Lady At Arms (28 page)

With a grunt, Darth lifted her and carried her to her pallet. He laid her down, then settled himself beside her.

Philip set himself upon a stool to watch as Darth lightly slapped Mary’s cheeks and called to her in a gravelly, unrefined voice that bore no resemblance to that of the one he resembled in nearly every way.

Darth turned his ebony eyes toward his lord and, for the first time, Philip noted intelligence in the man’s face. Perhaps too much.

“Ye called me Baron War…dieu,” he said, testing the name upon his tongue. “What mean ye by it?”

Philip leaned forward and pointed to the woman who fearfully stared at him. “Methinks your mother can best answer that.”

Darth looked down at her. “Ye know what he speaks of?”

Mary shook her head.

Philip heaved a sigh. “I know not the details, but she does. Mayhap I can refresh her memory.”

“Go on,” Darth urged.

“To the north, at Chesne, there is a baron by the name of Ranulf Wardieu. You know the name, do you not, Mary?”

She swallowed loudly and turned her face toward the wall.

“Oddly,” Philip continued, “the man has hair as fair as Darth’s and eyes every bit as black. He is as tall and nearly as wide. And were it not for your son’s hard years in the fields, one could say the two men were, in fact, identical. Twins. Now do you remember, Mary?”

The woman looked around and up at Darth. “I know not of what he speaks!”

If not that the big man was present, Philip was sure he would have beaten the hag. “The way I see it, either Darth is of noble birth, or his brother is of peasant stock. Which is it?”

She struggled to sitting and gripped her son’s arm. “Darth, I must needs speak with ye alone,” she said, lips trembling and white-edged.

Face hardening, Darth demanded in a voice grown as cold as the first frost of winter, “Answer him.”

Tears beginning to roll down her full cheeks, she whispered, “I can explain, son.”

He shook her hand off. “Then explain.”

“’Twas so long ago,” she muttered and lowered her head to stare at her bent, fleshy hands. “I was barely six and ten—”

“First answer this,” Darth interrupted, “am I of noble or peasant birth?”

She reached up and grasped his face between her palms. “You are my son.”

Again, he pushed her hands away. “Answer me!”

She looked past him to the open door of the cottage. “Noble birth. You are the second-born son of Baron Byron Wardieu.”

Darth shoved to his feet. “Who bore me? You?”

“Nay.” She began to sob. “Lady Zara Wardieu birthed ye.”

“Then who are ye, the woman who has called herself my mother all these years?”

Content to let the scene play itself out without his interference, Philip silently observed the two, certain there were useful revelations yet to be spilled.

“Though I did not give birth to ye, Darth, I am yer mother. Is that not enough? Have I not cared for ye and loved ye as only a mother could? Have I not—?”

Darth growled, waved her words aside. “Who are ye?”

Mary closed her eyes. “I am the misbegotten sister of Lady Zara. I was her husband’s leman.”

Philip was fascinated by the anger that bunched Darth’s muscles, thickened his neck, and made something terrible of a face that surely frightened the woman who had stolen everything from him.

“How came ye by me,
aunt
?” Darth shouted. “Did my mother abandon me?”

Mary shifted her cumbersome body and lowered her feet to the floor. With a great heave, she stood and faced him.

Philip did not think there was anything ugly about tears—indeed, often found them pleasing—but those that streamed the woman’s face made him rethink his opinion. They were really quite unsightly.

“I gave birth to Lord Byron’s son the night before Lady Zara birthed ye and yer brother,” she said. “My child died the next day, and I was heartbroken. Ye understand, don’t ye?”

Darth sneered and she hung her head.

“Then here Zara had two fine, healthy boys when she needed but one to give Byron his heir. I hated her. She had everything I wanted—noble birth, beauty, and Byron.” She drew a deep breath. “So I switched my dead boy for one of hers—you, Darth. It was simple, as my babe looked so much like ye. Then I left. Hardly since have I thought of it. I raised ye as if you were from me own body—”

“And reduced me to a commoner!” Darth caught her shoulder in a grip so tight she cried out. “I am noble! Look what your greed and jealousy have done to me, old woman.”

“Ye were second-born! There would have been naught for ye.”

