Claire Delacroix (10 page)

“In Eva’s crypt,” her father declared without hesitation. “You know the place. Your dame will see that they are held secure, for she intended them to be yours.”

Brianna’s fingers curled around the cold metal hidden within the heavy wool folds of her cloak. “I shall read them!” she breathed, unprepared for her father’s fierce glare.

“Nay! They must be hidden,
immediately
, and none must see you at the deed.” Connor’s hand closed tightly over
Brianna’s own when she wondered at his urgency. “Swear to me that ’twill be precisely thus,” he whispered urgently.

Brianna had only a moment to make her pledge, even though she did not fully understand her father’s reasoning. The tension eased from his features and they both inclined their heads to pray.

“Good evening,” the priest declared from the stairs behind.

Connor raised his voice then and turned slightly. “Good evening, Father Padraig. I would thank you for coming to us this night.”

The priest smiled as he stepped across the room. He was a man of middle years, so slender as to be nearly gaunt. The hair left from temple to temple below the tonsure that marked his profession was iron gray and bristly. His expression, though, was always contemplative and Brianna found his presence remarkably peaceful.

Indeed, Father Padraig was a walking testament of the tranquility that could be found in contemplation.

“ ’Tis my vocation, Connor,” he said mildly now and swung his brass censer to perfume the air of the chapel. “When the flock needs tending, ’tis my pledge and my task to be there.”

Brianna’s sire inclined his head slightly. “And how fortunate we are to have you in Tullymullagh. I have bidden Brianna pray these past few moments and reflect upon the import of taking daily Mass.”

The priest’s smile widened slightly as he came forward. Reaching into the vial of holy water hanging from his belt, he anointed his finger, then traced a damp cross upon Brianna’s brow. “You have naught to fear. She is a fine child, Connor, and her heart is pure.” He arched a brow and smiled. “And I recall the Lady Brianna’s presence at the Mass this morn, even if she does not.”

The priest made his mark upon Connor, his smile turning thoughtful. “ ’Tis the mark of the mortal father to occasionally err in punishing too severely.” Father Padraig turned to genuflect before the altar. He gave the censer one last swing before setting it beside the altar and folding his hands together. “Let us pray to the Father who never errs.”

And Connor bowed his head without a glance to his daughter. Brianna clutched the token of her dame, closed her eyes, and prayed fervently that one day, she would have the opportunity to open the box and unfurl these precious pages.

One day, she would run her fingers across her dame’s own confession of love and hear the echo of that woman’s voice in her ears once more. One day, she would read her mother’s own telling of how a woman might know that a man had captured her heart.

’Twas a gift beyond anything Brianna had ever dreamed. As Father Padraig began to sing the Mass, Brianna vowed that no man would ever steal this token away from her.

Her father might be overly cautious, but Brianna would do as she had pledged. Indeed, she could not risk losing this valuable gift.

L
uc was awakened by the echo of Raphael stamping his feet. The beast snorted with displeasure and snapped his reins temperamentally. The cold grey of a winter’s dawn had crept into the stables and Luc felt the chill of it in his bones.

He sat up, shoved a hand through his hair, and wondered what had troubled the stallion at such an early hour. ’Twould be too soon for the fires to be lit in the hall, he wagered.

A woman’s voice rose shrilly in that moment. “Whatever do you
mean
, there are no stalls available? Why, Tullymullagh has always boasted an ample stable and I see no reason why
you
should deign to turn us away at this early hour.”

Luc stood up with interest and brushed the straw from his chausses. He straightened his chemise, tugged on both boots and tabard, tucked his knife in his belt, then peered over the stalls.

At the far end of the stable, near the portal, a woman tapped her toe with unconcealed impatience. She might have seen few more than twenty summers, but her lips were drawn so taut as to be unattractive. Her eyes were small and mean, her gaze darted over the stable with displeasure. Her garb had once been rich, but now was stained; the hem of her kirtle was crusted in mud.

But ’twas her manner that more accurately revealed her noble birthright. She railed at the ostler who looked extremely unhappy with his circumstance.

A solidly built giant of a man who was a good ten years Luc’s senior, Denis the ostler was clearly a simple man. His pate was as bald as an egg and Luc had already noted that his single brow, which ran from temple to temple, worked vigorously when he was concerned.

