Lady At Arms (30 page)

When she dropped her face into her hands and began to cry, Walter moved nearer and laid his other hand on her shoulder. It was some minutes before she offered him a weak smile of gratitude and continued.

 
“Mary birthed a son the day before Ranulf and Colin were born. As promised, she was gone from Chesne when I recovered sufficiently to see my Colin given a proper burial.”

Lizanne was the first to break the silence. “Lady Zara, forgive me, but do you know the name Mary gave her son?”

“Of course.” She gave a bitter laugh. “She named him for Byron’s father, D—”

“Darth,” Balmaine supplied.

Lady Zara gasped. “That was his name.”

“’Tis him,” Lizanne breathed. “The name of the one who led the raid against our camp.”

“Then it was Mary’s son you buried, Lady Zara,” Balmaine concluded. “She who likely took your second-born with her to Medland, Charwyck’s home.”

That man’s name snapped Ranulf back to the present, and he sat forward so suddenly he nearly dumped Lizanne off his lap. “Charwyck? What has he to do with this?”

 
Balmaine looked to his sister. “You have not told him?”

Ranulf pulled her chin around. “’Tis the reason you collapsed at the palace, is it not? What have you withheld from me?”

She tried to pull free, but he held tight—until her struggle caused her elbow to bump his wound. At his groan, she stilled and slumped against him. “I could not tell you. I had to first sort it out.” She twined her fingers in her lap and stared at them. “Philip was not explicit,” she continued in a voice so low Ranulf was not sure how much the others heard. “He simply said you bore a resemblance to another—a common villein—and then he disappeared. ’Twas so confusing and frightening to think he might have been responsible for the attack, to think he would go to such lengths to avoid wedding me.”

“I will stain my sword with his blood!” Ranulf bit.

“The knave is mine,” Gilbert countered, “as is this Darth.”

Ranulf’s mother leapt from the chair. “If ’tis my Colin, you will do no such thing, Gilbert Balmaine. He is my son and cannot be held accountable for those things another surely forced him to do.” She turned to Ranulf. “Is that not so?”

He looked from her to the woman he held in his arms. “We will have to see,” he said. “Some things can be forgiven. Others?” He shook his head, then eyed Balmaine. “We will do this together. When I have recovered sufficiently, you and I will meet Charwyck and demand satisfaction for the pain he has inflicted upon our families.”

Balmaine snorted. “Then you had best be recovered within the hour, for I ride this afternoon.” He turned on his heel and stalked to the door.

“How do you propose to get past my men?” Ranulf called, bringing the other man to a halt.

Balmaine returned and halted before Ranulf. “I shall place Chesne back in your hands. Your men can have no objections to allowing us to leave peaceably.”

Ranulf smiled. “Of course not—providing they have a good length of rope with which to string you from the nearest tree.”

Balmaine’s hands turned into fists.

“You may as well accept it,
Brother
,” Ranulf said, “for ’tis the only way you will leave Chesne alive.”

The man’s face reddened.

“Please, Gilbert”—Lizanne slipped off Ranulf’s lap, stepped near her brother—“do not do this alone. Wait for Ranulf.”

“You do not trust me?” he bit. “You think I will fail you again?”

“I do not. But as my husband, and a man terribly wronged, he has the right to go with you.”

Balmaine stared long at her, then shifted his gaze to Ranulf. “A sennight, then.”

“Nay, a fortnight,” Lizanne said. “His wound went deep.”

Her brother was nearly trembling with whatever he struggled to contain. “Very well, a fortnight. Then I ride—with or without you, Wardieu.” He turned, crossed the room, and slammed the door behind him.

Over the next several days, Ranulf remained distant with Lizanne, angry with her for having kept her knowledge of Philip from him. He allowed her to tend his wound but was otherwise withdrawn. Between Lady Zara, Geoff, and Walter, all his other needs were met without so much as a single request made of her.

It pained Lizanne, but she refused to give in to the easy comfort of self-pity, accepting Ranulf’s anger as his due.

