THE VEXING: A Medieval Romance (AGE OF FAITH Book 6) Page 4

  Raking fingers through her braid she ought to have covered upon the return of her veil, she murmured, “Well, at least I need not worry about suffering your attentions, Sir Durand.”

  It was a lie—a pernicious failing that, goaded by dread of exposing one’s self, sweeps over the tongue and off the lips just as one recognizes it as sin.

  Queen Eleanor had not set him upon Count Fauvel’s widow. He had done that when Sir Oliver followed her abovestairs.

  With each stride that carried him across the hall, he had berated himself for interfering in something not of his concern, especially since the lady presented as one who might be agreeable to a tryst. Hence, he had hoped Eleanor would call him back. But though too perceptive not to notice his retreat, she had let him go.

  Had she seen the unapologetic adulterer follow The Vestal Widow? Very possible. Thus, as often happened at her suggestion, since she had the luxury of watching over her ladies whilst he watched over her, he had accepted responsibility for protecting a woman’s virtue—he, Durand Marshal, dishonorably discharged from service to the renowned Wulfriths. Ever the irony of that…

  He would suffer Eleanor’s amusement once he returned to her. But not just yet.

  He stepped off the stairs. Avoiding looking directly at the queen lest she beckoned, he confirmed his men were not remiss in watching over her and continued to the iron-banded doors beyond which lay cold air that would allow him to feel every blessed breath.

  “Sire,” the porter said with a deferential nod, then swung open the right-hand door.

  The heavily cloaked porter outside, this one tasked with granting entrance to the hall, also inclined his head to acknowledge the queen’s man. “’Twill be a painfully chill eve.” His breath clouded the air. “If yer of a mind to linger, ye’d do well to fetch a mantle.”

  Durand did not take offense at the advice which few commoners dared dispense to nobles. He knew the older man to be kindly, though that kindliness would vanish should an enemy seek to enter the donjon. Before an interloper could draw his next breath, the sword at the porter’s side would come to hand, ready for gutting.

  “A short walk only,” Durand said and descended the steps.

  Despite the nearing of night, the inner bailey teemed with castle folk. Thus, he headed for the wall-walk atop the inner wall that knew only the tread and murmurings of patrolling men-at-arms.

  “Sir Durand!”

  As ever, that voice stopped him, and he almost yielded to another of his failings. Setting his tongue against cursing, he looked to the gatehouse’s open portal. Beneath it strode a warrior—of note as much for the color of hair that belonged on one older than his thirty and six years to Durand’s thirty and two, as for the height and breadth made more imposing by a fur-lined mantle.

  Durand settled into his heels and suppressed a grimace when a narrowing of eyes evidenced the man noticed the scratched and bruised face gained en route to Bayeux.

  “Baron Wulfrith,” Durand acknowledged his former liege as the warrior halted before him.

  With enough of a smile to evidence the one he bestowed it upon was forgiven as much as possible, the baron said, “I had thought our paths would not cross.”

  “Neither did I expect it, my lord.”

  Wulfrith tilted his head, causing the light of torches that sought to ward off night’s descent to course his silver hair. “Do you think they conspired?”

  He referred to the queen and king. It had been convenient that with Wulfrith’s impending arrival at court, the one who had betrayed the baron was given reprieve from once more facing the betrayed. But regardless of whether it was by God’s hand, royal machinations, or mere coincidence Durand was absent, he had been grateful. His error had been in believing Wulfrith had returned to England by now.

  So had Eleanor and Henry prevented a meeting between the two men, showing Durand mercy for the sin the Wulfriths had endeavored to ensure others could only guess at?

  Durand raised his eyebrows. “With the king and queen, most things are possible.”

  “Quite, but my only regret in meeting you is my inability to sail for home though I have concluded the earl’s business. Twice I have boarded ship to make the crossing and been forced to return to court. It is a treacherous time of year to put out upon the narrow sea.”

  So it was. The lady who had fled Count Verielle’s men knew not the depth of gratitude she ought to feel for her rescue. “Then you shall spend Christmas in France, my lord.”

