The YIELDING (25 page)

“I am sorry, my lady, but Lord D’Arci has ordered that Lady Beatrix remain in my sight at all times.”

“Then ’twill be sufficient that you watch from the door.”

The squire hesitated, then retreated.

There was color in Lady Laura’s face, and a bit of light in eyes that had been dull when they had spoken in the hall, but she was nowhere near a smile. Indeed, it looked as if her lips never bent upward, the faint grooves alongside her mouth absent. Had they melted away? Perhaps never been?

The woman drew a breath. “All that you told Lady Maude of Sir Simon,” she whispered, “I believe.”

Beatrix blinked. “I thank you, but how—”

“Momma!” Clarice had entered the corridor.

“I just know,” Lady Laura said and bent to receive the child that hurtled toward her. A moment later, she straightened and settled the little girl on her hip.

Though a dozen questions rolled about Beatrix, she said, “You are…fortunate, Lady Laura, to have such a lovely daughter.”

The smile that touched the woman’s lips was of a bitter bent, but it did turn up her mouth. “I am, but in some things you are more fortunate than I.”

What did she mean? It was not Lady Laura who would soon stand trial for a crime not committed. Not she who had little chance of being cleared of murder.

“’Tis so,” the lady said and turned back down the corridor.

What made her believe what Beatrix had told of Sir Simon? And why had she sought to tell her so?

“Still you wish to stroll the gardens?” Squire Percival asked.

“Aye.” Hastening down the corridor in search of light, Beatrix found it in the glorious herb garden beyond the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He ached. There was no other word for it. Each time he saw her, he knew a discomfort unlike any he had known. It was not the gown, though it clasped her figure as tunic and braies could not do. It was not her flaxen hair, though it tempted his hands. It was not even the health returned to her face that made her nearly the angel he had first looked upon.

What, then? Her blue eyes that rarely met his? Her determined chin beneath blushing lips? Those same lips that knew no bow save when she looked upon Clarice?

Michael drummed on the journal, the figures of which refused to be summed with his attention so divided. Why did the mere thought of her make him ache? Why could he not be truthful—at least with himself? Why could he not sum these accursed numbers?

He slammed his gaze to the entries set down this day and focused on the date Canute had written. For this, more than anything, he ached—the passing of days that portended the arrival of the sheriff three days hence.

He sat back in his chair. The days had passed too quickly, as would the remaining three. Then Beatrix would leave Soaring and never return.

It matters not. As it is a trial she wishes, a trial she shall have.

Which returned Sir Piers to mind. A sick horse! Though Michael had himself seen the beast would not rise from its stall, he did not believe it. And yet the knight had made no move toward Beatrix other than that warning shake of his head.

Was he awaiting orders? Wulfrith’s orders? Lavonne’s? It could be either, though the latter worried him the most. If Aldous Lavonne feared absolution as Michael had once feared it, he would seek a way to ensure
this
Wulfrith did not go unpunished. And what of Christian? Would he allow his father his revenge as he had done in the past by silently condoning the raids on Wulfrith lands?

Michael stood. Where was Beatrix? The garden again? Squire Percival reported that two and three times a day she sought his escort to that place where Michael grew medicinal herbs—among them comfrey and tansy that he had used to speed the healing of his leg. Or had she gone to the chapel? It was also told that she spent even more time among the dust and desertion of that place that few visited since the passing of Soaring’s priest.

Eschewing his staff that his strengthening leg needed less and less, Michael decided to try the garden and strode to the corridor that granted passage. At the far end, the door stood ajar just enough to let in a ribbon of sunlight—and whatever insects happened by.

He scowled as a fly swept past on its way to the kitchen, its merry drone seeming to mock him. However, the scene that awaited him when he pulled the door wide and crossed the threshold was more grievous than the prospect of sharing a meal with filthy insects.

Squire Percival was on his haunches on the path that cut through the middle of the herb garden. And alongside him was Beatrix, also in profile.

The hem of her borrowed gown laid atop her thighs such that her hosed knees were revealed, she reached past the squire. Her arm brushed his and caused a flush to run up the young man’s neck. “And this?” she asked.

The squire peered at the plant she fingered. “I know not the name of that one, my lady.”

She shrugged, and Michael knew the face she turned to Percival bore a smile. “I cannot think of it either, though I vow I know it.”

Jealousy—there was no other word for it—gripped Michael.

Beatrix sat back on her heels. “Mayhap you could cut a s-sprig for me?”

There were other herbs in her lap—fennel of the tiny yellow flowers and sweet woodruff of the white flowers. What did she do? And why did Percival reach for his dagger to accommodate her request?

Michael descended the steps. “You are relieved of your charge, Squire Percival.”

The young man lurched to his feet. “My lord! I did not hear you.”

“That is most obvious.” Acutely aware of the hitch in his stride, Michael glanced at Beatrix. Though she met his gaze, she did not rise.

“I was assisting Lady Beatrix with—”

“I know what you were doing.” Michael halted before him. “You are relieved.”

The squire lowered his eyes. “Aye, my lord.”

As his footsteps receded, Michael considered Beatrix. She had turned her face forward and appeared to look upon the fuzzy leaves and stems of the herb which neither she, nor Squire Percival, could name.

As the garden door closed, Michael said, “Herbs, Lady Beatrix?”

She nodded, causing her silken hair to ripple in the sunlight.

“For what?” He took a step nearer and braced the bulk of his weight on his uninjured leg.

She reached toward the budding herb that would soon produce clusters of exquisite flowers nearly as blue as her eyes and grasped a narrow stem as if to break it. “This one is for…courage.”

