Chivalrous (21 page)

“No!” Allen stood to his feet. “I refuse. It shall be eighteen days hence as planned or not at all.”

“Let us all calm ourselves.” Fulton pressed his hands in a downward motion against the air. “The wedding date shall remain as planned. And Sir Allen shall remain safe in the castle until it occurs. All those who agree, raise your right hand.”

Hands shot up all around the table, sealing Allen's fate.

Allen dropped to his seat with resignation. “What about after the wedding?”

“Sir Allen, you must understand.” The bishop offered him an apologetic grin. “As a duke you might someday lead a grand campaign, but you shall be the protected, no longer the protector.”

The subject turned to a new issue. Clearly the matter was closed. Allen wished to bury his head in his arms and sulk, but of course he could not.

He would soon be a duke. Only the king would rank above him in this land. And yet he would trade the unbelievable honor in a heartbeat for an hour upon the practice field.

Dread filled him, threatened to suffocate him. Had he made a terrible mistake? This was not the life he wanted. Not the tediousness, nor the title, nor the weight of responsibility, and most assuredly—despite how lovely she might be—not the wife.

“Please lean forward for me,” Rosalind bid her mistress.

Gwendolyn obeyed, but with no life, no spark of recognition in her eyes.

Rosalind fluffed Gwendolyn's pillow and then laid her back upon it. She placed a cool cloth upon Gwendolyn's brow. Several days had passed, and the cut above her eye had scabbed over. The purple bruises on her face and ribs had faded to greenish-yellow, but Rosalind had no idea what wounds had been inflicted upon Gwendolyn's heart.

A wave of nausea struck Rosalind, and she retched into the chamber pot right in front of Gwendolyn. But the broken shell of a woman upon the bed did not bat an eye. Rosalind did not recognize this person anymore.

She cast the contents of the pot out the window onto the lawn below, then rinsed it with water from a basin, tossing that out as well. It was highly unlikely the baron and his wife suspected what she was coming to believe was a certainty—and she must keep matters so.

Gwendolyn stared at the wall across from her, as if all her life had drained out. If not even her protective nature, her concern for a friend's well-being, could draw Gwendolyn out, then there was nothing left to try.

This went far beyond her gloominess during her imprisonment, past her melancholy over losing Allen. Now Gwendolyn was a ghost, but in reverse. Surely somewhere her spirit lurked these halls, while her body remained naught but an animated corpse upon her bed. Rosalind would have never suspected her strong, resilient mistress could be reduced to this, but beneath it all she must have hid a fragile soul. It had chosen to flee rather than face life at the hands of that monster Gawain.

Rosalind left the desolate room and hurried in search of the Lady Barnes. She found her similarly staring at a wall in her own chamber with a goblet of wine clutched tight in her hands. But she rallied as she heard Rosalind approach.

“M'lady, what would your husband say?” Rosalind attempted to tug the goblet from the Lady Barnes.

The woman tugged it back and pressed it to her chest. “He is not here, and I no longer care.” Her speech emerged slow and slurred.

“Have you received word from any of your sons?”

“Reginald will not help. He claims his father is within his rights to discipline Gwendolyn. Gerald's regiment has moved to Wales to deal with some rabble-rousers, so he is out of reach, and Hugh has not responded. But I warrant he will not leave the king at a time like this. He will not risk losing favor for our region over some minor domestic dispute.”

“Minor? You call this minor?” Rosalind said with hands upon her hips. Truly, she should not treat the lady so. But no matter what direction she took these days, Rosalind was bound to rile someone, whether Lady Barnes, Lord Barnes, or Gwendolyn.
At some point she must simply do what she believed to be right and trust God to see her through.

“I promised Gwendolyn I would help, but I was rash,” the lady said. “She brought this on herself, marching into his room in the dead of night like a firebrand. What did she expect?”

“I know well her temper, but clearly something is wrong beyond her physical injuries. And she shall not rouse from her stupor until she has good reason. 'Tis our job to supply her with that reason.” Rosalind huffed in her frustration with the weak woman before her.

Lady Barnes drained her goblet. “I am tired. I wish to return to my bed.”

