The YIELDING (24 page)

He knew he should not have gone to her defense, should not have corrected the man-at-arms for thinking her a wench. But when he had seen the knave’s gluttonous hand on her, he had forgotten all. Regardless, Beatrix’s ill-timed appearance in the hall was his fault. He ought to have kept her locked up.

He lifted his goblet and looked over it to the knight who had first sent word of Beatrix’s arrival to Lavonne. Aldous’s illegitimate son, Sir Robert, continued to watch her. Doubtless, he pondered the meaning of her presence, and whatever his conclusion, this night his squire would ride to Broehne. And what would Aldous and Christian Lavonne think when they learned Beatrix had been allowed the reach of the donjon?

Michael almost snorted. What did he care? He drank down his drink, set his vessel forward to be refilled, and looked to Beatrix.

Her gaze was on her own goblet, but as she tipped it to her lips, she looked at him over the rim only to slide her gaze opposite. Whatever next fell to her regard caused her eyes to widen and the goblet to lower.

Michael followed her gaze to an upper table where his knights sat. But the one she stared upon was not of his household. It was the knight who had been granted lodging for having aided Maude on the road to Soaring. Sir Piers, if that was his name, returned Beatrix’s regard. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, he looked away.

She knew him?

Michael returned to her, but her head was lowered as if she sought to control the breath moving her shoulders.

Fighting the impulse to challenge Sir Piers, Michael considered the trencher that a serving woman placed before him. Better to wait and watch. Better the enemy he knew.

Beatrix stared at her hands in her lap and prayed no others would see their trembling. He had come. And she knew for what. Such a shock it had been to see him, and equally disconcerting to know there was no way to dissuade him from trying to steal her away. He was under orders and would do all that was required of him to ensure he did not fail his lord.

She turned her hands into fists. Never had she felt so mired. Regardless of where she turned, she would be given no aid. All worked against her.

She raised her gaze and focused on her trencher that wafted the heat of a promising meal. Though it no longer moved her, she reached for her spoon and scooped up a chunk of fatty meat for the benefit of Michael whose gaze she once more felt. Praying she had not allowed him a glimpse of her inner writhing, she passed the spoonful into her mouth.

I shall have my trial.

The knight who had somehow stolen into Soaring would have to disappoint his lord, for none would deny her what she needed. Of course, it was easier thought than accomplished.

As she once more reached to the trencher, a movement across the hall made her pause, and she looked up to see Squire Percival step off the stairs. From his florid cast and purposeful stride, he had come from her empty chamber. Did he think she had escaped? Fear Michael’s wrath?

Midway between the upper and lower tables, the young man’s gaze found her. He halted, but though his lips parted as if to gape, he quickly drew them taut.

Regretting the distress she had caused him, Beatrix lifted the corners of her mouth and shrugged a shoulder. He blinked, glanced once more at Michael, and withdrew.

It was so lovely, it nearly took her breath. She reached to the gown that had been carelessly tossed onto the bed—no doubt when the squire had discovered her missing—and smoothed a hand over the skirt. What was the name of the rich blue cloth upon which torchlight skipped? She knew it, her mother having possessed a bliaut fashioned of the same, but search though she did, she could not remember what it was called.

She fingered one of a multitude of silver leaves embroidered among the folds. She had rarely given much thought to her attire, especially as she was destined for a nun’s habit, but suddenly she longed to fit the gown to her. However, so fine a garment surely did not belong on a prisoner.

She met Squire Percival’s rigid gaze where he stood in the doorway. “I do not understand.”

“As Lord D’Arci told, you are to dress as is befitting a lady.”

“But so fine a gown?”

The displeasure he had carried like a shield since escorting her abovestairs following the meal, wavered. “As there is no lady of Soaring, the gown had to be got from Lady Laura, Lady Maude’s companion.”

The woman who had been present during Beatrix’s audience with Michael’s stepmother, then.

“She allowed Lord D’Arci to choose it himself.”

Michael had chosen it? Of course, it would not have been fitting for his squire to make such a request of the lady. Did Lady Laura resent relinquishing such a fine gown to a woman believed to have murdered her lady’s son?

“As you are not as tall as Lady Laura,” Squire Percival continued, “the gown had first to be hemmed. For this, I was delayed in delivering it to you.”

Michael had said nothing of it. “I pray you will forgive me for not awaiting your…attendance,” Beatrix offered. “Lest Lord D’Arci decide against allowing me belowstairs, I c-could not wait.”

The squire looked momentarily away. When he looked back, he gave an acceding nod. “I am to stand watch at the landing below. Henceforth, when you leave the tower, you must do so under my escort.”

“I understand.”

“Good eve, my lady.”

“Squire Percival,” she blurted for fear she would not get the words out soon enough.

“My lady?”

“I-I would like to go to the Lord’s chapel.”

He frowned. “I must tell you that Soaring is without a priest.”

“No priest?”

“He died this past winter, my lady. He was much aged.”

“I see.” She had hoped to speak with one of God’s men.

“Still you wish to go, my lady?”

“I do.”

“Then I shall return shortly to escort you.”

She stepped forward. “I am ready now.”

He surveyed her homespun. “First you should change garments, my lady.”

She rubbed the coarse material between thumb and forefinger. “I assure you, ’twill not…offend God.”

“Aye, but Lord D’Arci has said you are not to leave the tower without adequate dress.”

And there was no use arguing with one who would not go against his lord. “Then I shall change.”

He stepped onto the landing and closed the door.

Beatrix gathered the gown against her. Though it had been hemmed, it was still too long, but if she lifted the skirts when she walked, the length could be overcome. And once more she would look like a lady, even without a veil and—

Perse! That was the name of the rich blue cloth. That she had found the word made her smile, but that it was so long in being found caused her smile to slip.