During that time, the tensions eased between her brother and him. From a distance, she watched their mutual animosity evolve into a tentative alliance. Though pleased, it also made her feel more of an outsider, especially since they always set aside their conversation in her presence.

Sleeping on a bench in the great hall, a coarse woolen blanket her only companion, she got very little sleep, though more because of her whirling thoughts than discomfort.

Each day, she determinedly set about familiarizing herself with the castle and its people. Though disheartened by her reception, she was not surprised that, as the sister of the man who had laid siege to Chesne, the castle folk were less than friendly.

They snubbed her, going out of their way to avoid being near her. Even Gilbert’s appearance could not clear a room faster than hers. It did not seem to matter that she was their lord’s wife. And Lady Zara, who had warmed only slightly, was short with her and ofttimes argumentative. It took very little intellect to discern that, until the woman accepted her, Ranulf’s people would not.

Once satisfied with exploring the castle, Lizanne spent hours in the outer bailey, watching with longing as Ranulf’s and Gilbert’s men tilted at the quintain, practiced archery, and fiercely tested each other’s sword skill. With nothing else to occupy her, she contented herself with analyzing the mistakes made by the competitors and visualizing what she would do differently. It sustained her. For awhile.

In the evening of her fourth day at Chesne, feeling the forced distance between Ranulf and her had gone on long enough, she climbed the stairs to the solar.

Softly, she closed the door behind her, leaned back against it, and contemplated Ranulf’s still form that lay in shadow upon the bed. Unnerved, but determined, she gathered her courage, crossed the room, and began to shed her clothes. When only her thin shift remained, she folded back the covers and slid in beside her husband.

She felt him stiffen when her thigh brushed his, but she moved closer.

“What are you doing, Lizanne?” Irritation was evident in his voice.

She pulled the covers up over her shoulders, lifted her head and, in the bare light of the room, met his sparkling gaze. “I am your wife now. It should not be necessary for me to seek accommodations elsewhere.”

“So, you grow weary of sleeping in the hall with the others. Is it too cold or too crowded?”

She bit back the prideful response that was the first to make it to her lips, shook her head. “’Tis too lonely.”

He was silent a long moment, then slid his fingers into her hair and cupped the back of her head. “I did not know you wished to be here with me.”

She shivered. “I do.”

“Why?”

“A wife should sleep where her husband sleeps. Otherwise, ’tis not likely there will ever be peace between them.”

“And you want peace?”

“Verily.”

Ranulf stared up into her shadowed face. At that moment, it would not have taken much for him to cross the line he had drawn between them and satisfy his baser needs, but he held himself in check. “What convinced you it was not me who committed those crimes against you and your brother?”

She sighed. “Sir Walter told me I must lead with my heart. And my heart told me it was not you.”

Walter had said that? Stern, serious Walter who rarely led with anything but his head? What magic had Lizanne worked on him to bring forth such flowery, poetic advice? Of course, Ranulf was not blind to the bond between his vassal and his mother, but it had always seemed more friendship than anything else—at least, until the day Lizanne had revealed the missing piece of her conversation with Charwyck and his mother had held tight to Walter’s hand. However, Ranulf had been too taken with anger and frustration over Lizanne’s revelation to expend thought on what his mother and vassal might feel for one another.

Lizanne’s next words pulled him out of his reverie. “Even before we wed, my heart was telling me this, but I would not listen. I was too frightened.” He heard her swallow and wondered if she pushed down tears. “And though I continued to deny your innocence when I saw you did not bear the scar, inside I knew. Ah, Ranulf, I am sorry.”

He drew her head down to his shoulder. “As am I for the suffering my family has caused yours. But why could you not have told me this sooner, Lizanne? So much pain it would have saved us both if you would have revealed your grievances against me when I took you from Penforke.”

She drew a shaky breath. “In the beginning, I was certain it was you, and I knew such a villain who was also a nobleman was far more dangerous than one born a commoner—that he could not possibly allow one to live who knew his secret. I thought you a murderer and…”

Her body convulsed with a sob, and then came tears.

