Betrayal (Book 2: Time Enough to Love) (3 page)

Before she could question him further, he drew out a folded piece of parchment, sealed with blue wax and stamped with a signet ring bearing Geoffrey’s family crest. She stared at it, a cold dread creeping through her.

“Geoffrey bade me place this in your hand and no other, my lady.” Thomas thrust the missive toward her.

Alyse compelled herself to hold her hand out.

He sighed. “He also bade me be at your service, lady, had you need of anything.” He gave the parchment into her hand. As he did so, she looked into his eyes and recognized the same pity she had seen in Princess Joanna’s.

Panic made her arms weak and her fingers numb. She forced her shaking hands to break the seal. Alyse unfolded the letter and slowly read the scratched and blurry words.

* * * *

In her bedchamber, Princess Joanna waited with Maurya, Anne, and Margaret. The women’s faces had changed from puzzlement to fear. Joanna looked from one maid to another, trying to hide her despondency. So many prayers had not been answered today.

Anne finally summoned the courage to ask, “Your Highness, what has happened?” She choked back tears. “I meant no harm, earlier. Indeed,” she crossed herself, “I wish Sir Roland and Sir Geoffrey long life.” She turned stricken eyes toward Joanna and whispered, “Is Sir Geoffrey—”

A wrenching wail of anguish shattered the hushed room, as though the very walls echoed the sound. The four women stood rooted to the floor at the almost-inhuman shriek of grief.

The sound cut off abruptly, and in the eerie silence that followed, they heard the soft thud of a body hitting the floor.

Joanna threw open the door and the three of them rushed in to find Alyse crumpled on the floor, Lord Braeton bent over her, chaffing her hands. As the princess entered, he looked up, his face set in harsh lines. “She swooned, Highness.” He scooped Alyse into his arms, gazed around the room then looked beseechingly at the princess.

She understood well the depth of feeling between her waiting woman and Geoffrey Longford. Alyse would need many days to recover from this blow. “Take her to her bed chamber, Lord Braeton. When she wakes, she will likely desire the comfort of her own room.”

The courtier nodded and strode out of the antechamber, not waiting for direction.

The princess sped behind him, almost running to keep up with his hurried pace. The other women followed in her wake. The limp, insensible form cradled in Lord Braeton’s arms did not stir. Perhaps this respite from sorrow would prove a blessing for Alyse.

Lady Anne wrung her hands, perhaps even more remorseful for her earlier comments, and ventured her question once more. “Highness, pray God tell us what has happened. Is Sir Geoffrey…
dead
?” The girl barely whispered the word.

Joanna turned to the women as Thomas paused, uncertain which hallway led to Alyse’s chamber. “Sir Geoffrey,” she said slowly, “married my cousin, Lady Mary Percy, early this morning.”

“Mother of God!” slipped from Maurya’s lips, and Anne gasped, too stunned to speak. Both women halted, staring at her with dazed eyes.

She ignored them and continued up the corridor to Thomas. “To the left, there, Lord Braeton.” She gestured to the courtier, impatiently searching for the correct hallway. “The last door on the right. Anne,” she spoke sharply to the young woman, who still stood staring in astonishment, “open the door to your chamber and show Lord Braeton the bed. We must attend to Lady Alyse.”

Spurred by the princess’s unusually harsh tone, Anne shook herself and raced ahead of Thomas to do her bidding.

Gently, Thomas laid Alyse on the bed. Again he chaffed her wrists then listened for her breathing. He nodded to himself then straightened to stare at the women. “Highness, she lives, but I know naught of such an illness.”

Once again, Joanna employed the sharp tone she had used so seldom until today. “Go swiftly, Maurya, and fetch my father’s physician. Say only that one of my ladies has become ill and I have requested his assistance. Do you understand?”

The older woman nodded then fled the chamber.

Joanna hoped Alyse’s plight would be overlooked in the general uproar over the news that had reached the court that morning: Sir Roland of Longford had succumbed to his illness the week before, and Robert, Earl of Longford, had privately petitioned the king to set aside his sole surviving son’s betrothal contract to Alyse de Courcy and allow the contract between Sir Roland and Lady Mary Percy to instead be honored by his brother. Joanna, whose own marriage had been arranged without any regard for her wishes, understood her father’s reasoning well. He would see little substance to marriage beyond an arrangement for wealth or position. And her father himself had wanted the alliance with Longford. It mattered not which son.

She sighed. Publicly, she would have to withhold judgment against her father for allowing the contracts to be altered. Men seldom took into account affairs of the heart. Knowing Alyse, however, and her devotion to Geoffrey, Joanna privately condemned her father’s decision for the lives it had rent asunder.