“Naught? ‘Twould surely have been better than this existence. I could have become a knight and made my own fortunes.”

“Ye know not what ye say. Ye love me! I am yer mother.”

“A lie!” He thrust her away and she toppled onto her pallet.

Quickly, she gathered herself and scooted back into the corner where she began to weep loudly.

Darth rounded on Philip. “Why tell me this?” He jabbed a finger at him. “Yer up to somethin’!”

Philip rubbed his stubbled chin. “Four years ago, you served me well. Somewhat.” He could hardly forget that both Gilbert and Lizanne Balmaine had lived. “I would but repay my debt to you.”

Darth stared at the one who had set aside their friendship—if that was, indeed, what it had been—following the raid upon the Balmaine camp.

“And so,” Philip continued, “I have a proposal for you.” He stood from the stool.

“What would that be, milord?”

Philip raised his eyebrows, smirked. “’Tis no longer necessary to address me as your superior. We are, after all, nearly equal as nobles. Call me Philip.”

As once he had done… Darth moved nearer him. “Well, Philip, what is this proposal?”

Philip crossed to the door. “We will speak elsewhere. And bring your possessions, for ’tis not likely you will return to this hovel.”

Mary shrieked and stumbled up from her pallet. “Do not leave me, Darth!”

Philip laughed, strode outside.

What followed as Darth gathered his belongings was sobbing, pleading, clinging, cursing, and more sobbing, but when he finally stepped through the narrow doorway for what he promised himself would be the last time, the only thing that flung itself at his back was blessed silence.

Sack flung over his shoulder, he strode to where Philip sat languidly atop a thick-limbed stallion.

The man who had brought all to light looked from Darth to the cottage, smiled crookedly, and said, “Follow me.”

Shortly, in a secluded area beside a swiftly running stream, Philip dismounted and seated himself on the moist bank.

Darth slung his sack to the ground and lowered himself a short distance away.

Leaning back, Philip clasped his hands behind his head. “Would you like to claim that which was stolen from you—perhaps more?” he asked.

Darth grunted. “’Tis a question that hardly bears answering. Think ye I prefer to live out the rest of my years doin’ the stinkin’ work of a commoner?”

Philip grinned. “I was merely prefacing my proposal.”

“And what is this proposal?”

Philip closed his eyes, turned his face up to the sun. “’Tis simple. You shall become the baron of Chesne.”

“That does not sound simple. What of this brother of mine? Is he not the baron?”

“For the moment.”

“How am I to take the title from him?”

Philip met Darth’s gaze. “You know the answer to that.”

Darth snorted. It had been a foolish question, for in his youth he had too often been in the company of Philip Charwyck to not know the means by which he should dispose of another. “We look alike, my brother and me, ye said.”

“Were it not for the hard life you have needlessly suffered, old friend, it would be impossible to tell you apart.”

Darth probed a hand down his face, feeling the sun- and wind-cut ridges. His resentment over the blow his life had been dealt burgeoned. “How am I to kill him?”

“How would you like to kill him?”

“First, I would meet him.”

“Ah, sentimental.” Philip sighed. “But you most certainly will meet him.”

“When?”

“Soon, but worry not. I will be at your side.”

Darth nodded. “What do ye think to get out of this fer yerself?”

“You know me well, old friend. I want only one thing—the baron’s wife.”

“That is all?”

“’Tis enough, though I am sure your deep gratitude will serve me well for years to come.”

Of course. “Why is this woman important to you?”

Philip sat up and propped his arms on his raised knees. “I want her for my bed. And there is the matter of revenge that is my due for an insult she gave me.”

Certes, she would rue the day she had dared. “She is beautiful?”

“She is, though I should be the one asking the questions, for you know her better than I. After all, ’twas you who bedded her first. Tell me, how was she?”

Darth shook his head. “I know not what ye speak of.”

“Of course you do. Do you not remember Lady Lizanne Balmaine?”

Darth startled, and Philip slapped his thigh and sprang to his feet. “Aye, the same. Ironic, is it not, that she would wed a man who looks exactly like the one who violated her? I look forward to having the full story from her myself. And soon.”

