Susan Spencer Paul (20 page)

Hugh felt slightly sick. He’d known Simon of Denning long enough and well enough to know how brutally he used his women.

“If you’ve come to ask whether I’ve seen any sign of your noble maid, Simon, then you have wasted your time. Naught of her has come to my ear.”

“That’s a shame,” said Simon, “though, in truth, I came to ask if you would join in helping me find her. A better man in a hunt I’ve never met than Hugh Caldwell.”

Quickly and thoroughly, Hugh declined the offer and courteously resisted every counteroffer Simon made.

“You’re certain, Hugh?”

“Quite certain. I’m finished with being a soldier for hire.”

“I’ll double the wages.”

“Nay, I’m content at Briarstone.”

“Well,” Simon said with a sigh, scratching his bearded chin and turning to walk back toward his men, “‘tis a pity, that’s certain, but I can see you’ll not be swayed. By the by, Stewart and Peter told me you’ve a lady of your own now who is extraordinarily fair. It must be she who keeps you tied to this place, for I’ve never known Hugh Caldwell to turn aside a chance for adventure in the stead of anything as dull as a harvest.”

“She is extraordinary,” Hugh agreed quietly. “And you speak truly when you say that I do not want to leave her.”

Simon of Denning laughed. “I should like to meet this woman who has finally captured Hugh Caldwell. She must be a beauty, indeed. God only knows, every fair maid in France did her best to hold you. But I’ve no time to stay and enjoy your hospitality, Hugh,” he said, ignoring the fact that Hugh hadn’t extended any. “I must be on my way. I’m sorry for the trouble with your serf.”

“With my vassal,” Hugh corrected, wanting Simon to understand that none of his people were slaves to-him. Offering a hand in farewell, he added, “I wish you Godspeed, Simon, and luck in finding your lady.”

Simon of Denning grasped Hugh’s hand and arm in a familiar gesture of friendship.

“Thank you, Hugh. God knows I’ll need some luck. It may be a hard task, but I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do. There’s not another woman like Rosaleen Sarant in all of England, and one day, I swear it on my own soul, she’ll either be mine…or dead.”

“What lovely stitches, Leatrice. I do believe you’ve the makings of a fine seamstress.”

“Do…do y’ think so, m’lady? Truly?” Leatrice asked her mistress, looking up with pleasure.

“I do indeed,” Rosaleen replied truthfully, gazing approvingly at the linen the girl held out for inspection. “You are talented after so short a time. Not every student would be so quick, I vow. I am most pleased. Now, Janet—” she moved to the girl sitting beside Leatrice “—let me see your work. Very good, very good. This portion does not need so much black. It is to be a dog, not a cow. Erda? How is your part coming along? Quite nicely, it seems. Be careful to keep these stitches on the center of each flower as small as possible, else the effect will be ruined. Alvina, let me see your work now. Good, good, very nice.” Standing away, Rosaleen added, “You are all doing beautifully, and your master will be pleased. Perhaps in a few days I shall set you to work on the new castle banners.” The excited expressions this news brought to the faces of the women from Stenwick amused Rosaleen.

The four new arrivals had settled in quickly, if somewhat tensely, after their first unhappy day at Briarstone, and even Erda had begun to behave as well as Rosaleen could want.

“I’d like you to put the tapestry away for now and go to the kitchen to help Ada and the others with the evening meal. If I’m needed I will be in my chamber, preparing ledgers for the upcoming harvest.”

The women obediently did their mistress’s bidding, until Erda, lifting her head at the sound of the keep’s doors opening, said, “Master Hugh is coming, m’lady.”

Whirling, Rosaleen saw that Hugh was indeed coming, in fact, he was striding toward them, a grim, set expression upon his handsome face.

As she watched him approach so purposefully, Rosaleen’s heart began to pound. For two weeks they had lived like strangers, even like enemies, and for two weeks she had fully regretted the pride and anger that had driven him from her. Twice she had tried to apologize to him, for she had realized after only a few days that the little girl Erda meant nothing to him and that what had happened between them had all been a terrible mistake that Hugh honestly regretted. And more, Rosaleen had accepted that he’d been right when he’d blamed her for his lapse. Making love with him each night in the way that they had done, doing all save the final consummation, had been difficult for him. How could she have blamed him for something that had been natural, perhaps even necessary, to him? If he had made love to Erda, he had certainly not done it purposefully, for he avoided the girl as much—if not more—as he now avoided Rosaleen herself. And so she had gone to him to make her apologies, but each time he had sent her away without letting her say more than a few words. He didn’t wish to speak to her, he said, and he wished that she would leave him be for the remainder of her time at Briarstone. She had reluctantly left him both times, feeling more hurt and humiliated than she could ever remember being, and so frightened that the few remaining days she had with the man she would always love would be fraught with anger and silence.