Denis’ great gift was his ability with horses. In but a day, Luc had noted that Tullymullagh’s ostler had been born to his labor. Denis murmured in the ears of the horses and they adored him, each and every one, following his bidding when they would permit no other near them.

But Denis’ skill with people was markedly less. In this moment, he stood sleepily, his linen sleeves shoved past his elbow, his boots already mired, his brow wrinkling busily as the lady heaped demands upon him.

Luc could only sympathize with his plight. There could be naught worse than denying a shrewish noblewoman what she expected as her due, especially so early in the morn.

“Truly!” the lady exclaimed. “How can you expect me to believe that there is not a single empty stall at Tullymullagh? Tell the truth instead! Tell me that this new overlord refuses to receive his closest neighbors.” She jabbed a finger at the ostler’s chest, her voice rising another increment. “Is that not the way of it?”

Raphael snorted and shuddered as though he could not bear the high pitch of her voice.

Denis, meanwhile, bowed low. “Nay, nay, ’tis not that at all, Lady Ismay.” He cleared his throat slowly, as though he needed time to seek an explanation. His words fell heavily. “I am fully certain that Gavin Fitzgerald would be delighted to host you, but he has many guests already.”

“Is that so? I cannot imagine that any of them come from
as fine a lineage as we.” The lady tossed her veil and Luc glanced dubiously over her steeds.

If she truly had coin to her name, she did not spare it on either garb, attendants, or steeds. The mare lurking behind the lady was decidedly grizzled.

Denis straightened and wrung his hands when he saw how little effect his argument was making upon the noblewoman. “Some of King Henry’s party have remained and the new lord’s men, as well.”

Lady Ismay snorted disdain. “Say naught to me of that English king! His minions are welcomed while loyal neighbors like ourselves are not? What manner of barbarian is this man?”

The amiable ostler fairly squirmed, his hands working together as he fought to appease the lady. “ ’Tis the hour, Lady Ismay. Much of the keep remains asleep, including Gavin Fitzgerald himself—”

“
Disturb
him immediately!” The lady’s anger rang through the stables. She pointed demandingly to the keep and drew herself taller, the gesture doing little good for her profile. “Hasten your sorry hide to him this very moment and
demand
that we be properly received!”

Denis looked sorely dismayed by the prospect and Luc could not blame him. Gavin was not a man who took well to interruption, particularly early in the morn, and no doubt Denis had already tasted the bite of Tullymullagh’s new lord. On the other hand, this Lady Ismay would stop at naught to see her own way fulfilled.

Had it not been for the ostler’s predicament, Luc would have been content to let this noblewoman stew in her own dissatisfaction.

But Denis was a kindly man undeserving of such nonsense.

Luc cleared his throat and stepped out of the stall. “Good
morning to you,” he said and the arguing pair turned as one to confront him. Relief washed over Denis’ visage while the lady merely looked more grim.

“Ostlers from every side and nary a hand to take a steed,” she snapped. “All of Christendom has gone straight to hell in this year.” Denis looked shocked, but Luc waved off any protest he might have made.

“How many steeds have you?” Luc asked mildly.

“Three,” the lady supplied, her tone waspish. Even the black mare whose reins Lady Ismay held tightly appeared embarrassed to be seen with her mistress. The silver-snouted beast stepped back, standing as far away as she could, the reins stretched taut. She had never been a fine beast, Luc could see now, for she was comparatively short and stocky.

Not a noblewoman’s steed, by any means. Clearly Tullymullagh had neighbors with lofty aspirations. Luc imagined this woman was one who came regularly to fill her belly at another, more ample, board. There were nobles he had known who never troubled themselves to remain at home, simply savored the hospitality of others all the year long.

The possibility said little good of her character.

“Dermot!” the lady bellowed suddenly, the single word loud enough to deafen a man. Luc winced and heard Raphael shake his harness in vexation.

A man dressed with slightly more care than the lady appeared in the portal of the stable. He was fair of hair and fair of skin. Even his eyes were unnaturally pale, the very shade of rainwater. He seemed a man of ice and water, so fair was he. His gaze flicked to the woman and Luc caught the barest glimpse of raw animosity in his eyes.

