Everlasting (16 page)

 
Cordelia canted her head curiously. “Mayhap you’d care to appease my curiosity by telling me about that occurrence. Thus far, you’ve failed to mention anything that happened after we left you that night. What prompted Desmond to resort to such despicable measures?”

 
“After you and your parents left for home, he sought to have his way with me in the palace, but Raven heard our scuffling and intervened before Desmond could accomplish his objective. Desmond managed to escape before being harmed, so ’twould seem he’s angry because Raven intruded on his plans to ravish me. ’Twould be better by far if the pair returned to their homeland this very hour rather than attend the festivities marking the end of the hunt. If they delay much longer, they may well be killed in their beds.”

 
“And that was the whole reason he extended them an invitation to the wedding? How cruel!”

 
“I’m not certain that Desmond meant to have them killed at first. I assumed when the Scotsmen first arrived that Desmond only invited them to show Raven that Desmond had won me in the end.”

 
Cordelia tapped her forefinger thoughtfully against her chin. “If
Desmond is truly intent on dispensing with the Scots, it probably doesn’t matter who is killed as long as he gets his way in the end. Obviously, he’s of the opinion that simple soldiers are to obey his every command, even if it’s to murder another individual he despises. Could he think that Raven somehow means to have you for his own?”

 
“But we have a betrothal contract! It cannot be put asunder. His jealousy has no purpose.”

 
“You must remember, ’tis Desmond of whom we speak.”

 
Abrielle sighed. “There has to be some way to prove to him that Raven is not interested in me. Then Desmond’s jealousy—murderous or not—might be appeased. Mayhap if Raven were shown to be interested in someone else…you, perhaps?”

 
Cordelia straightened. “You mean to make him pursue me somehow?”

 
“Nay, but if he were shown to be flirting with you, that might soothe Desmond’s suspicions.”

 
“And how would we convince him to flirt with me?”

 
“Why…you’d initiate it, of course, tonight at the banquet. He is entrusted with the business of kings, Cordelia, so I’m certain he would realize the purpose soon enough.”

 
“Shouldn’t you explain to him—”

 
“No!” Abrielle protested too forcefully. “I cannot risk being alone with him.”

 
“Do you not trust yourself?” Cordelia asked slyly.

 
Abrielle gasped. “You make light of what could mean death for both Scotsmen, and others, should the blood of young men run too hot, as too oft is the case.”

 
Cordelia laid a hand on her shoulder. “My dearest companion, I only mean to ease your concerns, to somehow lighten the load you bear. Do not mistake my teasing for anything but that. You know I will do anything to help you, and that you can rely upon me to distract Desmond where Raven is concerned.”

 
Abrielle hugged the other woman fervently.

 
“’Tis a noble thing you’re doing, saving your family in this way, though dear indeed is the price for doing so,” Cordelia told her with heartfelt sympathy. “I certainly don’t envy you. Truly, ’tis far more reasonable to imagine Raven Seabern as your suitor than that contemptible beast of a man you’re pledged to marry.”

 
“For pity’s sake, Cordelia,” said Abrielle. “Neither of us truly knows Raven. Desmond is fully revealed in his face and form, but the Scotsman has looks, grace, and charm that may indeed be only weapons he uses to get what he wants. In spite of his gallantry, and the intensity of his gaze when turned toward me, I cannot forget that he did not attempt to court me before my betrothal to Desmond, that he never even sought from my stepfather a proper introduction to me. It sorrows me to confess this thought to you, but I believe that he is seeking a wife with a rich dowry, with property to offer him, that he would but dally with a woman of my circumstances. I alone, without riches to accompany me, am not enough.” Here, in spite of her strongest efforts, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Cordelia,” she cried. “Why am I not enough?”

CHAPTER 7

 
Most of the hunters entered the great hall that evening with their wives, relatives, or in the company of long-established companions or newly found friends. Shortly after settling themselves at the garland-bedecked tables, guests were served goblets of wine or tankards of ale, depending on their individual preferences. A table placed within close proximity of the head table was held in reserve for the champions of the hunt.

 
Although most of the hunters were arrogant and greatly resented being bested by a pair of Scots, there were a rare few with more gracious dispositions who readily paid tribute to the laird and his son immediately upon their entry into the hall. Rising to their feet, two hunters lifted aloft their tankards of ale in a rousing toast. When no one else around them followed suit, the embarrassed men quickly sank back onto their benches.

