Virgin Bride (25 page)

Chapter 21

I
t was no simple task to enter the great fortress of Chesne, home to Lizanne and Ranulf Wardieu. Though he came with the peasants, the porter at the gate subjected him to much scrutiny before finally allowing him within, and only then after thoroughly searching him to ensure he carried no weapon.

It was a humiliation Edward Charwyck intended to repay on the first unfortunate soul who crossed his path.

Toting his basket of bread to be baked in the lord's oven, he followed the others across the outer bailey. Since he appeared to be but an old peasant man outfitted in rags, none paid him any notice when, after leaving his bread at the ovens, he slipped behind the granary to study the comings and goings of the castlefolk. There would be a pattern, he knew, if he could but find it.

Sometime later a large man with pale-blond hair crossed the inner drawbridge, making for the stables with his knights in tow. Edward knew he was the lord of the castle, Ranulf Wardieu.

It was not easy to contain the impulse his mad mind urged him to, but the piece of sanity he had left reminded him he was without weapon and would be heavily outnumbered even had the man come alone.

Were all spawns of the devil fair of hair? he wondered, thinking of the one carrying Balmaine's bastard whelp. Nay, Balmaine and his sister were dark. How could one be certain, then? Not all carried the mark of the devil clear upon their faces as his daughter did.

Slurping the excess of spittle from his sagging cheeks, he pressed himself deeper into the shadows and waited to discover whether or not Wardieu was going to make it easy for him. Within minutes he had his answer.

"So 'tis to be easy, hmm?" he muttered when the falcons were brought from the mews. A wicked smile curved his mouth as the hunting party mounted their horses.

By the time they rode out beneath the portcullis, the old man was trembling so with excitement, he feared his heart might burst. Rubbing a hand to his chest, he stepped from the shadows, his empty basket concealed beneath the patch-cloth mantle hanging lopsided from his shoulders.

He entered the donjon via the kitchen. When a serving wench asked him why he was there, he knocked her unconscious—perhaps even killed her—and hid her in the pantry.

"Meddling bitch," he muttered, then peered around the corner at the enormous hall that put the one at Medland to shame. There were a few servants about, but none noticed him as he crept along the walls to the stairway.

At the landing above he heard the women's laughter before he came upon them. He skulked down the corridor, pausing outside the room the voices emanated from.

The door stood open a hand's width, giving him .a view of the backs of two women bent over an embroidery frame—one dark-headed, the other fair like the lord of this place. There were others there, too, but he could not see them.

"Nay, daughter, 'tis too large a stitch you make," the pale-headed one laughingly admonished.

There came a heavy, frustrated sigh. Unladylike. "Give me a sword, a bow, a sling, but pray do not give me a needle!"

Youthful laughter from those he could not see followed the heartfelt declaration.

"And who will teach Gillian the ways of a lady if 'tis not you, Lizanne?"

Edward's heart lurched as he experienced again the impulse to slay his enemy. He thought of the knife he had taken from the kitchen, but once more his tentative grasp on sanity prevailed. Aye, in good time he would have her flesh, but not this day.

"Ah, Lady Zara, 'tis a waste of time," Philip's murderer said.

Edward pressed himself back against the wall, his gaze darting along the corridor as he wondered behind which door the child lay.

The woman chuckled. "You have already told Ranulf of your gift. What will my son think when you do not deliver it, hmm?"

"Much better of me if he does not feel obliged to wear it. Just look at tins—'tis more like a pig than a horse!"

"You must needs only make its legs longer."

A shriek. "Then 'twill look like a pig with long legs!" The sound of a stool scraping across the floor had Edward gripping the knife handle. Mayhap he would have her flesh this day, after all.

"And where do you think you are going? You promised me an hour—a full hour, Lizanne!"

The feet approaching the door faltered. "It has been at least that long."

"Nay, it has been less than half that."

A groan. "You would hold me to it?"

"Aye, that I would."

"But Gillian—"

"Is sleeping. Now, sit down, Lizanne."

A long silence followed before the woman won her daughter-in-law's grudging capitulation.

Regaining his breath, Edward slipped past the room and headed for the door at the farthest end of the corridor. It would be the lord's solar, and if he guessed correctly, there he would find that which he sought.

Easing the door open, he pressed his face to the crack and swept the room with eyes grown greedy and reckless. Though taken aback by the presence of a maid seated alongside the sleeping infant, he was not disappointed.

The girl was humming to herself, holding a small garment close to her face as she pushed a needle through its bodice.

Subduing the half-sighted maid was simple. However, preventing the child from awakening when he lifted its small body and placed it in the basket proved trying.

Wedging a sheet around the fitful baby, Edward stared at the abundance of flaxen hair covering its head. Aye, though it was a girl child, worthless in his estimation, they would still come for it. And when they did, he would be waiting to exact his revenge, gaining for himself the child he really wanted—the Balmaine heir.

Turning to the bound maid who squinted up at him and mumbled something behind the gag he'd shoved into her mouth, he placed the knife against her cheek.

Her eyes grew round, her body shaking with fear.

"Tell them this," he rasped, leaning near her so she could better see him. "The child's life for Philip's." Then, in one swift motion, he cut a half circle in her flesh.

She screamed her pain against the gag, but it was too choked for any but Edward to hear. Smiling, he tossed the bloodied knife upon the sheet alongside the child, then concealed the basket beneath his mantle.

Whether or not he made it outside the castle's walls to where his men awaited hardly mattered now. The child and the knife it shared its bed with ensured he would have his revenge, be it this day or a fortnight hence.

***

Lizanne did not walk from the sewing room. She ran. Her eyes crossed, her fingers stiff, her rear end sore from sitting too long on that damnable stool, she hurried down the corridor.

