Chivalrous (17 page)

Might the painting be a warning? Should he stay far away from Gwendolyn? Yet how could he when her eternal soul already lay in peril, and his marriage to the duchess might be the event that would push it over the edge to destruction.

“Do you plan on standing about staring at yon artwork, or can I help you with something?” A good-natured voice tugged Allen from his reverie.

He jolted and pivoted toward the man.

A doddering but jovial-looking priest dressed in simple black robes chuckled. White hair tufted about his tonsured scalp. “You are not the first to wrestle with temptation, my lad, nor shall you be the last. 'Tis not the temptation that is the sin, but rather what you do with it.”

Allen had seen the man before, as the castle held services several times daily. Father Marcus, if Allen recalled correctly. The priest only ever seemed to linger about, never lead the services himself. Perhaps those days were long past for him. Allen had previously wondered if the odd old fellow was a bit addled in his mind, although he seemed a good-hearted sort.

The priest came closer and scrutinized him, peering in one direction and then the other. Seeming to stare deep into Allen's soul. “Although on closer inspection, I detect a special light in you. Hazed perhaps by only the smallest touch of pride. Beware—for the devil will use even the slightest of weaknesses to bring one down.”

Allen sucked in a gasp. Exactly the fault he had feared.

“But do not dismay. In truth, you possess one of the purest souls I have ever witnessed. Perhaps it is not sin you wrestle with so much as confusion.”

Something about the man's intense probing shook Allen to
his core, yet the overall positive assessment soothed his fraying nerves. “I hope you are right, good father.”

“So what can I help you with today? I hope it is not the confessional, for if so, you are bearing a false guilt.”

How could the man be so certain? But something about his calm demeanor told Allen he spoke true.

“No, I did not come to make confession, although yon picture caused me pause.” Allen took a deep breath. “I would, however, appreciate your help. I need to search out what the Scripture has to say about the place of a woman, in both marriage and in life. A female friend of mine is quite vexed over the issue.”

“Ah, interesting you should bring that up. 'Tis one of the many areas that our progressive dukedom has found cause to reconsider. I personally have theories about the afterlife of animals—particularly dogs and horses—but those never seem to catch favor.”

The priest brushed away his own digression. “I imagine the official church position on women might be closer to what your friend expects.”

“So do you not consider the pope to be the final authority on such issues?”

“Tricky, tricky, my boy. As a group, the clergy here in North Britannia have hesitated to stir up trouble by declaring that we do not.” The priest fingered the cross hanging from a long rope over his round belly. “But we have seen too much corruption in the church. It has become just another branch of politics and has lost its spiritual center.”

Allen rubbed his chin as he considered that too true statement. “Then how is one to know the will of God?”

“Well, I suppose we must cling to the unchanging Word of God, as well as to the revelation of the Holy Spirit in our own hearts.”

Allen sank onto the stairway leading to the altar. Again, all words he knew to be true, yet much to consider. Especially in light of his decision to follow the guidance of the bishop and the council concerning his upcoming marriage.

The priest busied himself lighting candles along a wooden railing and allowed Allen a moment with his thoughts.

Although he had always followed that inner guide, somehow he had never quite paused to consider what might happen if that guide led him in a different direction than the authority of the church. “So might you have suggestions on Scripture references for my friend?”

“I have some rather telling ones, in fact. I think you will begin to see a whole new picture about God's design for the sexes.” The priest led Allen toward a large tome on a table to the rear of the altar.

A part of Allen wished he might find a whole new picture about God's design for him and Gwendolyn as well.

No. The people of North Britannia had spoken, and he had accepted this chivalrous sacrifice he must make. But at least he might be able to provide Gwendolyn with a peace offering of truth and perhaps even of a relationship with the God who could sustain her through whatever heartache life might bring.

Once again ensconced in her mistress's chamber at the smaller Edendale townhome, Rosalind shook out the deep blue velvet gown that she admired above all the others. She laid it flat over the bed and brushed any stray ripples from the fabric. Thankfully, due to the brief nature of this trip, they had left Gwendolyn's troublesome pups at home, and they would not be mussing it this time.

Perhaps someday Rosalind might own a gown like this. One never knew. She had worked hard to better herself. She could read and write a bit, spoke a dash of French, knew her way around manners and fashions. Hadn't Sir Allen of Ellsworth begun his life as a country villager much as Rosalind herself? Yet he would soon be a duke. A duke! Life was a mountain stream, full of the most amazing twists, turns, and plunges into the unknown.

But the thought of plunges pulled her attention toward Lady Gwendolyn, who was still caught in her deep abyss. Although
her imprisonment had ended more than a week ago, one would never know it from the look of her.

She sat hunched over a small writing desk with her features hanging low. Crumpling a piece of paper in her hand, she let out a moan and tossed it over her shoulder.

Rosalind picked up the paper and held it toward her mistress. “Are you quite finished with this, then?”

“I have written nothing that might help.”