 
These two toasts greeted Desmond much like a slap across the face as he strode into the great hall, garbed in clothing as costly as any great lord of the realm might have worn. Jealousy as foul as his black heart made him lament his failure thus far to dispense with the Scots.
Throughout the evening, he found it impossible to think of anything but savoring his revenge upon the pair.

 
Thus, when Desmond espied both of the Scotsmen being escorted to their designated table, his animosity intensified to an even greater degree. He was plagued by the rather bizarre notion that they had somehow connived to claim those seats merely to taunt and irritate him with their presence.

 
An appreciative murmur arose from the guests seated at the far end of the hall. Espying the group of ladies progressing ahead of their male escorts through the aisle, Desmond was taken aback by their beauty. Admiration promptly replaced anger, and he found himself smiling in appreciation. When the younger two inclined their heads graciously to acknowledge his presence, his buoyant mood was promptly restored. He was certain he had never seen a pair as fair.

 
In continuing on toward the squire’s table, Abrielle, her parents, and their close friends Lord and Lady Grayson and their daughter, Cordelia, claimed the unswerving attention of those in attendance. The younger gallants evidenced a rapidly burgeoning awe of the maidens, yet, in all truth, Elspeth and Isolde drew as many stares from the older men, a fact which seemed to tweak the ire of their husbands until Cordelia urged the pair to consider the stares as a compliment to their own refined tastes.

 
Abrielle’s gown had been created by combining numerous layers of a translucent golden fabric, trimmed with delicately bejeweled ribbons, as if she were clothed in a cloud that flowed in shimmering waves around her slender body. Its beauty had most of the women staring agog with envy, whereas the men were more wont to gape at the lady who wore it.

 
Softly shimmering layers of creamy-hued silk flowed in mesmerizing waves around Elspeth’s slender form, causing at least one who had earlier held aspirations of marrying the comely widow to lament
the fact that she had chosen another. If anything, he was even more envious of Vachel de Gerard than he had been before.

 
With her blond hair and bright, pale blue eyes, Cordelia looked very much like her mother, the Lady Isolde. Clothed in garments as beautiful as those of the other members of their party, they drew almost as many admiring stares as the bride. From Lord Reginald Grayson’s broad smile, it was apparent he was very proud of his small family.

 
When Desmond caught sight of his intended bride, she was strolling beside Cordelia, slightly ahead of their parents. Much in a manner of one stricken dumb, he leaned back in his chair and gaped at them. A full moment passed before he realized his own slack-jawed astonishment and, in some discomfiture, cleared his constricted throat. Upon sweeping a surreptitious glance about the hall, he realized to his relief that most of the men were now staring at the four women in much the same manner.

 
Raven was no less awed by Abrielle’s beauty than any other man in the hall; he was simply more skilled at hiding it. Unfortunately he was not nearly as good at concealing his feelings from himself. To be sure, his pounding heart readily affirmed his deepening infatuation. His desire to have Abrielle for his own was so great he was not at all deterred by thoughts of the havoc he’d create were he to follow his gut impulse to sweep the lady into his arms and abscond with her to the highlands of Scotland. Given the slightest sweet look of encouragement, he would be on his feet and by her side before de Marlé had wedged himself from his gilded chair. But her blue-green eyes never turned his way.

 
Approaching his future bride with an arm outstretched in invitation, Desmond smiled as the young beauty settled a slender hand upon his sleeve. “You’re far more ravishing than any lady I’ve ever beheld, my dear,” he assured her. “I can only consider the depth and breadth of my good fortune. Once I take you as my bride and the bonds between us are secure, no man will be as privileged as I.”

 
Abrielle shuddered to think of those precise moments. Unable to make a befitting response, she turned silently and allowed him to lead her to the trestle table where he had been sitting. As much as she doubted her ability to manage even an evanescent smile for Desmond and his guests, she made every effort to force her lips into compliance.

 
As the feast was served, Abrielle could see the sagging shoulders and depressed miens of men and women who could not even look forward to a true feast. Once again, the food was of the plainest sort, and all one could say about it was that it was edible. If there was one thing she was looking forward to, it was finding a superior cook so that the people of the castle would be better served.