Her only hope now was that her Alyse would grieve but a short while then accept the inevitability of another betrothal. Perhaps when they reached Spain, an arrangement with a Spanish noble would be acceptable. Joanna resolved to speak to her father about that possibility immediately.

Joanna glanced at the handsome courtier still standing over the small form on the bed, regarding Lady Alyse with a look of compassion. “Lord Braeton, I thank you for your assistance with Lady Alyse, but you may retire. The physician will arrive shortly and tend to her.”

Thomas smiled sadly. “Highness, I would ask leave to stay a while. When Lady Alyse awakens, she may have need of comfort. And I promised Sir Geoffrey I would attend her,” he paused and his mouth hardened, “as he no longer can.”

Joanna nodded at the young man thoughtfully. “You and Sir Geoffrey are good friends.”

“Aye, Your Highness. And this matter has sorely grieved me, though not as deeply as it has them, I warrant.”

“And what of Sir Geoffrey? How fares he?”

“Very ill, Highness. Very...despairing. He and Lady Alyse were…” Braeton stopped, at a sudden loss for words.

“Aye, my lord, they seemed devoted to one another as few couples are. God must have another scheme for them, of which we are not aware.” She looked carefully at the despondent young man and placed a hand on his arm. “You must be her friend now, Thomas. She will have need of such as you in the coming days.”

Perhaps more so than you think
.

Hurried feet sounded down the corridor, and Joanna stepped back. Maurya rushed in, followed by John Gaddesden, King Edward’s physician.

The older man puffed out his breath, sorely winded, and eyed the princess with some distress. “Princess Joanna, your lady said I was to come to you at once, that there was a grave matter. Are you injured, Highness?”

Joanna sent a stern look toward Maurya. Sounding an alarm was the last thing she wished to do. The fewer people to gossip about something amiss, the better. She gathered herself and addressed the doctor. “Doctor Gaddesden, I myself am well, but my gentlewoman has fainted. She has been insensible for many minutes, and I fear for her. Please see to her as you would to me.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Gaddesden pursed his lips, his displeasure clear, though he tried to hide it. He moved toward the form on the bed, and his face grew harsh. “This girl again?” He glared at Lord Braeton and spoke impatiently. “First she suffered a weeping fit on the jousting field, now she swoons. Are you sure she is not simply with child?”

With a menacing glower, Lord Braeton advanced on Gaddesden, so quickly the physician retreated until he bumped his backside against the wall. Braeton’s brows drew into a deep scowl, and his dark eyes flashed rage that threatened physical violence. “Nay, sir. I will vouch myself that the maid is not with child. Furthermore, I will issue a challenge to any who dares say ’tis true!”

The doctor shrank back, almost cowering behind the princess. “Of course, Lord Braeton. My apologies for the suggestion.”

He hurriedly bent over Alyse, busying himself with her care. He felt her pulse, smelled her breath, slipped off her shoes, and made a lengthy examination of her feet. He stood back, drew out a small book of parchment papers and consulted its contents.

After perusing them for some minutes, he frowned and turned to Joanna. “Did she vomit before she swooned?”

Joanna looked to Thomas, who shook his head.

The doctor consulted the book once more. “Did she strike her head as she fell?”

Again, Lord Braeton shook his head, his face stony.

The doctor sighed. “The best thing will be to bleed her. She has had an upset, you say?”

Joanna nodded and wrung her hands. The doctor’s concern troubled her. She prayed whatever ailed Alyse,’twas not enough to take the girl from them.

“Then the humours are certainly out of alignment. I will fetch the leeches and bring them directly here.”

Joanna swallowed hard and looked away. She had been leeched several years before for a fever. The memory of the sensation of the creatures wriggling against her arms as they sucked her blood still made her queasy.

As the doctor turned to go, however, Alyse’s eyes fluttered open. She took a deep breath, sat up, and gazed around as if in a daze.

Relief washed through Joanna.
Thank you, Holy Mother!
Mayhap ’twas not as dire as she had feared.

Alyse’s eyes were frightened as she took in the many faces hovering over her. Paling, she leaned over the bed and was exceedingly sick on the floor.

Joanna winced.
Poor girl
.

With a moan, Alyse sank back onto the bed and closed her eyes.

Gaddesden removed some of the mess for closer examination as Margaret set about cleaning the floor. “I believe she has brought about her own cure, Highness.” He nodded sagely. “She has righted her humours and now needs rest and some sweet-smelling posies to help her regain her health.”