Darth did not know how to respond, but he did know he could not tell Philip the truth—that the wench had knocked him senseless before he could have his way with her. “Why do ye want her now,” he asked, “when ye did not want her before?”

With a swagger, Philip came to stand over him. “Had I known she would become such a beauty, mayhap I would not have been so hasty in trying to dispose of her.” He grinned, propped his hands on his hips. “Are you with me, Baron Wardieu?”

The first light of dawn was etching its warm fingers across the walls when Ranulf opened his eyes to the familiar surroundings of his solar. At first, he thought these last weeks were a dream, but when he turned his head and saw Lizanne, he felt a surge of relief.

He considered her smooth profile where she sat in a chair, head propped upon crossed arms resting on the mattress. Even in repose, she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

Still, she was exceedingly pale, the dark smudges beneath the sweep of her lashes standing out in sharp contrast. Further, running from her temple down to the curve of her jaw was what appeared to be dried blood. His.

He looked to the clean bandages secured over his wound and wondered at the absence of pain. He would have expected terrible discomfort after such an injury. Instead, there was only a dull throb.

Recalling his former jailer’s praise for his lady’s gift of healing, he returned his gaze to Lizanne. Gifted, indeed.

Moving slowly so he would not awaken her, he lifted a lock of the black hair spread over the coverlet. Free of the weight of the mass, the strands sprang to life, finding a new shape as they curled around his fingers. He smiled and lifted another lock, watched it also coil.

A sound from the hearth stilled him. Lifting his head, he looked beyond the foot of the bed to the chair filled to overflowing with the watchful Gilbert Balmaine.

For what seemed minutes, the two stared at one another until Balmaine slid his leg off the arm of the chair and stood. He threw his shoulders back, rolled his head side to side, and walked forward.

Ranulf slowly lowered his head to the pillow and watched the man’s approach, hackles rising the nearer he drew. Seeing the anger in Balmaine’s erect bearing, Ranulf wondered what weapon might be at hand with which to defend himself. He supposed a fist would do.

“Thanks to my sister’s skills,” Balmaine said quietly as he halted alongside her, “it appears you will suffer little from your mishap. A pity.”

Feeling a muscle in his jaw jerk, Ranulf glanced at Lizanne. “You do not trust me alone with my own wife,” he said, his voice husky as he struggled to keep it low.

Balmaine’s eyes narrowed. “Not when your wife is also my sister.”

As if the silent battle waged between them could be felt, Lizanne stirred, murmured something, and turned her head on her arms before returning to her exhausted sleep.

Gilbert held Wardieu’s stare a moment longer, then bent over his sister and gently lifted her from the chair.

She grasped a handful of his tunic and nudged her face against his chest as if seeking his warmth. But it was not
his
warmth she sought, Gilbert knew, and a moment later it was confirmed when she murmured, “Ran.”

Jealousy crept through him. After their father’s death, never had she called for anyone but her brother, but now there was another in his stead.

As it should be,
he told himself,
as I feared it might never be for her.

During the long night, Gilbert had discovered there was something very different about his sister and grudgingly conceded it seemed right. It was as if time had turned about, reversing some of the effects of that nightmarish night they had shared four years past. Disturbingly, though, he was unsettled by the loss of its burdensome familiarity, having too long lived with it.

What had happened between Lizanne and this man? he wondered, as yet having no explanation from her. The only thing he knew for certain was that she cared deeply for Wardieu, perhaps even loved him. And it infuriated him. Wardieu was still the enemy and would be until it could be proved otherwise.

Gilbert walked to the other side of the bed and carefully lowered his sister to the mattress. “She has not left your side since you were brought here,” he said as he flipped the coverlet over her and tucked it around her.

He straightened and returned to the chair she had slept in. Settling into it, he leaned back and clasped his hands on his chest. “If you are up to it—and you appear to be—I would hear from you the circumstances that led you to take my sister from Penforke.”

“She has not told you?”

“Nay, though I do have it from my people that it was not unprovoked. She abducted you from Langdon Castle, did she not?” He could not help but savor the glimpse he was afforded of Wardieu’s shame at having been bested by a woman, and resented that it did not linger longer upon his face.