Medieval Rogues (33 page)

“There, if you will.” She pointed to the floor beside Geoffrey’s bed. They dropped the bed with a
thump
, releasing a cloud of dust.

Mildred half-coughed, half-snorted. “You cannot think to—”

“I am.” With a word of thanks and an authoritative wave, Elizabeth dismissed the two men. They hurried away, no doubt eager to down more ale.

The matron’s brows drew together, and her lips compressed into a forbidding line. “You would be wise to retire to your own bed for a good night’s sleep, milady. You look exhausted. Terrible, if I may say so. If aught happens to Geoffrey this evening—”

“—I wish to be here.” Fighting the weariness in every joint in her body, Elizabeth looked at Geoffrey. “He is my betrothed,” she whispered. “I cannot leave him now, when he needs me most.”

She stretched a clean blanket over the pallet and settled herself for sleep. Squeezing her eyes shut, she ignored the straw poking into her cheek and the drafts that skimmed under the shutters and across the floor like a ghoul’s breath. In the long, dark hours of the night she lay awake and listened to Mildred’s snores and Geoffrey’s shallow breathing.

The fire cast indistinct patterns on the stone walls. Unable to drift into slumber, she thought of the first time she woke in Geoffrey’s bed, content in his arms, and watched the fire dance on Branton’s walls until she fell back to sleep.

She could not imagine life without Geoffrey.

He had become part of her soul.

Rolling onto her side, she stared at his broad hand lying atop the blanket, the hand that had wielded his sword and won him all he had desired for so many agonizing years. As he had wished, he was now the rightful lord of Wode, and he had achieved it without killing her father, for which she would forever be grateful.

How desperately she hoped Geoffrey would not die, after all he had fought for lay within his grasp.

She had not told him how much she loved him.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to hold back her tears.

When her eyelids flickered open, daylight shone beyond the shutters. She tossed aside her blankets and leaned over him, and traced his lips with her finger. His breath gusted against her skin.

A joyous cry burst inside her. Had Mildred not said that if he lived till the morning, he might survive?

The matron grunted and, with awkward movements, rose from her mattress in the corner of the room. “He lives?”

“Aye!”

“Do not smile so, milady. His fever is high. Wash him with herbal water while I check the wound. When you are finished, do it again.”

As Elizabeth rinsed Geoffrey’s face for the second time, a knock sounded on the door. She scowled, for the maids who brought wood for the fire knew not to make so much noise.

She opened the door.

Bertrand stood in the corridor. “Milady,” he said, looking sheepish. “Your sire asks that you come to the hall. Baron Sedgewick has arrived. He wishes to see you.”

Elizabeth resisted a disgusted groan. Sedgewick had led his army back to Avenley yesterday, and she had hoped not to see him again so soon. She would spare him only the briefest moment. Nodding to Bertrand, she said, “I will be there soon.”

Pressing the door closed with her palm, Elizabeth glanced down and despaired at the state of her bliaut. She had not changed garments since yesterday, and had not yet sent a maid to fetch some clean clothes. The silk bore smudges of Geoffrey’s blood and herbs. She had not even washed her face. Yet, ’twould be discourteous not to even make an appearance when her father had requested it, or to keep him and the baron waiting. She made her way to the hall.

Through the pervasive fog of wood smoke, she saw the baron and her father had pulled up chairs near the hearth. The enticing smells of fresh bread and warmed gooseberry jelly wafted to her.

Sedgewick dropped his roll. “Beloved.” He struggled to his feet, licking jelly from his fingertips. His eyes widened at her dishevelment. “You are hurt?”

“I have been tending Geoffrey.”

“So your father told me.” Sedgewick’s smile turned cool. “He says you have not left de Lanceau’s side. You and the healer slept in his chamber last night?”

“We did. He has fever.”

“Ah, fever.” Sedgewick cast her father a smug, victorious grin. Doubt taunted Elizabeth, but she refused to quaver before this man.

“’Tis amusing, milord?” she asked with an edge to her voice.

“My dear lady.” The baron came close and patted her hand as though she were a naïve little child. The lust in his gaze, though, told he appreciated her as a woman. “Many afflictions can take the life of a wounded warrior. Gangrene. Infection. Fever. Do you not agree, milord?”