  “Not if my prayers are answered. I have just received tidings that if day dawns bright and clear as expected, the ships will sail.”

  Durand glanced heavenward. Clouds moved across the darkening blue, but there was more sky and awakening stars to be seen.

  A good thing, not only for Wulfrith but the woman Durand had just left—providing Eleanor’s cat to The Vestal Widow’s mouse did not so entertain that the queen denied the lady permission to leave court.

  “I shall add my prayers to yours, my lord.”

  “I thank you.” Wulfrith glanced at the donjon. “You are content with serving the queen?”

  There could be but one answer, and it was mostly true, providing he did not indulge in his longing for a life of greater challenge and meaning. “I am.”

  Though Wulfrith’s eyes were only as readable as he allowed, disbelief flickered in their depths. Still, he let the matter be—just as he had not inquired into the injuries to Durand’s face. “How fares your family?” he asked.

  “Well.” As Durand had confirmed during a brief visit before concluding King Henry’s business in Rouen. As the last of three surviving sons, he was of little consequence to his sire, but his parents were always pleased to see him.

  The baron waited, and Durand knew what was expected of him. He had learned the lesson at Wulfen Castle when he was a lowly page who revered this man’s father as England’s foremost warrior and trainer of knights—Be of good courtesy with one’s lessers, equals, and betters.

  Ache though Durand did for the restorative breaths denied him, he truly wished an answer to the question he ought to have asked sooner, “Your wife and children, my lord?”

  “By God’s grace, we are well. And by Christmas, we shall add to our numbers when Lady Annyn gifts me with another son or daughter. More reason to pray for good weather.”

  Durand grinned. “You are to be congratulated.”

  “I thank you.”

  “And your brothers and sisters, Lord Wulfrith?” he pushed himself further, though that last roused memories of she who embodied the name that was an ill fit for the much-too-spirited woman he had tossed from his horse—Lady Beatrix Wulfrith, now Beatrix D’Arci.

  And not far behind the image of the one he had once loved was her sister, now Lady Gaenor Lavonne who had loved Durand as she should not have. Hence, his fall from grace.

  A hand settled on his shoulder, and he was ashamed he had to bring the brother of the two women into focus—and more so that the feared warrior Durand had become had drifted away like the squire he no longer was.

  “Also well,” the baron said, “as are their children.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  Wulfrith stepped back, and as his gaze lowered, Durand became aware of what was too late to rectify.

  “I am pleased you continue to wear it upon your person,” the baron said.

  Durand considered the pommel beneath his hand—that of the Wulfrith dagger, awarded to those worthy to receive knighthood at Wulfen Castle.

  “It is a reminder of who I trained to be ere I forgot,” he said before pride silenced the truth. “A reminder of what I aspire to be again.”

  “Were you not once more the warrior to whom I awarded that dagger, Sir Durand, you would not serve the Queen of England.”

  That still surprised. Though certain Henry and Eleanor knew the gallant monk had once been far from gallant and even farther from a monk—that they knew the extent of his sin even if only by way of conjecture—he was entrust
ed with safeguarding the queen amidst her ladies.

  Almost pained with relief over Wulfrith’s assurance he was once more worthy, Durand’s mouth moved toward a smile. But then came pride, too quick to pass through the door thrown wide by relief. He too much wanted Wulfrith’s acceptance and to congratulate himself on gaining it.

  Do not hold tight to that which you long for, he silently recited what he aspired to live by. Far less it aches to have it slip through your fingers than torn from your grasp.

  He let a shadow of a smile onto his lips. “I am grateful for your faith in my honor and ability, Baron Wulfrith. And now I shall take my leave. It has been a day without end, and before it becomes as long a night, I shall seek respite.”

  Wulfrith inclined his head. Torchlight once more coursing the silver hair bound back off his brow, he said, “Lesson sixteen, is it not?”