“I told you the list was worthless.” Rosalind did not need to read it to know what it said, for they had discussed the issue over and again throughout the last days. “You would never survive the sedate lifestyle of a nun, forest outlaws end up hanging from the gallows, and I shall not suffer you to dive headlong from the tower.”

“But what is left for me, Rosalind? Wherever shall I go from here?”

“For tonight you thank the good Lord that you are free from your imprisonment and of the proper class to enjoy a dinner at the grand castle. The duchess seems to like you. Perhaps you shall find an ally there.”

“I am certain Duchess Adela has bigger concerns than my future. Like her deceased husband and her upcoming nuptials.” Gwendolyn moaned again and buried her face against her knees.

“I know your heart is broken. But look at it from a different angle. For the first time in your life your heart is also awakened. Go, eat, socialize. All the nobles of the region shall be there. Perhaps you will meet someone new.”

“Do you truly think so?” Gwendolyn's eyes pleaded with Rosalind for reassurance.

“Of course. Allen was your first infatuation. We all must have one. And we all must cleanse that first girlish impulse from our hearts to search for something more lasting and true. Now
that you've experienced attraction, you will most assuredly be more open to it in the future.” Rosalind would do well to take her own advice.

Gwendolyn cocked an eyebrow. “I notice how neatly you dance about the word we both know to be true. Love. Before word of his engagement reached us, I was deep in the throes of falling in love with Sir Allen.”

Rosalind nodded to the gown. “Come and dress. It shan't be long now.”

“Do not avoid this issue.” Gwendolyn stood and approached nonetheless.

“'Tis just that I do not in fact know that you're in love.” Rosalind tugged off Gwendolyn's casual kirtle over her head. “Love does not happen in an instant. That sort of love is the stuff of fairy stories. If you ask my opinion, you do not know him well enough to be in love with him.”

Gwendolyn glared at Rosalind as she prepared the blue velvet.

“Arms,” Rosalind ordered and tossed the gown overtop Gwendolyn.

From beneath the thick fabric emerged Gwen's retort. “Well, 'tis a good thing I did not ask your opinion.” Then her head poked through the hole.

“Turn around.”

Gwendolyn did as instructed and leaned against the bedpost. Rosalind pulled the laces down the back much tighter than she recalled doing previously. Her mistress had lost weight between her imprisonment and her melancholy mood, but she still appeared lovely with her well-toned curves.

Finally secured tightly in the dress, Gwendolyn turned back to Rosalind, her eyes beseeching once again. “I do know Sir Allen. I know that he is honest and forthright. I know that he is virtuous and kind. I know that he is the only man, besides
my brothers, who has ever treated me like an equal worthy of respect. What else would you have me know?”

Rosalind had no answer to that. Romantic fancy aside, Gwendolyn's reasoning was quite sound. No need to point out he was no longer available, for Gwendolyn knew that all too well. Instead Rosalind made a few small adjustments to the gown and added a low-hanging belt of gold around her mistress's hips. “Perfect. And this color is ideal for a castle still in mourning.”

Gwendolyn brushed her hand over the costly velvet. “This is my favorite gown. I almost do not hate it.” She gave a wry smile.

“Go and show your mother. See what she thinks of the belt. I wanted to give the gown a different look this time. Too bad we did not have the opportunity to make a new one.”

Gwendolyn waved the notion away as she headed toward the door. “Neither nuns nor outlaws have need of more gowns.”

“Nor dead women splattered upon the courtyard.” Rosalind wiggled her brows.

At that Gwendolyn laughed outright and turned down the hall.

Only then did Rosalind allow her mind to verbalize the thought that had been screaming from the edges of her consciousness for the past hour.

Sick!

Her stomach ached and her limbs felt weighted with lead. How she longed to lie upon Gwendolyn's feather mattress and sink into oblivion. Why could she not shake this annoying ailment? At least she had managed not to pass it along to Gwendolyn. She could not let her mistress, nor more importantly Lord or Lady Barnes, know how ill she had been this past week. Servants were not allowed such luxuries as sickness, and she could never hurt her mother and siblings by losing this much-needed income.

She spied under the bed to make sure the chamber pot remained nearby in case she lost the contents of her stomach.

Rallying herself, she straightened the jars and pins upon the table in preparation for Gwendolyn's hair and face. Just another hour and the family would be gone for the evening. Then Rosalind could rest.

By some small miracle she had managed to escape indictment over the tournament incident. It seemed Lord and Lady Barnes had been too upset with Gwendolyn to give much thought to a mere maid, and if anything, seemed to consider her a steadying force.

However, Rosalind might well bring destruction down upon herself.

She could not go home to her mother in defeat. She would not lose her position in this family. She would hold tight to her future, to the bright path she had chosen. Beyond all that, she would not give up the chance to see Sir Hugh and snuggle into his strong arms and press her lips to his once again.

Gwen glanced nervously about the ornate room with its tall pillars. This one was smaller than the great hall, where the feasts had been held, yet far more elaborately bedecked. Enormous tapestries in deep earthy tones hung from ceiling to floor, covering most of the walls, and a roaring fire blazed in a mammoth hearth. But none of that could warm her chill-cold soul.