Her father nodded, looking a little peakish in the morning light. “’Tis so.”

“My love, do not look so miserable. You shall not have to wed the bastard after all.”

Sedgewick’s leering smile brought Elizabeth such a wave of despair, she wrenched her hand away. “I promised Mildred I would help her change the poultice,” she lied through clenched teeth. “Good day to you, Baron. Father.”

“Wait,” her sire commanded.

Elizabeth halted. She turned, forcing her face into a mask of composure. “Aye, Father?”

“There is an important matter we must discuss.” His gaze traveled over her and softened. Had he sensed the distress she struggled hard to conceal? “Considering the strain of your ordeal,” he went on, “I thought to wait a few days before broaching the topic. Yet, since the baron honors us with his presence, and is eager to see it done, we will speak of it now.”

Speak of what?
her mind screamed. She wished to return to Geoffrey’s side, to escape Sedgewick’s lecherous stare, but she could not in good conscience be rude to her father. “Of course,” she said.

A smacking sound drew her gaze to the baron. He shoved the rest of his roll between his teeth, chewed, and stared at her in a manner that implied she was his prized possession. Her skin crawled. He was vile indeed to look at her that way.

After pushing his chair back, Arthur stood, favoring his wounded leg, and smoothed a hand over his brown wool tunic. “When the baron arrived today, he brought a wagon loaded with barrels of wine. Bordeaux, to be exact. The very best to celebrate his nuptials and his new bride.”

“A great kindness,” Elizabeth forced herself to say. “’Tis unfortunate we will not wed.”

Arthur hobbled forward and clasped her hands. “Daughter, that is what we shall discuss.”

Warmth drained from her face. “What?”

“Sedgewick wishes to proceed with your marriage.”

As though from afar, she heard the baron murmur, “I cannot wait, beloved, to make you mine.”

Her father’s hands curled around hers, steadying her, as tremors ran through her body. “I am sorry if the news is a shock, Elizabeth. As the baron said to me earlier, we cannot imagine the horrors you suffered as de Lanceau’s hostage, but Sedgewick assures me he will treat you with kindness. He will do all in his power to diminish your unpleasant memories and be a loving husband.”

Her ears rang. She withdrew her fingers and resisted the urge to throw her head back and shriek. Meeting her father’s gaze, she said, “I cannot wed the baron. I am betrothed to Geoffrey. You said so yourself at Branton Keep before at least one hundred witnesses.”

“Pah! A mockery of an engagement.” Her father shook his head. “I am glad ’twill never result in marriage. ’Tis inevitable de Lanceau will die from his wounds. Upon his passing, you will be free from that accursed arrangement and any loyalty you feel obligated to show him.” He smiled and looked pleased. “You will be free to marry Sedgewick.”

Panic burgeoned inside her. She would never marry the baron. “You do not understand.”

Her sire reached out and touched her cheek. “’Tis best—”

“I love him.”

“You do?” Arthur chuckled and looked at the baron, who slurped wine from a goblet. “Excellent. Sedgewick assures me you will have every luxury you desire.”

“I love
Geoffrey.
”

Her words seemed to echo like a clap of thunder.

“You . . . love . . .” Arthur choked a breath.

Sedgewick’s mouth fell open.

“I swear it upon my soul.” Pride rang clear in her voice.

“You love a traitor’s son?” the baron sneered, spitting wine and clots of bread. “He raped you.”

Elizabeth’s face burned, but she refused to back down from his glare and the accusation in his slitted eyes. “He did not.”

The baron slammed down the goblet. “Do you deny he stole your virtue?”

“Daughter?” Arthur whispered.

Love for Geoffrey bloomed in every part of her being. “He did not force me. I wanted to lie with him.”

“God’s teeth!” Anger and dismay darkened her father’s gaze.

Elizabeth clasped her hands to steady them.

The baron gripped the back of his chair, his fat fingers as white as unopened lilies against the dark oak. “You deceived me?” he roared. “You spread your legs for him when you were betrothed to
me?
” His arm swept over the table, hurling food and wine onto the floor. A dog ran, yelping. The chair followed with a splintering crash.

