and…”

Beatrix grasped at anger in an attempt to make sense of her tongue, but memories of that day held it out of reach. Hearing her breath, she tried to slow it, but the images were too vivid and she looked down. If only she could speak as she had rehearsed. If only Michael D’Arci had not come within.

“And what, Lady Beatrix?” Lady Maude snapped.

A sliver of anger returned to Beatrix, but it was not enough to lay a straight path for her words to travel. “We fell. When I regained consciousness in the…ravine, Sir Simon was atop me. I pushed him off, and ’twas then I saw the…”