“No! I will not allow it.” Rosalind blocked her path. “Someone must fight for what is right.”

“Why? We will not win. And I have no ideas left.” The lady stumbled past Rosalind toward her bed and collapsed upon it.

Inspiration flared to life in Rosalind's mind. “I do!”

Some part of Gwen registered the knock upon her chamber door, but she had no desire to deal with the real world. The real world was ugly. It was devoid of hope, of color, of love. So she would remain tucked within the cocoon of her own mind, where all was safe and beautiful and happy.

Voices wove around her, tickling at her senses, threatening to break the spell. But she did not wish to join them in the clattering, vicious land of reality. Instead she wished to gallop upon Andromache through a cool mountain stream as she had done not long ago.

Back in the real world, warm skin pressed against hers. Someone tugged upon her arm.

But she lifted her lance and faced off against her opponent.
She would win this time, as she always did in this wondrous land. No one could defeat her, no one could break her. In today's fantasy a child clapped from the sidelines. A familiar child. Her child. Allen's child. The girl now perched upon his hip, and he smiled to Gwen with pure sunshine flowing from his face.

Someone in that other realm whispered they were sorry.

And then that cool mountain stream rose up and crashed over her head in a torrent of ice, sucking her back into her bed. Freezing water coursed down her face. She blinked and sputtered against it, swiping frantically at her eyes even as frigid fingers dug deep into her torso and ran down her chemise to soak her bottom.

For the first time in days, she found her voice and squealed. “Ack!”

The room about Gwen came into focus. The faces of Mother and Rosalind hovered nearby, which she might have expected. What she did not expect was the duchess standing over her, looking annoyed, with a water basin resting upon her hip.

The duchess stretched out her arm to stop the other women from running to Gwen. “She will be fine.” She leaned down to speak directly to Gwen's face. “But if you wish to don dry clothes and warm by the fire, then I am afraid you shall have to get out of that bed.”

“I . . . but . . . you do not . . .” Gwendolyn did not know what to say. She could hardly scold the duchess.

“I do not what? I do not know how to rally a self-indulgent female who has lost her fight? I would rather say I do! Now get up.”

The duchess hauled Gwen from the bed.

“Ouch!”

“Please be gentle with her,” Mother said.

“The physician assures me nothing is broken. Sometimes
being kind is more important than being gentle, Lady Barnes. We must take whatever action necessary to help Gwendolyn in the long run.”

“I suspect her father crushed her spirit more than her body,” Rosalind said in her defense.

“I understand that. But this wallowing is quite unacceptable. I am disappointed in you, Gwendolyn.”

The duchess herself stripped Gwen's soggy shift. Rosalind wrapped a warm blanket about her, and Mother helped her into a chair.

“My apologies, Your Grace. 'Tis only that . . .” Gwen stopped short.

“Only what, Gwendolyn?”

“You do not understand.”

“I do not understand?” The duchess tapped her toe impatiently. “My husband has been murdered. My dukedom is in disarray. I am being forced to marry a man little more than half my age and after barely being given a month to mourn. Do you see me wallowing about in bed?” She swept her hand toward said bed. “No. I find my strength, and I do what I must.”

Gwen choked back her shame. The duchess had survived so much. Yet still she did not fully comprehend. “It is not the injuries. I knew the risk I took when I confronted him. 'Tis just . . . he . . . he said such awful things to me,” she croaked out in a whisper.

“What sorts of things?” The duchess's demeanor softened. She laid a soothing hand upon Gwen's shoulder and looked deep into her eyes.

But Gwen had no desire to relive that awful night. She squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head.

The duchess tipped up Gwen's chin and waited until she looked at her. “You must cleanse this poison from your soul, my dear. I know it will hurt. But it is the only way.”

“He said . . .” The words caught in Gwen's throat, strangled about her. Ugly, horrible words. Far worse than punches and kicks could ever be.

“Go on,” The duchess urged with a nurturing caress of Gwen's cheek.

Mother perched on one arm of her chair and took her hand.

Rosalind cuddled in from the other side. “You can tell us.”