But it appeared as though the silence were about to be broken, for it was clear that Hugh Caldwell had something on his mind. The look on his face said that, and when he stopped in front of her, his hard mouth opened and confirmed it.

“I wish to speak to the lady Rosaleen alone,” he told the women curtly, not moving his eyes from Rosaleen. “Leave us.”

Nervously, Rosaleen glanced at the frightened, frozen women. “They are finished with their work, and it will only take them a moment—”

“Leave us!”
he thundered, making all of them, including Rosaleen, jump.

“How dare you!” Rosaleen said angrily after the women had flown. “If you must behave as an animal you can do so out-of-doors! I’ll not have you shouting at my ladies.”

His expression, steely, hard, furious, didn’t waver.

“Don’t speak, Rosaleen. I’ve not come for that. I’ve come only to tell you something. Nothing more.”

He was so angry, so bitter and tense that Rosaleen could only stare up at him. He was still dirty and sweaty from laboring in the fields, but in spite of the grime covering him he looked, in that moment, impossibly handsome.

“I have just sent Carl on his way with a missive to my brother, the Lord of Gyer, requesting that he come to Briarstone at once to escort you to London.”

Ignoring the surprise on Rosaleen’s face, Hugh went on. “He will be here in no more than three days’ time, and by then I want you ready to leave.”

“But, my service to you is not done for another two weeks!”

“I release you of it. I want you out of Briarstone, Rosaleen Sarant of Siere.” He spoke her true name like a curse. “When my brother arrives you will be ready to leave at once, or I swear by God that I’ll throw you out the front gates myself with naught but the clothes on your back!”

Finished, he turned and left the hall, slamming the heavy front doors loudly and leaving behind a pale, trembling Rosaleen, who stood alone, stunned, horrified and very, very frightened.

“H
ugh! Oh, Hugh, wake up!”

Rosaleen’s desperate pleading penetrated his dark Hell, reaching Hugh, grasping him, pulling him back against the heavy tide, dragging him up and up and up…

He bolted upright in the bed, gulping for air like a man nearly drowned, his big body drenched with sweat and shaking violently.

Her arms were around him, keeping him, holding him safe.

“It’s all right, Hugh. It’s all right.”

Half in hell and half out, panting with the effort to breathe, Hugh tried to still the spinning of the room, of his mind.

“Don’t leave me!” he begged. “Don’t leave me here, Rosaleen!”

“I’ll not. I’ll not leave you, Hugh.”

She was crying…sobbing. He could hear it in her voice and feel it against his body. Slowly, with effort, he brought his arms up to circle her trembling form.

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated.

She shook her head against him, unable to speak beyond her tears.

A few minutes passed, and finally the terror left him. Working at it, Hugh managed to calm his breathing, and then, swallowing hard a couple times, he spoke.

“I was dreaming.”

“You were screaming.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Hugh—” she turned her tear-wet face up to look at him “—what was it? What could possibly have done that to you?”

“Nothing. A bad dream, no more. All is well now. You can return to your chamber.”

Sitting up, moving a little out of the circle of his arms, she said, “Nay. I’ll not leave until you tell me the truth. It was much more than a bad dream, Hugh Caldwell. You were screaming. And look at you.” She placed both hands on his bare chest. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold. Go back to your chamber, Rosaleen.”

“It’s hot as a fire in here,” she stated. “And I’ll not leave until you tell me what your dream was about.”

Briefly, he frowned, and then his features took on a familiar mocking expression. “If I was screaming, Lady of Siere, it was probably because I dreamed we were wed to one another. Can you think of a nightmare worse than that? I certainly can’t. Now
go away.”

Rosaleen made a sound of impatience. “I’ll not, and don’t speak such lies to me, you foul beast. I came here this night to face you one way or another, and I’ll not walk out that door unless you either answer my questions or throw me out by force.”

“Don’t tempt me!” Hugh warned, pushing her aside and getting out of the bed. The fact that he was naked didn’t seem to bother him at all, though the sight gave Rosaleen a moment of surprise. Her eyes followed him as he stalked to the open window and looked out, taut and
edgy like a caged animal. “Get out, Rosaleen. Get out now.”

“You said a word while you dreamed,” she told him. “I could make it out plainly.”

He made a low sound, and Rosaleen bit her lip.

“It was ‘father,’“ she said, and Hugh’s body stiffened as though she’d whipped him.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I cannot speak of it, Rosaleen. All these years…I can’t…”

Rising, Rosaleen went to him, and when she placed her hands upon the strong muscles of his back he flinched, then settled.

“Hugh, you must speak of it. You have lived in torment these many years. You must speak of it and be freed.”

Wordlessly, he shook his head.