She would have to do much better on the day of her trial.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Throughout the breaking of her fast, time and again the little girl had drawn Beatrix’s regard. Though it became obvious she was Lady Laura’s daughter, meaning the lady was likely widowed, it was just as obvious that the child was fond of Michael.

Hardly had the meal begun than she was on his lap, and though he continued to converse with Sir Canute, he broke bread and cut bites of cheese for her—and seemed not at all uncomfortable with the arrangement.

When the little girl caught Beatrix watching, she stuck out her tongue as if offended by the smile offered her. Thus, it was surprising that, when the meal was done and the hall was being cleared, the child approached.

Having stepped off the dais, Beatrix glanced at Squire Percival where he awaited her at the stairs and clasped her hands at the waist of the gown that had stirred so many to murmuring this morning. Obviously, it was a curious thing that the turning from night into day found her elevated from homespun to Perse.

Beatrix looked from the little girl who neared to the castle folk who withdrew from the hall to begin their day. Michael was among them. Though throughout the meal he had ignored her, when she had first come into the hall his gaze had drawn near and he had stared at her as a man did a woman he found pleasing.

Beatrix had averted her gaze and next encountered that of the knight who had come to take her away. He had also stared, then glowered at Michael. What had he seen? What had made his jaw thrust? And where was he now?

Guessing he had preceded the others out of doors, she shifted her regard to Lady Maude and Lady Laura who now sat before the hearth. The former’s head was bent to a piece of cloth to which she laid stitches, the latter’s gaze stuck to the fire.

The little girl halted before Beatrix and poked the skirts of the borrowed gown. “Momma’s,” she pronounced.

Beatrix smiled. “It is your mother’s, and I am most…grateful that she allowed me to borrow it.”

“For what?”

Bending to better address the little one, Beatrix said, “I fear I did not bring so fine a gown with me.”

“Why?”

“I did not expect to join your mother and Lady Maude in Lord D’Arci’s hall.”

“Why?”

Beatrix moistened her lips. “What is your name?”

The girl poked the gown again. “Give back?”

“I shall.” Beatrix touched her shoulder. “Wh-what is your name?”

The little girl took a step back. “Clawice.”

“Clarice is a lovely name.”

She stamped her foot. “’Tis not!”

Beatrix glanced at the girl’s mother and Lady Maude who both watched the exchange. Hoping they did not think she did the child ill, Beatrix straightened.

“You name?” Clarice asked.

“I am Lady Beatrix.”

“Pwetty name.”

Before Beatrix could thank the child, the knight who had last eve warned her against revealing him stepped from an alcove. A mere shake of the head was all he had given, but it had told all. And now he advanced on her.

Surely he would not try to take her now, not with Squire Percival—

Beatrix sidestepped Clarice. Though tempted to take the girl’s arm and drag her along, she knew it would frighten the child. “Come, Clarice. I must needs…thank your mother for the use of her gown.” Gathering up the skirt, she stepped forward and Clarice followed.

The faces of the two ladies at the hearth reflected little welcome as Beatrix drew near—much the same as when Beatrix had ascended the dais and seated herself two down from Lady Laura. And it was that which pulled her shoulders back and chin up. Regardless of what they believed of her, she was their equal.

“My lady,” Beatrix acknowledged Lady Maude, then bestowed the same address on the younger woman.

Michael’s stepmother set her needlework in her lap. “Lady Beatrix.” Though her voice was not friendly, neither was it hateful.

Feeling the knight at her back, Beatrix stepped nearer Lady Laura and Clarice who had gone to stand at her mother’s knee. “I thank you for the use of your gown, my lady. I shall, of course, return it.”

Garbed in a splendid garment of yellow silk, the lady said, “’Tis not necessary. I have many.”

“But Momma, Lady Maude give it to you.”

The lady patted her child’s hand. “I do not think she will mind.”

Lady Maude shook her head, but before Beatrix could thank her, the woman looked past Beatrix and said, “You are leaving us, Sir Piers?”

Beatrix looked around at the knight. Piers was the name he had taken?

“’Twas my intention, my lady,” he said, coming to stand alongside Beatrix, “but my destrier took ill overnight. If Lord D’Arci grants it, I shall beg another night’s lodging.”

“Of course he shall grant it. He is indebted to you for delivering me safely to Soaring.”

How had he done that?

“It was a pleasure, my lady.”

Beatrix looked across the hall to Squire Percival. Though his face was expressionless, he watched—as did another knight she had not noticed before. The man who seemed to appear out of nothing stood to the far right of the squire, stance rigid, hand upon his scabbard.

He had been set to watch Sir Piers, Beatrix realized. Michael D’Arci was no fool.

Fearing bloodshed should Lady Maude’s guest attempt what he had been sent to do, Beatrix determined that she would avoid the man. “I thank you, Lady Maude”—she inclined her head—“Lady Laura. Good day.”

As she neared Squire Percival, he asked, “The chapel again, my lady?”

Of course he would think so. For nearly an hour, he had waited on her last eve while she knelt in the deserted chapel praying for God’s hand upon her, then again this morning before she came belowstairs.

“Am I permitted to stroll the garden, Squire?”

“Lord D’Arci has said you may.”

It surprised her that he had considered she might wish to. “Then that is where I wish to go.”

She followed him to the corridor through which viands were carried for the meals, but as they neared the door that surely let into the garden, a voice called, “Lady Beatrix?”

She turned to Lady Laura.

The woman considered Squire Percival. “I would speak to Lady Beatrix alone.”