“He said . . .” The words turned her stomach, rose up like bile in her throat. She had no choice but to expel them. “I am nothing but trouble.” Her volume increased. “He never loved me.” She bit her hand to stifle a cry. “He wished he had killed me in my cradle.” Her voice cracked into a sob on that last awful word.

The three women surrounded her like a battalion as she cried out her soul. They covered her like a shield. Their love slipped deep into the dead places of her heart.

After a long while, her weeping died down to a sniffle.

“Gwendolyn.” The duchess took her hands. “We love you. We need you. We want you. More than that, God made you as His own dear child. He has a calling and purpose for your life. Never let your earthly father convince you otherwise.”

Allen and Randel had almost persuaded her that God loved her. But in light of all that had transpired in the past days, Gwen no longer felt certain. Yet the duchess of the entire region was here now beside her. Caring for her. Helping her to heal. Might not this be the intervention of God?

Gwen clasped her hands together. “But my father holds my fate. He will marry me to that brute Gawain. Please, just let me go back to the place where I was. There is no life, there is no happiness for me here.”

“There must be a way.” The duchess stood up straight and crossed her arms over her chest.

“If we defy him outright, he will hurt us again.” Mother sounded so pathetic.

“And I realize you have authority in this region, but your position is tenuous right now,” Rosalind said. “Would you truly wish to anger a powerful military leader like Lord Barnes?”

“His loyalty has been wavering ever since he returned. Sir Allen being appointed to the council, and now to be duke . . .” Mother's head drooped low. “If you deny my husband his right to choose a mate for his own daughter, I fear he will turn on you.”

“He is a proud man.” Rosalind trembled against Gwen's side. “If you humiliate him, there will be a high price to pay. The law yet allows him to discipline his own wife and child.”

“I hate that law. We could never garner the support to overturn it. But never fear, I have known Lord Barnes and his ilk for a long time,” the duchess said. “Such men must be handled delicately, but they can be handled.”

“How?” Gwen asked, nearing desperation. She longed to retreat back to the sanctuary of her bed, but it would be soaked for hours at the least. Instead she focused her gaze upon a bird in flight outside her window. Perhaps she could drift away right here where she sat. Follow that bird into the clouds. Melt away from this awful place.

“Gwendolyn!” the duchess shouted and gave Gwen's shoulder a hard jerk. “Do not dare! I have an idea. It is coming to me. Just give me a moment.”

All three of them watched the duchess as she paced the room. She alternately tapped her forehead and stroked her chin as she strode back and forth. Just when Gwen thought she might wear a dent into the wooden floor, stomps thudded toward them.

Father burst into the room, sporting his own array of bruises upon his face. “What is going on here?”

“The duchess has come to cheer our Gwendolyn.” Mother shot a pointed look the duchess's way.

Father took a deep breath and settled himself. He swept a small bow in the direction of the duchess. “Your Grace. You honor us with your esteemed presence. But we should not take your time so. Allow me to escort you back to the castle.”

“In a little while, but Gwendolyn and Rosalind shall be joining me. I did so enjoy their company upon their last visit. I have decided they shall come and stay with me immediately, rather than waiting for you to leave for Castle Barnes.”

“But . . . but . . . of course. That makes sense.” Father strung his words together with a degree of caution he rarely used. “And you might as well enjoy her now, for she will soon be wed.”

The duchess lifted her chin and approached Father with understated authority. “I had hoped to speak with you about that. You have not yet finalized negotiations with the Ethelbaums, have you?”

“Well . . . not quite.”

“Excellent!” The duchess grinned and clapped her hands together. “Then it will still work.”

“What will work?” Father asked, concern etched upon his harsh features.

“My plan. Oh, you shall love it. I had wished for a way to honor you for your faithful service during the rebellion against King John, and this is just the thing. You shall be so pleased.”

“So pleased? I shall?” Father eyed the duchess with suspicion.

“Indeed. Lord Barnes, faithful servant of North Britannia, I am about to bestow upon you the highest honor in the land.”

“Honor? The council, perhaps?” A touch of hope now tinged his voice.

“Oh no! Much higher than that. For my upcoming nuptials we are to hold a tournament. And listen to this. Oh rapture! Oh joy!”