 
Upon the conclusion of the meal, the trenchers were taken away, and Desmond rose to his feet, raising both his arms to claim the attention of his guests. He had decided to evoke some animosity toward the Scottish pair and was eager to progress toward that goal. “Normans and Saxons alike, give heed to my words. As all subjects of King Henry know by now, he chose his daughter, Maud, to become rightful heiress of the kingdom he rules after the tragic drowning death of his son many years ago in the White Ship disaster.”

 
Though his words seemed badly slurred to his guests, Desmond was convinced he would have given the best orator in the king’s service cause to stand in silent awe. By now, he thought, the Scotsmen would likely be expecting a boring discourse on the royals.

 
“Should our liege lord expire in the years to come, the Empress Matilda—or Maud, as some of her subjects have been wont to call her—shall claim the throne. So far, all his nobles have signed pledges of fealty to support her should his majesty be laid to rest. Considering his age, one has to consider that he will not live forever. It has also been acknowledged that her uncle King David of Scotland has given his oath to uphold her as divine ruler of this land should His Majesty pass on. By Henry’s edicts, we should all pledge her our troths and be
bound in unity after his death. Of late, however, I’ve been wont to wonder if recent rumors being bandied about are actually true, that King David has been secretly nurturing aspirations of seizing England’s throne for himself rather than allowing his niece to succeed her father.”

 
Many of the guests nodded and spoke in murmurs to one another, eyeing the Scots dubiously.

 
Raven rose to his feet, claiming the attention of those within the hall. “I’ve no knowledge of my sovereign lord ever coveting the English throne,” he stated forthrightly, sensing the squire’s ploy to evoke ill will toward the Scottish clans and their king. “For what it’s worth, ’tis my belief that King David intends ta assist the empress in whatever capacity she may require during her reign and ta bestow as much homage upon her as he has thus far extended ta King Henry. After all, Malcolm Canmore was her grandfather, a man much beloved and respected in our country. The Scots could do no better than ta swear allegiance ta her. And if ye do indeed sense any undermining of the empress’s sovereign right ta claim the throne, then mayhap ye should look closer ta home for such culprits rather than condemn the clansmen of Scotland as treasonous. ’Tis fallacy ta think we’d go against her.”

 
“Are you actually claiming that you would remain loyal to the Empress Maud once she claims Henry’s throne?” Desmond prodded with a distasteful sneer.

 
“My loyalty will always be ta Scotland,” Raven stated without hesitation. “Much remains ta be seen, but I dinna anticipate havoc for our clans coming from Empress Maud. We’ve always considered her one of us.”

 
“You Scots have your own way of lending careful regard to a notion and, when the time pleases you, turning your backs upon the very ones you’ve previously claimed to admire.”

 
“Scots usually speak their minds whether you and your sort are able ta or not,” Raven retorted.

 
“Are you calling me a liar?” Desmond railed, making an effort to rise from his chair in spite of the fact that at present the whole hall seemed to be dipping and swaying unnaturally around him. Clasping a nearby tankard, he tried to bring it to his mouth, but alas, it promptly slipped from his hand and went reeling across the trestle table, showering those sitting to his right before they could scurry out of its path.

 
Desmond was incognizant of the christening he had given many of his guests. He was far more interested in bestowing a glower upon the younger Scotsman. Even in that effort, he fell short of his objective. Having consumed more wine and ale than most of his guests, he was hampered by the very disturbing possibility that there were now two of his adversary, whereas a moment earlier there had been only one irksome rogue by the name of Raven Seabern.

 
“Did you jus…call me…a liar?” Desmond demanded again thickly.

 
Raven replied simply, “If the name fits, Squire, then I’d advise ye ta call it your very own.”

 
“Call…what…my own…?”

 
Repulsed by the squire’s drunken state, Raven rose to his feet and was promptly joined by his father, who spoke for himself and his son. “If ye’ll excuse us, Squire, we woke early this morning, and have become increasingly weary as the day has progressed. Mayhap ye’ll allow us ta finish this discussion at a later time.”

 
Chortling, Desmond sought to make light of the pair’s inability to endure the rigors of a hunt with the same depth of stamina as his other guests had. If he had cared to join in the sport, he was certain he would’ve shown the two up as poor comparisons to his unwavering endurance. Mimicking Cedric’s Scottish burr, he chided, “Ye have a son who dinna seem ver-ry robust. Have these frosty English climes chilled your luster?”