“In three days’ time I will leave this place,” Rosaleen said quietly, moving her hands upon his body in soothing motions, “and we may never see one another again. Do this one thing for me, I beg you. If I have ever meant anything to you at all, Hugh, do this so that when I leave I will know you will be happy.”

“There is naught…”

“You dreamed of your father…of the man you called father. Charles Baldwin. How you must have loved him, Hugh.”

Hugh fisted his hands. “I hated him! The man was a devil. A God-cursed devil with no honor, no love, no pity in him whatsoever.”

“That wasn’t always true,” she countered. “Hugo told me that you loved him when you were a boy.”

“I hated him!” Hugh shouted furiously. “I despised him!”

“He loved you and Hugo better than your brothers and sister, and in return you worshiped him. His other children he treated with indifference, but you and Hugo he loved and spoiled.”

“No!” Hugh insisted, his whole body tensing against the pain. “He didn’t love Hugo and me. He used us. He made a jest of us…an insult! The bastard sons of his greatest enemy, Jaward of Wellewyn, living as the sons of Charles Baldwin. A jest, Rosaleen. Hugo and I were naught but a great jest!”

“That is not true!” she insisted, gripping him with her hands. “He loved you and Hugo and claimed you as his own sons!”

Whirling, Hugh shoved her away so violently that Rosaleen stumbled to the opposite wall.

“Do you not understand, Rosaleen? Can you not begin to understand? Jaward of Wellewyn was his enemy. He
hated
him. From my birth Charles Baldwin nurtured me on that hatred. My first words…my first thoughts…and Hugo’s…were to
hate
Jaward of Wellewyn. To hate our natural father. To want to destroy him. If you only knew…oh, damn!” He turned away, striking the wall with his fist.

“Hugh…”

“He didn’t love us!” he went on furiously, forcing his voice to work against the pain. “He used us for vengeance against his enemy. There was no other reason. He lured us with words and deeds, making us love him…trust him.” Lowering his head, he closed his eyes. “How he must have laughed each night in his bed on how perfect was the revenge of having the slavish love of his enemy’s sons!” He looked at Rosaleen once more, his eyes filled with rage. “That’s all Hugo and I meant to him.
Vengeance!”

“I don’t believe that!” she cried. “I’ll not believe it! Vengeance is only complete when a man’s deeds are made known, and your father never flaunted you and Hugo before Jaward of Wellewyn. He never told anyone, not one person, that you were not his own natural children. Indeed, from what I’ve heard, Charles Baldwin never lost an opportunity to boast of his twin sons to any who would listen. Is that the behavior of a man seeking vengeance?”

“That counts as naught,” Hugh muttered. “Charles Baldwin was perverse enough to enjoy his jest in private. He’d not want the world to know that he’d been cuckolded by Jaward of Wellewyn. I’m sure it was enough for him that he’d raised the offspring of his enemy with so much hatred for their natural parent that they would willingly have killed him simply to please the man they worshiped as their father.” With a bitter laugh, he stumbled to the bed and sat upon it. “A most humorous contemplation, do you not think?” He buried his face in his hands, and Rosaleen’s heart ached for him. Going to him, she knelt at his feet and placed her hands on his knees.

Slowly, Hugh lifted his head and met Rosaleen’s gaze.

“So painful,” he whispered, his voice wobbly and thick. “It’s so painful.”

Silent tears spilled over, coursing down his face.

“I l-loved him. How—” his voice broke as he searched Rosaleen’s face “—how c-could he do it? How could he do it to us?”

One hand he pressed to his chest, at the place where his heart was, as though the ache there would shatter him forever.

She gently wiped the tears from his face. “Hugh,” she murmured, “you torture yourself needlessly. If you would only think of the good times you had with your father…”

“No.”

“Listen to me,” she went on, taking his hands and holding them tightly. “There is much of your father’s story that you have never heard or have somehow, in your misery, forgotten. I had a long talk with Hugo before we left the monastery, and with your sister, Lady Lillis, on the day we arrived at Gyer, and I have learned a great deal about the enmity between Charles Baldwin and Jaward of Wellewyn.

“You have said that your father and Jaward of Wellewyn were lifelong enemies, but that isn’t so. At one time, during their boyhood, they were the best of friends. In fact, your Aunt Leta told your sister that the two men were closer than mere friends—they were more like brothers.

They were fostered together and spent much of their time together. Even after your father and mother were married, Jaward of Wellewyn often visited at Gyer. He nearly courted your Aunt Leta, and he was your eldest brother’s godfather until his falling-out with Charles Baldwin. Did you not know any of this, Hugh?”

Dazed and slightly bewildered, Hugh gazed at her as though she were speaking a foreign language.

“Father and Jaward of Wellewyn? Friends? No…it’s not possible. My first memories…from the moment I could understand…he spoke of naught but hatred for the man. He…he—” Hugh blinked against the memory “—hated Jaward of Wellewyn so much that he raped his wife. He raped her and she killed herself.”