  The first imparted by this man when Durand’s squire’s training with the father had passed to the Wulfrith heir, a lesson meant to tame the restless young man who had struggled to master impulsivity as required to gain his spurs.

  Seek the still of prayer that you may know yourself and make order of what is required of you.

  “Aye, sixteen. I shall see you at supper, my lord.” Durand stepped around Wulfrith and, as he strode toward the wall-walk, was glad the baron and he had crossed paths. And for the reminder that made him seek prayer to aid in weathering the storm he sensed ahead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Supper was tedious, though never had Beata seen such lavish presentation of what was typically a light and informal meal. It was even more impressive than the feast over which she had marveled the one time she accompanied Conrad to King Louis’s court. That memory made her wince.

  Her husband had advised her to temper her exuberance, but at ten and six, she was too foolish to heed his warning that Louis was of a prudish bent—more, the king had yet to recover from news that, following annulment of his marriage to Eleanor, the heiress to the largest of the French duchies had wed the young duke of Normandy without her former husband’s consent. Thus, King Louis publicly admonished Conrad for Beata’s expressions of joy, saying if she was not taken in hand, the count would suffer as Eleanor made him suffer. Conrad and Beata had left court the next morn.

  Grateful to be seated at a lower table distant from King Henry and his queen, unconcerned it reflected her reduced status as a widow, Beata folded her hands atop the linen tablecloth, while below it her feet tapped out impatience. It was past time to end the meal, the ravaged viands having been removed and goblets and tankards upended time and again by those whose jovial mood almost suffocated.

  Under normal circumstances, she loved to converse and laugh, and though it was not unusual for wine to be present when she indulged in lively conversation, her own joy did not depend on drink.

  With a sigh, she once more picked out Sir Norris seated between her father’s younger knights at a table below hers.

  He acknowledged her with a nod and looked to the dais.

  She did the same. The king and queen presided over the high table, flanked by high-ranking nobles, most of whom would likely remain in Bayeux several weeks to enjoy the festivities and favors for which the Christmas court was known. God willing, Beata would not be here that long.

  Please Lord, she sent heavenward, be willing. And may there soon be an end to this meal.

  She longed for further ease of her pained joints and bruised places. More, she ached for quiet. However, until she could slip from the hall with none the wiser, she must remain.

  Leveling her gaze on Henry, who was too content perched above his audience to grant them leave to quit the tables, she saw his attention had returned to the one seated to his right. The powerfully built man could not be beyond thirty and five, yet he possessed more silver hair than Conrad at his passing.

  The knight beside Beata had informed her this was the warrior known England over and much of France as Baron Wulfrith. For generations, his family had trained young men into the worthiest of knights. And like Beata’s family, they had supported Stephen’s claim to England’s throne—until Baron Wulfrith wed a woman who stood on the side of Henry. Whatever that tale, which her dear friend, a troubadour knight, rued he knew little of, Beata would love to hear it. Just as she longed to hear what was now spoken between the baron and the one who had wrested the crown from Stephen.

  Had the esteemed Wulfrith ever sat at table with Conrad, Beata would have been as present in the men’s exchange as Henry’s queen who oft inserted herself in her husband’s conversations.

  “Tedious, this,” Beata muttered and plucked at a shoulder of her bodice to ease the discomfort caused by Sir Renley’s attempt to snatch her from…

  She resisted, but her eyes moved to the high table’s farthest end against which another table sat perpendicular to the one reserved for the noblest of nobles.

  There sat Sir Durand, who had more than denied Count Verielle’s men their prey. In the corridor outside her chamber, he had disturbed her as no man had done. Why? Because all others who drew so near did so not out of concern but to gain what she did not want to give?

  Throughout the meal, their eyes had not met, though they would have had she looked long enough as he surveyed the hall—sometimes over the rim of a goblet, more often over bites of meat, which seemed his preferred viand.

  Not that she ought to be familiar with his preferences. But then, she was nearly as acquainted with Sir Oliver’s that ran to the rich and the sweet. That one’s gaze she had not been able to avoid, but when she happened on it, he had ended it with a dismissive roll of the eyes.

