Bessie (23 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“Why does it make such a spot? I barely touched it to parchment and it spreads!”

Devon’s frustration colored the words. Bessie leaned over him again.

“Perhaps I used too much seed oil with the gall and soot. I’ve been known to mix it wrong. Let me try.”

He lifted the goose quill. In the process, several drops of ink fell onto his cuff. Devon watched it with a twist to his lips.

Bess lifted the quill. “You need to hold it at an angle. It drips slower that way. It looks all right to me.”  She bent over his shoulder, put the tip on Devon’s parchment and demonstrated.

“What is that mark?”

“A capital ‘E’. The first letter of my name.”

“Draw the first letter of your new surname.”

“Hildebrand? Why?”

“So I can see what it looks like.”

Bessie demonstrated, doing her best to make it as elegant as possible. Then, she blew slightly on it.

“You do that again, and there’s no telling what might happen.”

“Do what?”

“Blow in my ear.”

“I was drying the ink. Honestly, Devon, you think everyone about is so enamored of you they’ll do anything to receive your attention?”

“Not without reason, I assure you. Didn’t you ever note how I was treated at court, even prior to being noticed by Her Majesty? Nearly every titled lady and more than a handful of gents longed to sponsor me.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“That’s flattering. My thanks.”

Bessie giggled. “Oh, Devon. I wasn’t there, remember?”

“You’re forgiven, then.”

“Oh! For the arrogance!” 

Bessie smacked her veil-covered forehead. When she looked back down, Devon winked.

“I have belief in myself and she calls it arrogance. Well. Perhaps that is so...but if ’tis, we suffer the same.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When you tell me the order of things, it is considered fact. It is not open to differing opinion. And yet, such self-assurance is not labeled arrogance. Why the difference, I wonder?”

“I never thought of it that way.” 
Could he be right?
Was she arrogant...but in a different way?

They’d found a secluded room high in one of Hilde Castle’s towers. Devon had ordered two workmen to bring a table. He’d grabbed up two stools and led the way. That arrangement in the center of the tower was the only furniture. Bessie walked to a window slit. The tower had a commanding view of the surrounding countryside on two sides. Both had dual archer windows. Henry had already been here. White marks all about the inside of the walls testified to it. Bess bent down and looked through one.

“What are you up to now?”

“Seeing if Henry has filled in the holes.”

“These are Henry’s marks? I’ve seen them about and wondered.”

“You should have asked. It would have been explained.”

“I’ve had other concerns. Besides, the castle has needed attention for some time. I didn’t interfere because I couldn’t leave it in better hands than yours.”

“Oh, Devon.”

“Your voice lowered on my name. I rather like that.”

Bessie spun. Devon was close. She hadn’t heard his approach. The blue and white veil wasn’t very concealing, especially in the daylight. She could see him without much effort. He probably had the same benefit. And she couldn’t think of one answer.

“Will you do it oft?” he added.

“This...tower hasn’t had much use,” she finally said.

His eyebrows lifted. His lips twisted. “Really?”

“My guess is it was a look-out.”

“How can you tell?”

“It has...a goodly view.”

Devon stepped into position beside her and leaned toward the window. Bessie was given a very good look at the light blond hair on his cheek.

“You truly don’t shave,” she blurted out.

His ear went red. “Are you questioning my manhood again?”

“Uh. No.”

“I don’t shave because it’s not necessary. I don’t seem to grow much beard as of yet. Many gents would envy the freedom from it.”

“I wasn’t—. I didn’t mean to infer. I just—. You are—.”

He tipped his head toward her. Her words stopped. She forgot how to breathe for a span. That’s what came of being subjected to Devon Hildebrand’s emerald eyes, highlighted by a sliver of sunshine, and so close she could see each eyelash.

“Let me finish that for you. ‘You are every bit a man.’  Was that what you meant?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He smiled.

“That was unsporting of me when I’ve yet to apologize for my treatment of you at Crump. I’ll ask it again later, when I’ve a wealth of candles and a sturdy bed at my disposal. You agree?”

She gasped.
Candles and a sturdy bed?

“So, tell me why you think this room nothing more than a look-out?”