That so simple a word could tug so forcefully through him told Michael he should not be here. “You speak of the trial.” He wished his voice did not sound so tight.

She tugged at the stem, but it was too green to give without damaging the plant.

Michael went down on his haunches beside her. Though the muscles of his leg spasmed, he ignored the discomfort and pulled his dagger. As he reached forward, Beatrix jerked her hand away as if for fear they might touch, a fear she had not shown when it was Percival who assisted her.

Jealousy ripening such that had it a smell it would be most foul, Michael swept his blade through the stem and dropped the cutting in her lap.

She stared at it. “Each time ere my father…took up arms, he had prepared for him a wine cup with…” For lack of the name, she picked up the cutting. “…this. He told that, in battle, it increased courage.” She delivered her gaze to Michael. “Not that he required such.”

Michael returned his dagger to its scabbard. “’Tis a claim oft made of Borage.”

Her sharp breath and wide eyes revealed that she had not missed the elusive word, and twice she mouthed it as if to place it firm in her mind. “Of course,” she finally spoke, “mother would say all one needs for courage is God.”

“Myself, I would first try Borage.”

She frowned.

Thinking the turning down of her mouth ought to make her less appealing and bothered that it did not, he continued, “It is known to cause the blood to run faster. Though”—he smiled—“that might have more to do with the wine into which Borage is put.”

Beatrix stared at him.

“So, ‘tis courage you seek,” he prompted.

Her eyes snapped. “God is my courage. Thus, I am not afraid, if that is what you ask.”

“It is not.” He pulled the cutting from between her fingers and eyed the drooping buds. “Even with God on one’s side, a person can always use more courage, can they not?” He returned his gaze to her. “And yet, you seem less in need of courage than any woman I have known.”

She blinked, unsettling the affront she wore. However, its hard angles soon returned. “How many women have you known who…face death for a crime they did not commit?”

None.
Until now,
the forbidden slipped in. As Michael tossed it out, Beatrix smiled bitterly. “’Tis most…remarkable what the prospect of death can make of a person.”

He lowered his gaze. And curled his fingers into his palms when he glimpsed her legs amid her skirts.

She must have seen where his eyes went, for she tugged her gown down. “I did not wish to soil the skirts,” she murmured and reached for the other two cuttings that had slid from her lap onto the path between them.

Michael also reached for them, and again she pulled back to avoid touching him. Suppressing the anger that sought tinder, he lifted the herbs between them. “Fennel and sweet woodruff, the same used to scent your pallet at the abbey.”

His softly spoken words startled Beatrix. He had noticed the herbs? And remembered? Of course, he
was
a physician. Though she knew it should not disturb her so, it was as if they had shared an intimacy. Fearing he once more trifled with her, she searched for something to turn the conversation. “Squire Percival tells that you are not only versed in h-healing, but warring.”

From his lowering brow, she had made a mistake in revealing what she had learned from the squire. “Does he?”

“He…mentioned it.”

“Then, it seems, you have also bewitched him.”

Though it was true the squire had come around, “bewitched” was not a word she would use to describe their relationship. “’Twas told in passing, that is all. Be assured, your squire is—” The word took to wing, leaving no remnant with which to piece it together.

“Loyal?” Michael interceded.

“Aye, loyal to his lord.” Knowing that what she spoke would be less believed if she did not grant him her gaze, she lifted her chin. Such pale eyes he had…

Feeling herself lean toward him, she pushed her shoulders back. “What I do not understand is how a man can, in one breath, heal, and in another—”

Lord, it does not bode well for him to be so near!
Now what had she wished to say?

“Kill?” Michael supplied the missing word.

Hating his impatience, she inclined her head.

“It has all to do with conscience, Lady Beatrix. As I—”

“Conscience? You mean the Holy Spirit?”

From the frown that furrowed his brow, she knew he was not comfortable that their conversation had turned to God.

“Just as I have not killed without due reason,” he ignored her question, “I have not healed those better served to die.”

Remembering his ministering hands, she touched her head where he had laid down stitches. “Excepting those better served to die a more v-violent death?”

His gaze wavered, and for a moment she thought he might gainsay himself. Instead, he stood and thrust the herbs at her.

Beatrix also rose but ignored the herbs. “Naught to say, Lord D’Arci?”

“Naught needs to be said, Lady Beatrix.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Pray, what does your conscience speak of me, my lord?”

“Lady Beatrix—”

“What does it speak?”

“Mother Mary! You—”

“I am sick unto death of your profanity!” she snapped. “And your impatience that steals words from my mouth!”

She snatched the herbs from him. Though his flesh barely brushed hers, the brief contact spilled sensation through her. Fearing it, she lifted her skirts and made to step around him. However, he caught her arm and pulled her so near that the heat of his body was almost as tangible as his hand upon her.

Breath feathering her face, he searched her eyes, searched lower, then slowly raised her to her toes and bent his head. “Do you despair of this as well?” he murmured.

Realizing what else he intended to steal from her mouth, she jerked her head to the side, but not before a brief meeting of their lips.

As suddenly as he had taken hold of her, he released her. “By faith!” He thrust a hand through his dark hair.

Beatrix met his fierce gaze and drew the back of a hand across her mouth. “Aye,” she said, surprised at the strength of her voice, “I despair of that as well.” She skirted him and hurried over the stone-laid path. At the door, she looked across her shoulder and glimpsed regret on his face before he hid it behind a glower.

Though she longed to press her lips against the words that rose unbidden to them, she said, “Yield to God, Michael, else you will never find the peace you seek.”