At that moment she wanted only two—nay, three— things. To find a comfortable chair. To place Gillian to her heavy breasts. And to discover a way out of the commitment she had made to take up the needle.

At the door to the solar she paused, straightened her bliaut, and took a deep, calming breath. Then, not wanting to disturb Gillian if she was still sleeping, she quietly entered the chamber.

Her expectant smile was wiped away at the sight of the young maid lying among the rushes, struggling to free herself from ropes that bound her hands and feet.

It came to Lizanne at once.

"My baby!" she cried, rushing forward to stare down into the empty cradle. Frantically, she pushed aside the covers, searching for the tiny body that had long been gone.

Her scream brought all within earshot running.

Lady Zara was the first to make it to her side. "Dear God," she exclaimed, beginning a search of the empty cradle herself.

Shaking free of the paralyzing fear, Lizanne grabbed Zara by the shoulders. "Ranulf," she gasped. "Send for Ranulf." Pushing her mother-in-law toward the door, she caught sight of the steward standing there.

"Seal all entrances to the castle," she ordered. "Allow none within or without until my husband returns." Nodding, the man turned and ran.

Lizanne dropped to her knees, beside the maid and pulled the girl's head onto her lap. Wincing at the sight of her poor, ravaged face, she removed the gag with hands that trembled violently. "Marian, where is my baby?"

The girl mouthed words, but no sound came out. Drawing a wheezing breath, she swallowed hard and tried again. "H-he took ... her, milady," she cried, her voice reflecting the pain of her injury.

"Who? Who took her?"

Marian shook her head. "Do not know. Old man. He said—"

"Yes?"

She coughed. "The babe's life for ... Philip's?"

Lizanne's eyes widened, her mouth going slack as the implications fell around her like a pelting rainstorm.

Dear God, no. It could not be.

Her gaze flickered to the cut on Marian's face. Though there was too much blood to be certain, she knew. Whimpering, she lifted the skirt of her bliaut and, as gently as possible, wiped the crimson away.

"Charwyck," she choked, her eyes tracing the crude C she'd revealed. With a broken sob she covered her face with her hands and began to pray as she'd never done before.

It seemed the world would end before Ranulf returned from his hunting. In fact, it was less than a half hour before he flung himself from his horse and sprinted up the steps to the hall.

Immediately, Lizanne was in his arms, letting loose the flood of tears she had been trying so hard to keep in check.

"Gone," she wept as Ranulf held her. "He has taken my baby."

Knowing every second that passed took Gillian farther away, Ranulf pulled back and lifted her chin. "Who, Lizanne? Who has taken her?"

She muttered something unintelligible and began to sob louder. "Strength," he said, giving her a shake when she crumpled against him. "Where is your strength,|warrior wife?" He shook her again, and this time she met his gaze.

"Charwyck," she spat, dashing her tears away with the back of her hand. "Tis he who has taken our Gillian."

Only once before, when he had believed Lizanne lost to him, had Ranulf felt such pain and rage. Roaring it aloud for all to hear, he pulled her to where his mother stood beside the maid who had cared for the babe.

"Everything," he demanded, slamming a fist on the table the girl was slumped over. "You will tell me everything—and be quick about it!"

He allowed himself only a moment of regret when Marian lifted her face to reveal the cruelty of Edward Charwyck. He could afford no more, though his compassion for her plight shone in his eyes.

The maid had cried herself out completely, so she was better able to relate to Ranulf the events that had led to the taking of the babe.

"A basket," Ranulf echoed. "And how came he into the donjon?" he asked no one in particular.

"Through the kitchen entrance," Lizanne said.

"And none tried to stop him?" He could not believe the man had slipped within the walls undetected.

"Aye, but she is dead," Lizanne said. They had found the serving wench's body in the pantry.

Ranulf bellowed again and smote a fist into his palm. Blood. He wanted the blood of the old man as much as he'd wanted the blood of the son. And he would have it. Every last drop. His face a cold mask of rage, he turned to look at Walter, his trusted friend, who stood beside Lady Zara. "We ride now," he said.

The vassal stepped away from his wife and came to stand before his lord. "All is in readiness, my lord," he said. "The horses are saddled and mounted, provisions gathered, and the dogs eager to catch the scent."

Delegating emotion to the confines of his heart so that his judgment would not be clouded—truly an impossible task—Ranulf turned to Lizanne. "We will need a fresh scent," he said, his angry red coloring receding as his warrior's logic gained the upper hand.

"The sheets," she exclaimed, coming to life. "And I must change." As she swung toward the stairs, she fervently wished herself already in man's clothing.

Ranulf caught hold of her and pulled her hack around. "Nay, you will stay." He spoke firmly, though his voice still trembled with anger. "We will find her. 'Tis my vow to you."

"I will not stay! 'Tis my child! I did not labor to give her life only to abandon her now." Wrenching her arm free, she swung away. "If you leave without me, husband," she called over her shoulder, "I will follow. You know I will."

Aye, she would do just that. Frowning darkly, Ranulf watched her mount the stairs and disappear from sight. Of course he could set a man—-nay, a good half-dozen men —to ensure she did not follow, but woe be to those who found themselves such a duty. And still, she would likely escape them. Damnation, but she was no tamer than the day she had forced him into a sword fight with her!

Turning to Walter, Ranulf threw his arms into the air. "Have my wife's horse saddled."

"If she goes, I go too!" Lady Zara exclaimed. Not waiting for the dissent that was^sure to follow, she lifted her skirts and sprinted across the hall like a spirited mare.

Both men turned and stared at the tiny woman who was too much like Lizanne to waste any breath upon.