Her body was giving her trouble. Her legs felt the consistency of wet gruel, her heart kept skipping, everything felt tingly. Sensitive. And if he hadn’t looked away from her, she wouldn’t have been able to answer.

“The stonework is extremely rough. Even for Hilde. There was no effort made at all to shape or fit stones. The assemblage was haphazard and shoddy. You can see through to most joists. Nobody seems to have put much thought or effort into making this space. It’s probably very cold in winter, and deuced hot in summer. The vantage point is excellent, however. And there are archer windows. That’s why.”

“These rough stones you speak of? I hope we are not smoothing the outside. At least, not yet.”

“Why?”

“They make excellent handholds. For climbing about. I am...quite adept at it.”

“So, I’ve heard.”

“Really? I wonder who you speak to about me.”

Her face flushed. She felt it. Her words probably carried it. “We...should return to your lesson.”

“Why? All I’m doing is making large spots.”

“Everyone does, at first.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t recall. I was about four years old at the time.”

“You were in a schoolroom at four?”

“I was in a schoolroom at the age of three, Devon. I think it was the best place to keep me.”

“What did they teach a three-year-old?”

“How to keep from acting like a child. What else?”  Her voice was cracking. She couldn’t believe it.

“Poor babe.”

Bessie tossed her glance at him to spot the sarcasm. There wasn’t any.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she said. “The queen went through much the same as a child when her mother was beheaded.”

“I know her history. It is still a shame. No child should be without love and affection. I’ll prove it to you when we have our own.”

“Our...own?” 

“You are my wife, Bess. It is your duty to bear my children. Who knows? You may even find the conception pleasant. I promise to do my best.”

She was taken aback. Shocked. Her words shook. “You shouldn’t...be speaking...this way.”

“Why? Who is to say me nay? Were your previous husbands that cold? Is that why you back from me?”

“You shouldn’t...ask that, either.”  He was right, too. She had been backing from him, until she reached a rough section of wall.

“Does the thought of conceiving my children frighten you so much?”

“I’m not...frightened.” 

The falsehood was probably easy to spot. Bessie was holding to the blocks of stone on either side of her with a tight grip. Her heart was pounding with a fervor he should be able to hear.

“Your other husbands must have been very cold men. Selfish. Inefficient. Am I right?”

Her answer was garbled. She turned her head to one side.

“I’m rushing it, aren’t I?”

He stepped back from her and gave a heavy sigh. Bessie turned to look back to him.

“This room would not make a good schoolroom, would it? It’s too far from the nurseries for one. And it’s too secluded.”

“What?” 

“I am returning to my lesson. Just as you requested. Come, assist me with letters, or I’ll start drawing designs for my new heraldry.”

“New heraldry?”

“A knight of the realm requires a symbol of his own, albeit a simple one. You’ve seen ours. Now that I am a lord, I need a differing emblem. I was thinking of using the one I already have and perhaps adding a falcon. For you.”

“A...falcon?”

“Wasn’t it part of your family crest? Before all your marriages?”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I was told. What does it matter? It will stand out against the green of our shield. I could always have Byron draw it for me. He’s a good one with a nib. Come along. I’m ready. What do you make this ink from, again?”

“A bit of seed oil and...soot. Sometimes wax. Iron gall. Some water. It varies.”  She answered automatically as she walked toward him.

“I like this letter of yours. Perhaps we could incorporated it in the seal, too. Oh, blast! I’ll never get this down.”

“You have to tip your quill.”

“I am tipping it.”

“Perhaps you loaded it with too much ink when you dipped it.”

“How do you do that?”

“Put it back above the pot and tap it. Gently!”

Devon was spraying black spots about the table surface. He barely missed his clothing. Bessie stifled the laughter with difficulty.

“I must need a finer quill. That’s the problem.”

“You’re using my own goose feather. It’s very fine. What you need is a gentler touch. Ink isn’t the same as wheat chaff or barley roots, you know.”

“Oh. I give up.” 

Devon put the nib beside the ink pot with more reverence than he’d shown all afternoon. It probably had something to do with the large stains on the table surface, the parchment, and his fingers.

“Perhaps we should change to reading. I have a sampler. I stitch one a year, for the practice.”

“You have to practice reading?”