  Beata almost cried with relief when the king commanded the gathering to move to the great hearth. Rising with the knight seated on one side of her, whilst the priest seated on her other side continued to doze on an upturned hand, she heard, “I hope we shall meet again in days to come, my lady.”

  She looked to the knight. Though he spoke with the sincerity of one who seemed more the sort to enjoy her company than tolerate it, she lied in saying, “As do I.” But only a lie because she hoped she would soon be gone from court.

  Restrainedly, she made her way amongst the others and reached the stairs without hindrance.

  “Lady Beata!”

  With a low groan, she turned to a pleasantly plump young woman. “Aye?”

  “The queen would have you attend her.”

  Propriety be cursed! Beata silently swore. I should have run!

  “I feel unwell. Mayhap Her Majesty will grant me an audience on the morrow?”

  A snort sounded from the lady, causing her to flush and clear her throat as if to explain away the sound with which Beata herself was more than familiar. “I fear she will not, my lady.”

  It was no easy thing to carry herself well, shoulders longing to bow and feet to trudge, but Beata did so with the reminder she remained a reflection of her beloved Conrad.

  Upon reaching the hearth, she moved past Henry where he sat surrounded by men on one side of the fire, whilst his queen was thronged by women and men on the other side.

  “Lady Beata,” Eleanor said as her subject curtsied, “we hoped you would not slip away ere we could speak.”

  Once more an object of interest, Beata straightened. As she did so, she avoided looking at Sir Durand who stood to the right alongside Baron Wulfrith.

  “You will be grateful we did not allow you to sleep night into day,” the queen continued. “Had we, you would miss your ship.”

  Breath fled Beata.

  “And now you may thank us,” Eleanor said.

  “Wh-what say you, Your Majesty?”

  “Though we would be pleased to have you pass Christmas with us, it is selfish to keep you from answering your father’s summons.”

  And foolish to risk a disrupted household, Beata mused. There was something good to be said about making a nuisance of one’s self.

  She stepped forward, bent, and kissed the proffered hand. “I thank you, Your Majesty
. You are kind and generous and—”

  “Considerate. Most considerate, Lady Beata.”

  Something in the queen’s tone causing Beata’s relief to waver, she straightened.

  Returning her revered hand to the chair’s arm, Eleanor said, “Sir Durand.”

  He stepped forward, and though his eyes brushed Beata as if to sweep her away like rubbish, she sensed wariness. Neither did he expect to like what the queen would say. “Your Majesty?”

  Withholding her gaze from him, Eleanor said, “What think you of our gallant monk, Lady Beata?”

  “Monk?” Beata slid her eyes down the tunic belted over a chain mail hauberk, recalled Sir Oliver’s taunt that the queen’s man ought to know timing was everything in gaining a woman’s intimate favors. “I was unaware he is of the Church.”

  The queen laughed as a lady ought to. Were it not at Beata’s expense, she would think it a pretty sound. “I assure you, my man is not of the Church, though he as good as could be.”

  Then he had also earned a name indicative of chastity. That surprised. He was of face, form, and carriage that provided opportunities aplenty to satisfy a man’s need. What kept one not committed to the Church from answering those needs? A religious bent?

  “As we understand,” Queen Eleanor continued, “you could qualify for a life on your knees praying for England, Lady Beata.”

  Was that an idle comment? Or a portent of things to come? Would the ship of which the queen spoke deliver her to an English convent to live out her years in the quiet and still of the cloister? Had she so offended?

  Dear Lord, she silently beseeched, forgive me for not better keeping my tongue.

  “Well?” Eleanor prompted. “What think you of Sir Durand?”

  Beata moistened her lips. “He seems honorable and courageous. Certes, I am indebted to him for the aid given this morn.”

  “The necessity of which is a curious thing.” The queen raised an eyebrow. “We are most interested to learn the reason Count Verielle’s men risked trespassing upon the King of England’s lands.” She clicked her tongue. “A pity you are also uninformed.”