The YIELDING (43 page)

Though the smile Gaenor returned was small, it seemed genuine. “Then I rejoice with you.” She looked out across the hall and sighed. “Married…”

As she herself would soon be, though they did not discuss that.

“Michael seems”—Gaenor shrugged her too-thin shoulders—“a good man.”

Searching him out, Beatrix looked across the great hall and instead found her mother engaged in a conversation with Lady Maude. Her heart swelled for the woman who had been so set upon her youngest daughter becoming a bride of Christ, yet who had spoken no word against Beatrix’s decision to wed. Though it surely made Lady Isobel ache to not see her dream fulfilled, she accepted it, just as she accepted Michael.

A beloved laugh drew Beatrix’s gaze, and she found her new husband amid the din of celebration that surely knew every crack and corner of her brother’s home. Beside him was her second brother, Everard, a laugh prying at his curled lips until it bounded forth over something Garr said. Then they were all laughing, including Annyn who cradled her infant son, and the grave Sir Canute who somehow found his host’s three-year-old daughter perched on his hip.

Beatrix sighed. “Aye, Michael is a good man.” And once the wedding guests were enjoined to take their leave—be it on the morrow or several days hence—they would begin their life together. Husband and wife.

Gaenor laid a hand over Beatrix’s. “You are blessed, little sister.”

“As you shall be.”

Somber silence was followed by Gaenor’s attempt at laughter. “You have to say that to me.”

“Aye, but it is also true. Christian Lavonne—”

“Did not come.” Gaenor shrugged as if it did not matter, but it did. Though it had been expected that, on the occasion of Beatrix and Michael’s wedding, she would finally meet the man whom King Henry intended her to wed, the baron had sent word that he was delayed. Unfortunately, he had given no reason for his absence. Thus, as they would not meet until the morrow—or perhaps later—Gaenor’s effort to immerse herself in Beatrix’s joy had begun to thin.

Thinking it best to speak of something else, Beatrix said, “Tell me of your stay at Wulfen Castle.”

As she and Gaenor had always suffered exceeding curiosity over their family’s stronghold that was forbidden to women, it seemed the best choice. However, Gaenor merely shrugged again as she had done often since her return from Wulfen four days past. “As I have already told, our brother, Everard, mostly kept me confined to a tower room in the donjon.”

Of course it would have been necessary, not only to maintain Wulfen’s integrity as a castle dedicated to training boys into men but to suppress word of Gaenor’s presence should King Henry grow impatient with the continued delay in carrying out his decree.

“Then you saw no men other than our brother and the knights a-assigned to see to your needs?” Beatrix hoped the stammer she endeavored to keep from her speech, especially in Gaenor’s presence, went unnoticed.

Her sister averted her gaze. “From my window, I sometimes watched the young men train.”

Beatrix knew her sister well enough to realize she was holding something close to her. With an expectant grin and a raised eyebrow, she teased, “Methinks you are not telling all.”

Gaenor considered Beatrix as if weighing the risk of revealing something of great import, then looked to the lavishly laid table before her. “’Tis true, but naught can come of what I do not tell.”

“Mayhap I can help.”

“You cannot. Regardless of my own wishes, I shall soon wed Baron Lavonne.”

It was only a suspicion that settled on Beatrix, but she said, “Is there someone else, Gaenor? Another you would rather wed?”

Her sister startled, then shrugged yet again. “I did meet a knight at Wulfen, but I hardly know him well enough to wish marriage.”

One of those whom Everard had chosen to provide for her stay? Though it seemed the most likely answer, Beatrix was surprised that her brother would not choose aged and experienced knights for the task.

“How well
do
you know him?” she asked, though she knew her question might cause Gaenor to once more shrug away a response.

“We…talked. In the chapel. That is where I met him.”

“Surely you were not allowed to attend mass with the men?”

“Of course not. I went only after they were done that I might have the chapel to myself.”

“Then how—”

“He was there one day when I thought I was alone.”

“When he should have been training pages and squires?”

Gaenor shook her head. “He was not one of our brother’s men, but a visiting knight.”

That explained one thing, but not another, for Wulfen rarely accepted visitors. In fact, those who escorted pages and squires to Wulfen for training did not tarry.

“Truly? How long did he visit?”

Gaenor drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “More than a month, though I did not meet him until a fortnight past.”

Though Beatrix sensed she delved too deep, she pressed on. “For what purpose was he at Wulfen?”

“Abel and Everard were training him.”

“A knight? A man who has already earned his spurs?”

Though it did not come as a surprise when Gaenor pressed her lips to deny further response, it disappointed, and Beatrix chastised herself for pressing so hard. Whatever else had happened between her sister and the knight, no more would be told this day.

“Of course, you are surely relieved to be returned to Stern Castle,” Beatrix tried to salvage the conversation.

Gaenor sipped her wine.

“Wulfen must have been t-t-” Thoughts running too far ahead of her tongue to keep pace, Beatrix clenched her teeth and dragged the elusive word back to her. “It must have been tedious.”

This time Gaenor could not help but notice Beatrix’s faltering speech, and as with each time she did so, she winced. However, unlike on past occasions, she did not withdraw.

A flush warming her hollow cheeks, nearly attaining the depth of the color of her bliaut, she said with urgency, “Do you forgive me, Beatrix?”

“For what?”

“For the ill words I spoke the day King Henry delivered his decree that a Wulfrith wed a Lavonne. More, for what happened to you—what would not have happened had you and Sir Ewen not drawn the king’s men away from me and Sir Durand.”

“Gaenor—”

She shook her head, stirring the troubled air around her. “I thought I would die when I saw you in the ravine and realized the sacrifice you had made to save me.”