Then the expression was gone and the man summoned a limp smile. “I am here, Ismay,” he said softly, his voice as
insubstantial as his coloring. “At your very side, as always.”

“Hm!” Ismay sniffed disapprovingly. “You certainly were not very
close
by my side. I could not even see you, Dermot! Where had you gotten yourself? And what took you so very long to come from gate to stable?”

“I thought I caught sight of an old friend, my love, but I erred. ’Twas no more than that.” Dermot’s voice was low and quiet, not unlike a whisper. Though Luc could not have said whether ’twas one of the voices he had heard the night before, the mention of encountering a friend made Luc prick up his ears.

That and the malicious glance Dermot had briefly cast toward Ismay. Luc wondered exactly who that man’s friend might have been.

“A likely story. A
friend
.” Ismay rolled her eyes. “More like, you lost your way! In all truth, Dermot, you would lose your very head were it not firmly attached. Where have you
been?
And what on earth have you been
doing
?”

Dermot smiled with the quiet grace of a Madonna. “In truth, it matters little, my love, for we are together again. Have you already seen to the stabling of the horses?”

“ ’Twas an adroit change of subject, but the lady did notice that her attention had been firmly redirected. Indeed, she smiled at her mate or lover, whichever Dermot happened to be.

Then she pivoted and glared at the ostler anew. “I should have done so if there was any excuse for
efficiency
in this place! What do you mean to do about this appalling situation?”

“There is a stall here,” Luc interjected and saw gratitude light Denis’ eyes.

“I knew ’twas a malicious lie that there was no space!” Lady Ismay declared angrily.

“ ’Tis the stall I slept in,” Luc countered evenly, “and one that was well occupied until but a moment past.”

The lady grimaced. “You mean to stable my mare in a stall where the help have slumbered?” She shuddered, then scowled at Denis. “ ’Twill have to be mucked out thoroughly, you understand, for one never knows what manner of vermin live in these people’s garments.”

Neither Luc nor Denis observed the state of the newly arrived couple’s garments. Indeed, the pair looked as though they had slumbered in the fields.

Denis drew himself up proudly. “I am well aware of how a steed should be treated, Lady Ismay.” He reached out for the mare’s reins and the lady slapped them into his palm.

The black mare, though, sidled tentatively closer to Denis. That man smiled, then conjured an apple from his chausses for the wary steed. The beast abandoned her mistress’ side without another thought, nuzzling Denis and partaking noisily of his offering. Luc watched the ostler smile as he stroked the horse’s nose and did not miss Denis’ fleeting frown when he checked the mare’s bit.

The beast had been reined in hard, Luc would wager.

“Well! See that it does not get
fat
.” Lady Ismay’s lips drew tightly together and she glared now at Luc. “And what do you mean to do with the other two?”

“I am certain that in the course of the morning’s comings and goings, more stalls will become available,” Luc responded. “Why not simply leave your steeds in the ostler’s good care while you break your own fast?”

Before the woman could protest, Luc stepped forward and laid claim to the reins Dermot held. Their hands touched in the transaction, the arrival’s skin colder than cold.

Luc barely suppressed an instinctive shiver.

Lady Ismay sniffed. “At least there is
someone
with a measure of consideration for his betters in this place.”

They had another black mare with a star on her brow, though she had a slight sway to her back. A small dappled grey palfrey obviously carried the pair’s possessions. Even as meagre as they appeared to be, the beast was so gaunt as to hardly be up to the task.

Luc felt his lips thin at such cruelty and he immediately relieved the palfrey of its burden. The creature shuddered when the weight was lifted from its back, and Luc was not surprised that neither Ismay nor her companion seemed to notice.

Denis noticed and his brow began to lower in a most unfriendly manner. “Edward! Cedric! Andrew! Get yourselves from bed!” he bellowed. “There are steeds to be tended with all haste.” He touched the horses with gentle hands.

Denis turned his back upon the arrivals, clearly reassured to be on familiar ground. In no time at all, he would be alone with the steeds and, Luc knew, all the happier for it. Luc handed off the second mare’s reins to the tow-headed and sleepy-eyed squire that came running a moment later.