Tonight she would see Allen for the first time since his engagement, and she knew not how she would bear it.

“Do not just stand there like a ninny.” Her father gave her a shove from behind. She stumbled through the giant archway onto the polished marble floor.

She turned and frowned at him. “I was collecting myself.”

“The only thing you need to worry about collecting is a powerful son-in-law for me.”

How was everything always about Father? As if he were the earth about which the sun and moon spun. Gwen stopped herself from shaking her head. Perhaps a lesson on the mythical Narcissus was in order, but she would not be the one to deliver it.

“We are in no rush, my love.” Mother rubbed Father's arm and attempted to smooth his mood.

“Please excuse us. I need to speak with Lord Fulton.” Reginald led his mousy wife, Katherine, even more a shadow of herself than usual, away.

But Gwen ceased to pay attention to them. There he was. Across the room. With his hand pressed to the small of the duchess's back. Dipping his head close to the lovely lady to better heed her.

Gwen's stomach seized into a tight knot. She managed not to clutch her belly. Instead she merely winced and took a deep breath.

When first she met Allen and he had such a strange effect upon her, she had feared some sort of sickness had struck her. Now she knew for certain. She was indeed sick. Love was the most soul-crushing malady of them all. What a fool she had been to fall under its spell. She blinked back tears and pulled herself up straight and tall.

Father smiled her way. It seemed that since choosing the hulking Gawain for her, he had abandoned his quest to shrink her into oblivion. As if he had read her mind, he said, “Where is that Gawain tonight? I am anxious for you to renew your acquaintance. Be sure to sit by him at dinner. That shall allow you ample time to converse. You will like him, I am sure. He and I are much alike.”

Exactly as Gwen dreaded.

At that moment a flash of black headed in her direction. A subdued but still gracious Duchess Adela held out her hands as she approached Gwen.

Gwen moved to meet her and took her hands with a squeeze. “Your Grace.”

“There you are,” the duchess said. “Sir Allen, I believe you have met my friend Lady Gwendolyn.”

“Indeed.” Coming up behind her, Allen offered a tight smile that seemed to hide a pained expression.

“Nice to s-see you again, Sir Allen,” Gwen stuttered. Pain sliced through her head to match the look on his face and complement the growing ache in her stomach.

“I have been hoping to speak with you.” The duchess shifted to include Gwen's parents in the conversation. “Good evening, Lord Barnes, Lady Barnes. I am so glad you could make it. Your daughter is quite the breath of fresh air about this place. I have been thinking ever since the tournament, and I would appreciate it if you would consider lending her to me for a while as an attendant. Right now, of all times, I could use a cheerful companion.”

What was that small flicker in Gwen's heart? Hope? She could not dare to hope, so she snuffed it out. And none too soon, based on her father's countenance.

His face flushed bright red. “I . . . well . . . of course. . . .”

“What my husband means to say,” Mother interrupted with easy charm, “is that Gwendolyn is already past marriageable age. I am afraid with him being gone so oft, we neglected her in this area, and would not wish to do her any further injustice.”

“Oh, I see.” Disappointment tinged the duchess's voice, but Allen seemed to relax a bit.

During that brief moment of hope, Gwen had not thought
so far as to realize that being the duchess's companion would put her in close proximity to Allen on a regular basis as well. But it would still have been better than marriage to Gawain.

“Do not misunderstand.” Mother reached out to touch the duchess's arm. “You are welcome to her through the time of her engagement, and if her husband approves, perhaps after that as well.”

The duchess smiled. “That would be lovely. Gwendolyn, do you ride? I realize many ladies do not, or at least do not confess to it, but I have been desperate for a gallop through the woods since my husband's death and require a companion to do so. I had a feeling you might not be a stranger to horses.”

Father's vein pulsed, but Gwendolyn answered nonetheless. “Since you asked, my brothers took me out riding a time or two.”

“Or two hundred?” The duchess's merry laugh reached out to Gwen. “Yes, I am well versed in such stories.”

What a cheerful lady the duchess was, even now in her grief. To Gwen's dismay, she realized that Allen would be blessed to marry this woman.

“And she plays the pipe,” Father added in desperation. “Do not forget she plays the pipe.”

“Indeed, I remember. Would you play for us tonight?” the duchess asked.

Gwen looked around the room. This selective gathering was still fairly large, but a performance would soothe her father. Not to mention sweep her away to that magical place, as her music always did. “I could do that, I suppose, if time allows.”

“It shall.” The duchess smiled her assurance.

“You should have told me you wished to ride,” Allen said to the duchess. “I could have taken you.”

“Well, it might not be proper until we are wed.” The duchess had to tip up her head to meet Allen's gaze. “But perhaps the
three of us might all go together on the morrow. What say you to that, Gwendolyn?”

Gwendolyn's throat grew dry and tight. “A ride. Tomorrow. How . . . how lovely. Perhaps I shall bring my maid along as well.” For she would desperately need the moral support.