Beatrix gripped her sister’s hand. “There is naught to forgive. You were hurting when you said what you did and never would I fault you for it. As for what happened to me, had I to do it again, I would, for it brought me Michael.”

Gaenor scrutinized Beatrix’s face, and her shoulders began to ease. “God favors you, Beatrix. You must please Him mightily.” She smiled softly. “If only I knew Him as you do, perhaps I might better face what lies in wait for me.”

Christian Lavonne, who she feared would pounce on her as if she was prey. As much as Beatrix wished to dissuade her sister of what she believed of the baron, it would be futile. However, as Gaenor had thrown wide the door to God who, alone, could provide what she needed, Beatrix grasped the opportunity. “You can know God as I do. You have but to let Him in.”

“It is not so simple.”

“It is far from simple, but still a-attainable.”

Gaenor looked across the hall as if searching someone out.

Beatrix followed her gaze to their mother, then Michael and their brothers whose gathering now included a brooding Sir Durand. As always, Beatrix felt regret for the pain she had caused him in not returning his feelings. She could only hope he would find someone worthier of his affection.

Gaenor sighed. “Attainable even when one has sinned greatly?” she asked so softly it was as if she did not intend to speak it aloud.

Beatrix looked around. Should she let Gaenor’s words pass as if unheard? Determining it was another opportunity to assure her sister of God’s love, she said, “Whatever you have done, Gaenor, you have but to ask for forgiveness and it will be granted.”

A flush crept her sister’s face. However, as the musicians once more took up their instruments to play for the wedding guests, Gaenor recovered sufficiently to quip, “And if I ask Him to deliver me free of marriage to Baron Lavonne, will that also be granted?”

“If it is in His will.”

With a smile that turned her exceedingly pretty despite its wry turn, Gaenor mused, “Always His will, which means I shall wed Lavonne—unless the baron determines he does not want me. Which is possible.” Gaenor pressed her palms to the table and rose.

Forcing down the questions she wished to ask that her sister was surely unprepared to answer, Beatrix looked up.

With another glance at the gathering of men, Gaenor bent and kissed Beatrix’s brow. “God willing, I shall one day see through the eyes of love as you do, little sister.”

Beatrix had to believe she would—that the man she had glimpsed in Christian Lavonne would grow to love her sister as she deserved to be loved. “You shall.”

Gaenor sighed. “Now I am going to dance at my sister’s wedding.” She strode the length of the dais and partnered with a household knight who, though not as tall as she, turned her about the floor with ease.

“Will you dance with me, Wife?”

Despite her worries over Gaenor, Beatrix beamed up at her husband. “I will.”

He drew her to her feet and gazed into her upturned face. “I like the way you look upon me, Beatrix D’Arci.”

“Do you?” Remembering Gaenor’s words, she said, “That is because I look upon you through the eyes of love.”

“As I look upon you.” Michael kissed her.

Sighing into the man who had yielded all for her, Beatrix thanked God that He had willed that she and Michael become one—He who had always known well His plans for her. As He knew well His plans for Gaenor.

EXCERPT

THE REDEEMING

Book Three in the Age of Faith series

Available Spring 2013

Wulfen Castle, England, June 1157

To the death.

Perspiration running into his eyes, the blood of a half dozen wounds seeping through the weave of his tunic, Christian Lavonne reminded himself of what was required to best his opponent.

Think death.

Drawing back his sword, he eyed the vulnerability of the knight’s neck that glistened with the efforts of the past half hour.

Feel death.

Lunging forward, he shifted his grip on the hilt.

Breathe death.

Smelling his opponent’s bloodlust, he arced the blade toward the exposed flesh that would assure victory.

Embrace death.

Putting from him all he had been taught of mercy and forgiveness, he slashed the blade down. And met steel.

“Surely you can do better!” the knight spat.

Christian growled, swept his blade up off the other man’s, and swung again—only to yield up the blood of his forearm.

“Ho!” The knight grinned. “Do I unnerve you, Lavonne? Make your heart beat faster? Blood run colder?”

Christian knew it was anger the other man sought. And he would have it.

Heart pounding as if upon the stoutest door, he swung again. Missed. Again. Missed. Again. And finally set his blade to the knight’s lower thigh. However, he was allowed but a moment of satisfaction before his opponent leapt at him.

Christian jumped back from the thirsty blade and came up against the fence. If not for the thrust of his weight that caused the wood to crack, the knight would have had what he sought—blood for blood. Christian plummeted backward and landed hard on the splintered fence rail.

“You are had, Lavonne.” His opponent settled the crimson tip of his blade to the great vein in Christian’s neck. “Beg for mercy.”

Throat raw with exertion, Christian flexed his hand on his sword hilt. “Never, knave!”

Fire leapt in the man’s grey-green gaze and the stench of death rose to Christian’s nostrils. Blessedly, it retreated on the knight’s great sigh. “Well, then”—he turned his blade down, set its tip to the ground, and leaned on the hilt—“at least humor me with a recitation of the lesson that applies to the dire situation in which you find yourself.”

Grinding his teeth, Christian rolled to the side and gained his feet. “That would be lesson one.”

“One?” With a forearm, the knight brushed back the damp brown hair clinging to his brow. “Pray, enlighten me as to how that applies to your sound defeat.”

Christian glared. “I do not refer to
your
lesson, Sir Abel, but mine—one in which I fear you are in true need of instruction.”

A suspicious light entered the knight’s eyes. “Aye?”

“Address one’s better as befits their station.”

Sir Abel’s gaze narrowed, but just as it seemed the tension might once more see them at swords, he made a sweeping bow. “Most esteemed
Baron
Lavonne, pray honor this lowly knight by reciting the appropriate lesson.” He straightened. “I humbly await your good grace.”