“Of course not. I practice sewing. A sampler is a listing of the alphabet in needlework. I’ve got Alicia doing one, now. It’s perfect for learning the more difficult letters. She’s going to work on tapestries next.”

“I am not taking up sewing. I refuse.”

Bess couldn’t keep the amusement inside this time. The tower had a distinct echo. Devon waited with his eyebrows lifted and his arms folded.

“When you’ve finished, I’ve a thought. I had a scroll delivered this morn. Early. It might be useful. I shall go get it. We have just enough time before sup. We can make a picnic of it. Do you agree?”

“A picnic? Outside? It is threatening rain.”

“I rather fancied one in my chamber. That has more potential. I’ll have heavy, clotted cream delivered, too.”

“What?”

“You’ve never tried it?”

“Of course I’ve tried cream!”

“Not for what I have in mind, you haven’t.”

Bessie was afraid to ask. Devon paused at the doorway and raised his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

“I shall be right back. Don’t move.”

“Oh go. Fetch your scroll. Perhaps we’ll have more luck with it.”

She shooed him away with a wave of her hand and watched until he disappeared down the tower spiral steps. Roberta was going to have to eat every word. Bessie’s plot had worked. She was going to hear words of love from her very own husband.

She didn’t have to ask.

She knew.

She looked down at the ink-splattered parchment. Picked up the quill and toyed with writing down how she felt. The joy. The excitement. The thrill. She was sketching entwined initials when Devon returned, holding out his scroll with aplomb. She was grateful she hadn’t put her thoughts on the parchment.

It would have been too mortifying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Here is the scroll I spoke of.”  He handed it to her with aplomb.

“This is the royal insignia, Devon.” 

Bessie was instantly apprehensive as she looked at the two halves of the Tudor seal. She knew why. Experience.

“Yes. I know. Isn’t it grand? This might mean I’ve regained Her Majesty’s good graces. I’d be welcomed at court again.”

“You wish to return?”

“Not really. I’m just hopeful this means I am off her list of enemies. I understand it’s an uncomfortable existence. So. Can we start? It’s full of letters and numbers. I’m certain you can find something to use for my lesson. Go on, read it.”

Bessie unfurled one end. It was the bottom of the message. Devon was mistaken. It wasn’t from the queen. It was from the Royal Exchequer. There was an enormous sum listed just above his signature. And below that was a codicil. Bessie’s hands started shaking.

“What is it? What does it say?”

“It’s...wrong-side up. You rolled it up wrong.”

“Well, re-roll it. Here.”

He took the heavy paper from her and quickly transferred it to the bobbin. Her breath stalled and re-started in rhythm to his hands.

“When did you say...you received this?”

“Early. Just as I was leaving to check my dams.”

Dear God!

She didn’t voice it. She didn’t think her throat would work. Devon grinned as he handed it back to her. Bessie put it on the table. She paused for a moment before unrolling the conjoined cylinders.

“Well? Why are we waiting? Let us see what Her Majesty writes.”

Bessie squeezed her eyes shut. Counted to five. Reopened her eyes, and then rolled the parchment open. She started reading as evenly as possible. Her voice trembled. He didn’t seem to notice.

“‘Lord Hildebrand. Earl of Hilde and High Sheriff of Devershire and vassal to Her Royal...Highness, Queen Elizabeth.’    That is how it starts. See? Here is the first letter of your name.”

“It is not penned as well as the one you did. I barely recognize it. What is this line?”

“That says. It says—’”

Tears filled her voice. Despite her effort. She hadn’t much time. The words blurred but that wasn’t a problem. She knew what the message contained with one glance. It was a listing of all the properties, treasuries, and taxes that converted to him upon his marriage. She tried again. “It...says. It—”

“Yes?” Devon prompted.

“‘In...answer to your...query.’”

“What query?”

“I...think I need a moment.”

“What? Now?”

“Please?”  Bessie held up hand in desperation.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—the privy closet!”  Bessie gave the only excuse she knew he’d accede to. “I...I will be back directly.”

Devon put his hands on his hips. “Very well. Go then. But hurry. We’ve lost time to make up for.”

“I...will.”

Bessie backed from him. Her eyes absorbed the sight, despite how she ordered them to move. And then she spun and started running. Down one level. Another. She tripped on several steps, catching the fall by grabbing onto the rough stonework. Her legs felt like pudding. Her heart hammered painfully. Her palms smarted.   