“Yes, he did do that,” Rosaleen admitted, gripping his hands more tightly when she felt a fine trembling course through him, “but you must listen, Hugh. You must understand this. Your father had lusted after Jaward of Wellewyn’s wife for many years and made no secret of that lust. That is what brought the friendship of those two men
to an end. There can be no excuse for what your father did, for nothing can allow for such a foul deed, but you, better than anyone, know that Charles Baldwin was neither a good nor decent man. That doesn’t mean he was incapable of love. Hugh! You must listen to me!” she demanded when he tried to pull away from her. “You must try to understand that what happened between those two men so many years ago was between
them.
It had naught to do with what Charles Baldwin felt for you and Hugo.”

Feebly, as weakly as a child, Hugh struggled to be free of Rosaleen’s imprisoning hands and searing words. He didn’t want to hear these things. He couldn’t. It hurt. It hurt so badly. Like a hot, sharp knife slicing all the way through his soul.

“Why do you find it so impossible to believe that he loved you?” she persisted. “Because you are convinced that he hated Jaward of Wellewyn and therefore must have hated you for being that man’s offspring? You must accept the fact that they loved
and
hated one another. It sounds impossible, but it’s not. For some people those two emotions, love and hate, are so joined that the difference can hardly be found. When Jaward Ryon and Charles Baldwin loved one another they loved as closely as brothers, and when something happened to change that love, neither could accept it as altered. It was a strong love, but not a malleable one. It could not be bent to a different form but could only be turned to hatred.”

He didn’t believe her. He wouldn’t let himself, and so he said, “You speak madness.” And yet, strangely, the ache in his chest began to ease.

“If this does not convince you that I speak the truth,” she said, “then nothing will. Your Aunt Leta told this to your sister Lillis, and Lillis told it to me. On his deathbed, your father told your Aunt Leta that the worst thing that
had ever happened to him was losing the friendship of Jaward of Wellewyn. It was worse than his parents’ death, worse than the suicide of the woman he’d raped and worse even than the death of his own wife. Do you see now, Hugh? Your father loved you not only for yourself, but also because you were the son of the man who had once been his closest friend. If he taught you to hate Jaward of Wellewyn, it was probably because he feared you would leave him should you ever discover the truth. He didn’t want to lose either you or Hugo, because you were all he had left of the friend whom he had once loved so well.”

Her words shocked Hugh to his very depths, and he slowly shook his head.

Disputing him, Rosaleen nodded.

“You can say the sky is green all you like, Hugh Baldwin, but that won’t change its color.”

It was the first time she had ever called him that…Baldwin. Always before Rosaleen had respected his decision to name himself differently. Yet he wasn’t angered, for the first time in ten years, to hear himself called thusly. He drew in a long breath and felt his pain ease even more.

“You have spoken of memories,” he said quietly, “and of the past, but you cannot know how such things have tormented me, Rosaleen. Since that day on which I learned the truth, my memories have haunted me, pursued me like demons…I cannot even escape them in sleep unless I have worked myself into a state of weariness. Tonight the worst of them came to me. The very worst memory of all.”

“Tell me,” she whispered.

He drew in another breath and released it, then began to speak.

“My mother died when Hugo and I were ten years of age. It was very hard, for we loved her, but neither of us
cried for her because Father had taught us that a man never cries, not for any reason, and we didn’t want to anger or disgust him. At our mother’s funeral, only Willem, our elder brother, cried openly. None of the rest of us dared to do so.

“Father was furious with Willem and said things to him—” Hugh shook his head woefully “—such things!

And when Alex tried to comfort Willem, Father lost his temper, right there at the grave site.” His face hardened with anger. “It was so wrong, Rosaleen,” he said with feeling. “Willem has ever been a gentle soul, and he loved Mother so deeply. Father humiliated him before all those assembled. Before Mother’s grave.”

“Oh, Hugh. What an unfeeling thing to do.”

The fire in his eyes died away, to be replaced by a deep sadness. “Worse than unfeeling,” he said. “It was thoroughly unjust, an act of hypocrisy. But I must finish the tale for you to understand.

“That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sneaked down to the cellar. Father found me there. I was crying for Mother.”

“Hugh,” Rosaleen couldn’t keep from murmuring.

“I was crying,” Hugh went on, determined to tell her everything, “and when I saw him standing there, watching me, I was horrified. I wanted to die rather than have him see me crying. But he wasn’t angry with me as he had been with Willem. He…he pulled me onto his lap and held me and he…told me it was all right. He told me to go ahead and cry.” As if the pain eased with each word he spoke, his voice had grown wistful. “I have ever felt guilty for it, and the memory has angered me more than any other. But he called me his Hugh,” he said with wonder, as if just remembering it. “He always called me his Hugh.”