The Bride of Windermere (6 page)

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Authors: Margo Maguire

BOOK: The Bride of Windermere
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It was dark and gloomy, with shuttered windows, thus the only light in the room emanated from two candelabra on the chest, which Nicholas and the housekeeper proceeded to light. Gerhart lay Bridget gently on the thick velvet coverlet of the bed which was also heavily laden with dark velvet curtains. Her wheeze was worse now, between bouts of coughing spells, and Kit was anxious to do something for her. She placed cushions under Bridget's back to prop her up and ease her breathing.
“I think she should have starwort and yarrow, myself,” the housekeeper announced after Bridget quieted for a moment.
“Madam, the request was clear, was it not?” The impatience and hostility in Gerhart's tone was unmistakable now. Kit was thankful that he intervened again, since his intimidating tone had an immediate effect on the woman. The housekeeper turned and left quickly. When she was gone, Kit wondered anew what it was about the place that made Gerhart so antagonistic. While she had already noticed he didn't possess the most affable of temperaments, she had yet to see him behave unjustly.
“My thanks, sir,” she said to him.
He barely nodded, acknowledging her thanks. There was a disturbing depth, an almost haunted look, in his eyes.
“The nurse is your cousin?” he asked, and Kit's fleeting impression of a man tormented disintegrated with his words. In his place was a powerful man, coolly controlled.
“Well, yes. Distant, though. She is...a gentlewoman.” Her voice faltered as the full effect of his altered gaze slammed through her. She glanced down at his lips as he spoke and recalled the heat and taste of his mouth. His presence suddenly flustered her. He was so very appealing, and he had come to Bridget's aid with such ease. “She is my...my mother's second cousin. A Cochran of County Louth...”
“Hold,” he raised a hand to stop her. “I daresay I know more of your family than I could ever wish to.”
Nicholas saw the flash of anger in Kathryn's eyes. “Can you manage on your own now, Lady Kathryn?” he quickly interjected.
Kit damned Wolf silently for making her feel like a child and turned to speak to Nicholas. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then until later, my lady...” Nicholas left her with Bridget to go seek out his own quarters. Wolf was already gone.
The gardener came up along with the local priest who dabbled in herbology. The two decided on a decoction of iris root and willow bark, which they gave Bridget along with several of Father Fowler's best blessings and prayers for a speedy recovery. Since their prescription did not differ much from what Kit had planned to give Bridget, she allowed them to proceed without interference. Who could tell? Perhaps the priest's prayers would do her more good than the medicinal powders.
The two men had scarcely left when servants arrived with buckets of hot water which they poured into a stout wooden tub. The younger one, a dark-haired girl, added wood to the fire and fanned it, bringing up a cozy flame.
“'Tis a mite cold,” she said, glancing over at Bridget, asleep in the big bed. “We'll keep it nice 'n toasty for the lady there... get the damp out.”
“Thank you.” Kit took off her hat and began to loosen her hair from its long, confining braid.
“There's a special banquet planned for this evenin‘, milady,” the dark-haired girl said. “I doubt Mistress Hanchaw could be bothered to tell—”
“Maggie!” the older girl cried. “‘Twill never do for ye to be tellin' tales about the mistress. Of course she was goin' to tell the lady.”
Maggie snorted.
“Well, she was, I tell ye.”
“Annie, you know as well as I, nothin' that wily witch likes better than to watch a sweet lady squirm.” Maggie poured a pail of hot water into the tub. “Remember how she baited Lady Clarisse—”
“Hold yer tongue, ye fool! Or yer blathering'll get you set out but good! And me as well!”
“As I was sayin‘, milady.” Maggie turned back to Kit with great dignity, ignoring the other girl. “There's to be a grand celebration tonight for the beginning of the fair. It opens tomorrow in Windermere town, and all the barons and squires from hereabouts will be attending. All their ladies, too, so you'll want to be at your best.”
Annie started to gather up the linens they were meant to deliver to the other Windermere guests. “Tall Lawrence will fetch ye for supper—”
“'Tis a shame about your eye,” Maggie said, lingering, studying Kit's face. “All green and yellow now. No way to conceal it, I don't suppose...”
Kit shook her head and sent the maids on their way with assurances that she could manage her bath alone. There were certainly more pressing matters for them to attend to, if there were guests at the castle.
Bridget was breathing easily and regularly, soundly asleep. Kit eased herself back into the hot water and washed away the grit and grime of her journey, thinking of the two maids and their argument.
Kit wondered who Lady Clarisse was, and why Maggie's words had upset Annie so. This was a strange place, this Windermere Castle. Kit thought it even stranger than Somerton Manor where Lord Somers spent his days in a drunken haze while his wife bedded every neighbor and visitor who passed through. At least at Somerton, a person knew her status—or lack of it.
Even Wolf had seemed to quickly gain an understanding of the situation at Somerton. His distaste for Kit's stepfather was quite clear, and his disgust at Lady Edith's infernal flirting was obvious.
It should have been easy to relax in the tub after her days in the saddle, yet thoughts of the taciturn Wolf plagued her: the way he could make her melt with just a glance of those intent gray eyes, then turn around and use words that made her feel like a child, chastised, castigated, effectively put into place.
She wondered what would happen if he discovered she was the one at the lake. She'd wager her boots he wouldn't call her “Sprout” again.
How could he do this to her? Gerhart made her so confused, she could just kick something. He was a tyrant who treated her like a child and even had the gall to call her “Sprout.” She had no use for such a man as Wolf. She had Rupert.
Rupert, who was never overbearing. He was easygoing and fun and always smiling. He never frowned or scowled the way this Gerhart-Wolf did. Rupert had known her for so many years, he'd be satisfied with her, even though she lacked the sophistication of court. Besides, Kit had loved Rupert for years and as soon as she arrived in London, she would find him and marry him. This marriage was what she'd planned, what had kept her sane while she waited for him to come for her at Somerton. And nothing could change that.
It was some time later, as she sat in front of the fire drying her hair, that Bridget awoke. “How do you feel, old friend?” Kit asked.
“As though Edmond Grindcob's huge cow Mathilda had sat on my chest.”
Kit laughed. “And well you should. You have a terrible hack and a wheeze as well. But we shall have you cured before long.”
“What did those old goats give me?”
“Nothing I wouldn't have given you myself.”
“Good. Don't let ‘em near me without ye,” she wheezed.
“I wouldn't, ever.”
“Sure and I know ye wouldn't, Kitty. Come sit by me.” Bridget patted the mattress and coughed. “I fear it will be some time afore I'm cured.”
Kit got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Nonsense. You'll be fine soon enough. And ready to go on to London.”
“Ye must dress for dinner with the earl.”
“I suppose,” Kit replied. She knew Bridget was going to insist she wear something presentable and Kit didn't have the heart to argue with her now, while her cousin was so pale and weak.
“Wear the deep green velvet, Kit,” the nurse said, “along with the cream wimple. It does suit ye so.”
“What? And not the white?” The white gown with its delicately embroidered bliaut had been her mother's, saved all these years by faithful Bridget. Kit was surprised her cousin hadn't suggested wearing her finest tonight.
“Ye must save the white and gold until ye are presented to King Henry. Promise me.”
“All right, old mother,” Kit laughed as she began to dress herself, “I pledge to you that I will wear the white and gold only as you wish.”
“And behave yerself,” Bridget exhorted.
“You know me, my dear,” Kit said in an attempt at reassurance.
Bridget merely rolled her eyes.
 