Ranulf held her, stroked her hair, and whispered soothing words. When she calmed, soft hiccuping all that remained of the expression of her anguish, he said, “No more, Lizanne.” He lightly drew his hand down her spine and up again. “Henceforth, you will not cry over this. ’Tis done.”

She lifted her head, and he felt her gaze seek his. “You forbid me the comfort of tears?”

“I do not like it when you cry.”

It was not his intent to anger her, and yet when he felt that emotion stir between them, he was not at all averse to it, for it meant she would be fine. She was too fiery to be otherwise.

“Then I will be finished with crying—for now. However, if I must do so again, I shall.”

“You would defy me? Your lord and husband?”

“’Tis not defiance!” She sat up on her knees at his side. “You cannot tell someone when to turn their emotions on and off. It is more complicated than that. I am no puppet, and if you expect me to behave as one, there will never be peace between us.”

Ranulf could no longer contain his laughter. It rolled out of him and carried around the chamber.

“Why do you laugh?” she demanded.

He sobered as quickly as he could. “I am pleased with you, Wife.”

“Pleased with me? As the king forced you to this marriage, I would not think you would be pleased at all.”

Sliding a hand behind his head, he peered up at her shadowy figure. “The king did not force me, Lizanne. I chose to offer for you.”

That silenced her, and when she finally spoke again, her words were not much more than breath. “You told me you had declined.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It is something I am still sorting out for myself.”

Lizanne stared at him, longed to see his face that might reveal if his struggle was the same as hers had been before she had accepted it was love she felt for him. She sighed. “That is good—one less thing for me to feel guilty about.”

Ranulf chuckled and pulled her back down beside him.

She settled her head on his shoulder and placed a hand to his chest to feel the beat of his heart.

Shortly, his voice came low to her. “Each time you look upon me, will you remember what that other one—my brother—did?”

Lizanne did not immediately respond, not because she did not know the answer but because it was more easily answered than she would have believed. “When first I laid eyes upon you at Lord Langdon’s castle, ’twas as if only yesterday it had happened. Now it seems a very long time ago. Mostly, I see only you.”

“It is unfortunate such a tragedy brought us together, Lizanne, but I am grateful for it.”

She pressed nearer. “Ranulf?”

“Shh. Go to sleep. We will have our wedding night later.”

She started to protest his conclusion, but realized she would not be believed. And rightfully so.

She closed her eyes. However, though her mind was fatigued, sleep did not come, for she remained too aware of the warmth of her husband’s body. Nor did it help that he lay awake as told by his shallow breathing and the brisk beat of his heart beneath her palm.

Certain the only way she would sleep this night was apart from him, she lifted his arm from around her waist and moved to the edge of the bed.

To her surprise, he followed and curled his body around hers. It felt wonderful, but it was worse than before.

“I wish you would not do that, Ranulf.”

“What?” he asked near her ear.

“Touch me without…touching me.”

“I but wish to hold my wife.”

“But I cannot sleep for being so near you. And, it seems, neither can you. So why do you further delay our wedding night? Is it because of your…” She cleared her throat. “Is it because of your first wife?”

Ranulf tensed against her back. “What of her?”

“She has not been long dead. Do you still love her? Is that why you will only hold me?”

She felt and heard the breath move in and out of him, then he rose up and turned her onto her back. “You know not of what you speak,” he said, his face nothing but shadow above hers.

“Then tell me.”

After a long silence, he said, “God forgive me, but I cannot even mourn Arabella’s death.”

Lizanne nearly startled. “Why?”

“She was a cold, conniving woman, and more than once unfaithful to our marriage vows. She did not come to me a maiden, though she claimed to be one.”

Lizanne was almost fearful of her next question, but she needed to know the fate of her own marriage. “And you, Ranulf? Were you faithful to her?” After all, his father had not been faithful to Zara.

“I was, though Arabella and I lived separate lives—did not even share sleeping quarters.”

Lizanne could not hold her relief inside, expelling it on a breath that sounded loud even to her own ears. “Then I will not be expected to share you.”

Ranulf’s fingers touched her neck, lightly feathered down to her collarbone. “Only if I must share you, and I have no intention of doing so. You are mine.”

“But Arabella—”