Oh! Devon Hildebrand was beautiful.

But so treacherous.

And it was perfectly clear. She’d misread everything. She was a novice at intrigues and games of the heart. He’d just proved his mastery. He hadn’t wanted any lesson from her today. He’d been giving her one.

This reaction wasn’t justified. She’d been toying with him. It shouldn’t bother her to find he was doing the same. He had every right to send a query about her wealth. Especially with her failure to divulge it. He was justified in showing her that he’d done so, too.

The trouble was her love for him. Despite everything. Even the final sentences of that message.

Bessie clutched her arms about her middle and bent double. Her heart wouldn’t quit sending pain. With every beat. She barely stifled the cry, but the sobs were beyond control.

“Oh, God...why?
Why
?”

Bess pressed a hand to her mouth keeping the question as soft as possible. Then, she was moving again. Down another level. The last. She stopped at the wooden door. She needed space. Time.

But where to go?

She couldn’t stay in the castle. He might find her. She couldn’t leave the walls from here, either. If Devon were watching through the arrow slit, he’d see her. She wasn’t chancing that. When she met him next, she needed to have every bit of her wits about her. A carefully protected and hardened heart. And her mantle of reserve firmly in place.

Bessie shoved the door open and stepped out onto a courtyard. She couldn’t get the codicil out of her mind. The words were burned into her memory. Stark. Indelible. Brutal. The exchequer had written it as a bit of advice, a small aside in a smaller script. And he’d destroyed Bessie with them.

“By Royal command, nothing will transfer without an heir. You will need to set aside your own desires and needs and get her to conceive. Best of luck.”

Bessie grabbed a handful of skirt and started moving. Rapidly. She skirted the wall, staying near the unkempt shrubbery, sorting out what would be her best path. Alicia and Olivia would be in one of the four drawing rooms, working on patterns and wardrobes. Lizzie should be at her lessons. Byron was probably in the library. If she was lucky, Henry would be with him. She’d avoid the inner bailey. Regina would still be about. With Augusta. Still brewing herbs. That left the servants and workmen. They were probably everywhere. Waiting. Watching. Making her the subject of their gossip.

How stupid she’d been to forget that part!

Bess yanked the striped veil from the headdress, pulling out stitches. It made an effective handkerchief. She’d reached a gate leading to the outer bailey. There was no one in sight. The doors stood wide open.

Bess sprinted, holding the material to her face with one hand, her skirts with the other. All she had to do was reach the barbican wall and she’d be free. Beyond that were sections of land she could disappear in. She didn’t see anyone. She didn’t think she could have heard them, either. There was the most horrid sound in her ears. She couldn’t outrun it. She suspected it was the sound of her heart breaking.

Bessie reached a meadow. Saw a forest line in the distance. She trudged on. Halfway across the field, it started raining. Bessie bent her head and kept moving. Tall grass finally gave way to trees. It was quiet here. Darker. Solitary. Bessie’s heart was pounding, her legs tiring, and her steps slowing. She was cold. She was shaking. She was flirting with illness. She didn’t care. She’d rather die of a chill than allow Devon to inherit one centime.

‘No child should be without love and affection. I’ll prove it when we have our own.’

Fresh tears started up at the memory of Devon’s words and the look on his face as he’d said them. She swiped the veil across her face with a vicious gesture. She’d rarely felt as miserable. Her hair was a mass of wet coils that would give Roberta fits. The headdress had slipped to her shoulders. She hadn’t cared at the time. It had grown heavy with rain and sent rivulets down her neck and arms. Her skirt and petticoats were even heavier. Inner layers clung to her legs, further hampering her steps. Her shoes had been purposely sewn with no needle holes on the outside in order to make them more waterproof. It wasn’t working. She was wet. Tired. Sore.

And yet nothing overrode the heart pain.

Bessie wrapped her arms about the unforgiving bark of a tree. She was grateful now for her austere upbringing. She’d had little contact resembling a hug. Like the one Devon had given her in the library...

She pulled away from the tree in disgust.