“I thank you, doctor.” Joanna smiled at him as she accompanied him to the door. If only that was all it would take to heal her attendant’s spirit. She glanced at the handsome courtier standing near the bed, concern written on every line of his face. Alyse had been partial to him before her betrothal… Mayhap a remedy of a different sort lay at hand. “My ladies and I will attend to the flowers.” She nodded to Alyse’s champion. “Lord Braeton will stand guard lest anyone come to disturb her. And doctor…” She paused, drew herself up to her full height and fixed the physician with a keen eye. “I know I can rely on your discretion in this matter. It need not come to the ears of the court, I trust?” Joanna coaxed in a firm voice.

“Of course, Your Highness. I am at the service of the royal family in all matters.” With that, the good doctor took his leave, probably as relieved to go as those in the room were for him to be gone, in Joanna’s estimation.

The princess turned back to the little gathering around Alyse’s bed. Anne stood at the head of the bed, wringing her hands. Margaret finished cleaning the floor. Thomas leaned against the wall, his face a study in anger. “Come, Lady Anne, Lady Maurya, Margaret. We will go to the garden and fetch flowers for Lady Alyse, to sweeten her recovery. Lord Braeton…” She motioned to the young man. “Will you watch Lady Alyse until our return, lest she wake again and find herself alone?”

“Aye, Your Highness, I will not leave her side.”

Joanna smiled. “A cool cloth dipped in water might bring her comfort. Margaret, fetch a basin ere we go. Lord Braeton can bathe her brow.” She raised her eyebrows, questioning his willingness to perform such a service.

Without hesitation, he nodded and drew up a chair beside the bed.

Margaret returned with the basin, and they left Lady Alyse to the kind ministrations of her new protector.

Pray God some good might yet come of this disaster.

* * * *

The princess and her ladies withdrew, leaving Thomas with the forlorn figure on the great bed. He dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, leaned forward and pressed the damp coolness to her near temple, across her brow, and around her face. As he tended her, he peered closely at her. The strain of the grief of Geoffrey’s marriage had marred her features; even in repose, her lovely arched brows furrowed as if in pain. Long lashes fringed her closed eyes. He could not quite remember what color lay beneath the lids. Blue? Not brown, surely.

Shaking
his head, he smiled. He supposed he had never been very observant of her, even after she had been betrothed to Geoffrey. He gazed at her now—taking in the exquisite curve of her cheek, the small, delicate bones giving a sophisticated beauty to the youthful face, the full, winsome mouth.

“Ten and seven years Geoffrey told me.” He slid his gaze over her form, appraisingly. “I can scarce credit it.” Alyse’s body was well-shaped for a girl of less than twenty years. Even though she lay on the bed, the contours of her ample breasts and rounded hips were clear under the soft green muslin gown. He sighed.

No wonder Geoffrey had acted pleased as a cat that had gotten to the cream.

The smile touching his lips died abruptly as he realized Geoffrey no longer had the right to take pride in Alyse. He had wed another.

Alyse’s sudden stirring on the bed roused him from his reverie. Her eyes were closed, yet she moaned and stretched her arms out, lifting her body as though grasping for something beyond her reach.

“Geoffrey! Geoffrey!” she called, tears trickling down her face, though she did not wake.

“God’s death!” Thomas clenched his jaw, suffering a spasm of pain for the young woman before him.

She quieted, although her frown deepened. He quickly wet the cloth again and sponged her face and hands, trying to comfort her body though ’twas her spirit needed consolation most. He glanced at the door, expecting the princess and her ladies to have returned by now, but there was no sound of feet scuffing in the hallway. He settled down to wait, his gaze drawn back to her face, hoping for the sight of open eyes. They were blue, were they not?

The eyes that haunted him were Geoffrey’s.

Last night, he had finally reached Longford Manor well after midnight, with Lady Mary in tow. All he had known was what he had been told—that Lady Mary had been summoned to Longford, and he was to accompany her thither at Sir Geoffrey’s specific request.

Lord Longford must have threatened dire consequences to his emissary if the truth of the matter came out before his stratagem was completed. Thomas tensed as he mused on the cunning and betrayal necessary to bring the feat about. Had he his way, Longford would have felt the steel of his sword from gullet to neck. Would that a blade had dispatched the old bastard long ago.

The image of Geoffrey’s countenance when he greeted him would haunt Thomas as long as he lived. His friend had been waiting for his arrival outside the manor door, his face plain in the light of a torch—so carved in misery, so deeply etched with pain it might have been used to illustrate the agony of the lost souls in Dante’s Hell. That ravaged visage stunned him to his core. Only the death of a dearly loved one could produce such startling lines of grief. Indeed, the strain of this suffering seemed to have aged him from eight-and-twenty to two score years or more. He bounded up the stairs, his heart in his throat.