Wolf remembered Philip Colston well. Though his cousin was in his late thirties, Philip had not changed much over the years. The same mustache was thicker now, and neatly trimmed, as was the small pointed brown beard which covered the end of his chin. There were hints of gray at his temples and a deep crease between his brows.
He still had a cruel twist about his lips.
It was difficult for Wolf to sit peacefully in the great hall over which his father had presided so long ago. He remembered every detail, down to the last dingy pane of stained glass in the windows and the banners, now tattered, hanging from the huge oaken beams of the ceiling. He could almost envision his brothers, John and Martin, coming in with the earl after a hunt or a trip into the village, Wolf being too young yet to accompany them.
Most vivid in his memory was Martin's coffin being carried out of the main doors, and his mother's weeping form supported by his father as they followed the body of their middle son to the family crypt. It was the last time he saw his mother with any expression.
Wolf painfully recalled the summons from Germany in the fall of 1401. Margrethe, Wolf's mother, had been on an extended visit to her parents after Martin's death. The messenger informed Bartholomew that his wife was lying ill at Bremen, perhaps even dying, and that the Earl was to come at once and bring her two remaining sons to her.
En route to Bremen, highwaymen overtook them, viciously attacking, butchering, hacking; leaving them all for dead.
Wolfs injuries were massive, and he survived only because of his brother's last heroic act to protect him—an act that cost John his life—and the quick thinking of a page not much older than Wolf.
The page was a youthful Hugh Dryden who managed to patch Wolf sufficiently after the attack and get him to a nearby abbey. There, the monks healed his wounds, all but the terrible one that left a scar across his forehead and eye. Weeks later, the two boys were taken to Bremen and reunited with Margrethe and her parents. But Margrethe Gerhart Colston, already in despair due to Martin's death, never recovered from her losses. She sat in her solar, day after day, staring out into the courtyard, straining towards death. The fact that one son remained to her made no difference at all.
His father and elder brothers now dead, Wolfram was the new Earl of Windermere, though unable to claim his title. His family name had been completely discredited in England, and it was up to Wolf now to find the proof he needed to restore his family's honor. It had been necessary for Wolf to assume his grandfather's name in order to return to England. Only Nicholas Becker and the page, Hugh Dryden, knew his true identity. Wolf had no intention of allowing his identity to be discovered until the evidence he needed was safe in hand. Only then would he reveal himself to Philip and personally see to it that justice was served.
Wolf knew that Philip inherited his treacherous nature from his father, Clarence, but there was a perverse aspect to the cousin's nature that the uncle had lacked. Wolf felt his bile rise as he recalled Philip's acts of cruelty—always perpetrated on someone smaller and weaker than himself, and always in secret. Only the children knew, and a few of the smaller servant girls, and none of them ever dared tell their elders. Yes, Wolf well knew of Philip's penchant for inflicting pain. He still bore faint marks from a few painful encounters—until he'd learned to stay clear of the older boy.
Tables were set up, and servants began to bring the food into the great hall under the direction of Mistress Hanchaw. All of Wolfram's men were assembled in the hall, as well as Philip's retainers and many local noblemen with their ladies. Wolf recalled hearing of the recent death of Philip's young wife. It seemed a tasteless blunder for Philip to be hosting such a festive gathering so soon after young Clarisse's death.
Yet Wolf knew Philip's true character. The man and his father had been responsible for butchering his family. Philip was capable of any abomination, and Wolf girded himself against the surge of anger that threatened to disintegrate his calm facade.
“It is interesting—and unusual—for King Henry to send emissaries far and wide throughout the land, is it not?” Philip asked.
“You mean to say you have not been visited before?” Nicholas countered, answering for Wolf. He sensed his cousin's seething anger and gave Wolf the opportunity to master it.
Philip looked suspiciously at the two huge men sent by the king. There was something vaguely familiar about the silvery-gray eyes of the one called Gerhart. “Should I have been?”

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