Such memories were stupid. Self-defeating. Pure fantasy that had been conjured by her imagination. Nothing Devon had done or said deserved to do this to her. That’s why she was out of sight and range now. She needed to exorcise every little bit of his false loving nature, and how she’d felt when he turned it toward her.

~ ~ ~

“What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Or did my brother toss you over for another comely wench?”

Bess lifted her head and looked across and up at the man who’d addressed her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a mist that should have hidden her. But she should have known no speck of Hildebrand property was safe. It was James. He was several yards away and regarding her from the back of a bay-colored stallion. His steed looked like a prime piece of horseflesh. That was no surprise. Her funds had probably paid for it. Bessie carefully kept every expression from her face.

“You should have known it would happen the moment you gave him your favor.”

“We haven’t met,” Bessie croaked. She wasn’t going to have any trouble disguising her voice.

“Oh. James Hildebrand. Second born.”

“I...see.”

His brows drew together in a frown. She didn’t know if it was her words or the cool tone with which she spoke them.

“You are even prettier up close. Devon shouldn’t have tossed you over so soon.”

“What makes you think he did?”

He shrugged and then dismounted. Bess stood and started pulling her skirts from her lower limbs. She settled with shaking them out, before smoothing the gold brocade into some semblance of propriety. Her hair was hanging in a series of damp ringlets. The headdress was a mass of wet cloth at her back. She probably looked a fright.

“You are some distance from the castle. You were out in the rainstorm. You’ve been crying. Tell me I’m wrong.”

She lost her aloof facade. Tears filled her eyes. She turned away and hid her face with her hands. If this was the extent of strength behind her facade, she was in severe trouble when she met up with Devon.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry again. Here. I’ve a cloth. Take it.”

James had a gentlemanly side. He reached her and tapped on her arm. Bessie reached across her body for his handkerchief.

“My thanks,” she whispered into the linen.

“Why did Devon do it? He has spoken of nothing but you for days. I should know. I had to listen.”

“Please?”

“Has my brother gone mad? There’s not a comely wench for leagues. I’ve been looking. His wife has hired every redhead female in the world, but they are all ugly.”

James was an excellent companion when one was trying to escape emotions. Bessie sniffed and mopped at her cheeks.

“I am a redhead.”

“Except you, of course. I wasn’t speaking of you. Devon must be crazed. His own wife is so ugly, she hides her face from the world to save it the trauma. Then, when he has you, he tosses you over. It makes no sense. But, here. It’s getting late. The sun is setting. I’ll take you back to the castle.”

“I...can find my own way back.”

“And I think you are already lost.”

“I can’t be seen with you, James Hildebrand. My husband...will not understand.”

“Allow me to see you back to the fields then?”

He walked toward his stallion. Bessie followed.

“That is a beautiful horse.”

“Isn’t he? He’s new. He is not the lone one. The stables are almost full. It is strange, but I’ll not question the hand behind it. I’ve so longed for a mount of my own, such as Devon has. His horse, Black-Heart, is well-trained. I don’t know if he showed you. The horse obeys his slightest command. That is of great benefit, especially on a jousting field.”

“Can we talk...of other things?”  The croak was back in her voice.

“Of course. Here. Let me assist you up.”

Bess held her breath as James put both hands about her waist to lift her onto the horse’s back. She needn’t have worried. It didn’t feel anything like when Devon touched her. The instant thought shot pain through her chest, and that just brought the sobs right back.

She shoved his linen to her eyes and shuddered through one breath after another. Nothing worked, and she had an audience to witness it. She was embarrassed. Distraught. And disgusted. Somehow, that made it worse.

“He has much to answer for, I would say,” James commented from the horse’s head.

“You are not...to speak of me to him.”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

“Please?”

“He’s not to know he’s broken your heart and ruined my chances with you at the same time? What kind of bargain is that?”

“Do I need to beg?”

“No. I’ve no desire to add to your heartache. I recognize it...all too well.”

James pulled the reins and started walking. His horse followed.

“You...do?”

He glanced back at her. Then away. “Yes. She was beauteous. Young. Sweet.”

“And?” she prompted.

“She would not have me.”

“Why not?”

“I am the second born in a poor knight’s family. So. I held her hand. Spoke words of love. And lost her.” 

His voice lowered. Went brusque. He’d been right about the daylight. They were losing it.