When he grabbed the edge of the table, her father limped forward. “Baron!”

Sedgewick straightened, his face puffed and red. “I apologize, milord.” His jowls twitched. It appeared an immense effort for him to restrain his temper. “A walk will settle my thoughts.” Without a backward glance, he strode from the hall.

Elizabeth exhaled. Her body still shook, and she wondered if Sedgewick’s rampage would have continued, if her father had not stopped him. The baron had looked angry enough to commit murder.

She shoved the frightening thought to the back of her mind. She need not think of him again. He would not wish to pursue the wedding now.

After a tense silence, her father asked, “Did you speak true of your love for de Lanceau?”

“Aye.”

“You
want
to marry him?”

“With all my heart.”

His gaze shadowed with concern. “He has not been . . . unkind to you? In any fashion? One that might make you reconsider such a union?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

“’Tis difficult for me to believe.” He dragged a stiff hand over the back of his neck. “Veronique—”

“
Veronique?
” she cried.

“Geoffrey’s courtesan intercepted us on the road to Branton Keep. She told me de Lanceau forced you to his bed.” Her father’s mouth turned up in a wan smile. “I paid her to get us through the keep’s gates.”

“Geoffrey knew he had been betrayed,” Elizabeth said. “I am certain what Veronique told you was vicious, spiteful lies.”

“’Twas easy to believe her.”

Elizabeth stared at the ruined, overturned chair and wine-soaked rushes. “I cannot condone all of Geoffrey’s deeds,” she said, sickened anew by the baron’s violence, “but I do love him. He is a good man. I will do all I can so that he will live and be my husband.”

“What accursed irony.” Arthur’s voice broke. “Edouard de Lanceau’s rogue son claims Wode, my fortune, you—all that I hold dear—yet you see him as a hero?”

“Father, please try to understand—”

“I cannot. I will not forgive de Lanceau as you have, Daughter. I look forward to the day you bring word of his death.”
 

Chapter Twenty

With a weary groan, Arthur sorted the parchments on the table before him. Too many matters of estate had been neglected during his absence.

He scowled, irritated by his own pricking conscience, for these were de Lanceau’s problems now. Yet, with his death imminent, someone had to ensure that the keep’s affairs and its people were kept in order before discontent stirred another pot of headaches.

Headaches, indeed. Arthur grimaced and massaged his throbbing brow, an aftereffect of yestereve that matched the nagging pain in his leg. He was glad of the quiet hall. Not a soul disturbed him, not even the dogs that lay stretched out by the fire. Thank the saints, the baron was elsewhere. Composed since his outburst but still rankled, Sedgewick had gorged himself at the midday meal and accepted Arthur’s offer of a guest chamber where he could sleep off his meal. And, Arthur hoped, his foul temper.

Arthur skimmed the first grievance, filed by a villein whose leeks had been eaten by a neighbor’s sow, and tossed it aside. Leeks? Pigs? How could he think on such matters when Elizabeth’s revelations spun through his mind and scattered his thoughts like dry leaves in an autumn gale?

She loved Geoffrey de Lanceau.

Disbelief and remorse jabbed at him like two cantankerous old crones. He had suspected Veronique could not be trusted, yet he had believed her lies. She had manipulated him, the baron, Aldwin, all of them. Aye, she had wanted the silver, but above all she had wanted de Lanceau dead and his revenge forfeit.

Arthur shuddered. He wanted de Lanceau’s death too. He had wished for it even as he heard his daughter confess she loved the rogue, and longed to be his bride. Part of Arthur felt numbed, betrayed. Was it sacrilege to hope Edouard’s son never lived to claim Elizabeth’s fair hand?

An image flashed through Arthur’s mind: a knight silhouetted against the dawn sky, the young man who had bested him. Arthur recalled the cool calculation in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had demanded Elizabeth as his betrothed, an emotional blow that had proved his ambition to impregnate her and beget a blood claim to Wode and all that Arthur owned. Yet, was that de Lanceau’s motive? Or had something more glimmered in those gray eyes, something Arthur had not wished to recognize before now?