Dreamspell (11 page)

“I’m tired. Where’s my room?”

“Come now, do not be so—”

“I’ll find it myself.” Kennedy started for the doorway. Gentility! She had more class in her little finger than Miss High and Mighty had in her entire body. So if she thought—

Kennedy applied brakes to her indignation. Was that what this dream was about? Dealing with the demons of her past? Coming to terms with the child in her, the insecurity she had worked to overcome?

“Do you think you can satisfy him?” Jaspar called.

Kennedy had been too caught up in self-analysis to realize she was followed. She turned. “Satisfy who?”

“You know I speak of Fulke.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your marriage, Lady Lark.” A feline smile curved her mouth. “Surely you have not forgotten?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
arriage to Wynland? It made no sense. The book had said Lady Lark was sent to care for his nephews. Could there be more to it? More that was never known due to her disappearance? Or was this a set up?

“Poor Fulke,” Jaspar lamented. “I wonder how he shall feel when he learns he is to wed the leavings of another man.”

Sir Leonel appeared over Jaspar’s shoulder. “Cousin!”

“Quiet, Leonel!”

He closed his mouth.

Letting Jaspar’s gibe roll off her, Kennedy focused on the bigger picture. If the woman was telling the truth, how did she know of the marriage when Wynland did not? Why wouldn’t it have gone down in history?
Because this is only a dream.

“Naught to say, Lady Lark?”

Kennedy knew what the woman implied, but she wasn’t letting any figment of her imagination get the better of her. “I’m merely curious about how you learned of the marriage.”

The woman’s poise faltered. “I have friends at court. As there was talk the king might match me with Fulke, word was sent when you were chosen.”

To Kennedy, the thought of someone choosing her life partner was deplorable. It was a good thing she had been born during a more enlightened time. In the midst of congratulating herself, she remembered her divorce. Kennedy Plain was no poster child for wedded bliss.

“The. . .arrangements are between the king and me,” she said. “It is not common knowledge.” If the marriage had been fabricated to expose her as a fraud, that should throw a wrench in the works.

Lady Jaspar tried on a smile a size too large. “There are no secrets at court, Lady Lark. Surely you know that. Even the walls have ears.”

It sounded like Washington, D.C. “I must remember to warn the king the next time we meet.”

That unsettled Jaspar enough to drop her chin a notch. But what about Wynland? When he returned, would Jaspar tell him of the marriage that might not even be? That could get sticky.

Kennedy tugged at the neck of her cape. “If you don’t mind, Lady—”

“Why you?” Tears brightened Jaspar’s eyes. “Why did the king choose you?”

Then her disparaging comments about Wynland’s looks
were
a smokescreen behind which to hide her wounded pride. Still, it was a good question. If Lady Lark was to have married Wynland, why had the king chosen a woman of her reputation? A reputation he knew first hand?

“I thought it might be my age,” Jaspar said, “but now that I have seen you, it cannot be. You must be at least twenty and five.”

Twenty eight, soon to be twenty nine, but it was no compliment Kennedy had received. From the woman’s tone, she considered twenty-five old, as if she herself had not attained that age several years earlier. Thinking this might be another test and not knowing how old the real Lady Lark would have been, Kennedy put the question back on the woman. “How old are you?”

For a moment, it looked as if Lady Jaspar would refuse to answer, but she said, “I have attained my twenty-third winter.”

Was she lying? Pretty as she was—providing she didn’t show her teeth—she looked nearer thirty. “Just out of curiosity, how old is Mr.—Lord Wynland?”

“Fulke is seven years older than I.”

Thirty. Again, Kennedy was off in her estimation, having guessed he was mid-thirties. It seemed people of the past had aged more rapidly.

“The chamber is ready, Lady Jaspar,” someone said.

Over her shoulder, Kennedy saw a woman on the stairway.

“You have not answered me,” Jaspar said. “Why would the king choose a woman of low birth and morals to wed his finest vassal?”

They were back to name calling. “I’m just unlucky, I guess.”

Stunned silence.

“Lead the way,” Kennedy said to the woman on the stairs. Only when she was out of sight of Jaspar did she allow her shoulders to relax.

“Lady Lark,” Leonel called as she stepped off the stairs into a passageway.

She turned. “Yes?’

“I pray you will accept my apology. My cousin means no harm. She is merely pained by her loss.”

The woman had no idea that a favor was being done her. “I understand.”

“I thank you, my lady.”

“No problem.” She turned from the confusion she had a knack for putting on the face of most everyone she encountered in this dream and entered a room smaller than the one she had been given at Brynwood Spire. Again, there was only a bowl and a pitcher of water for bathing.

“I am Esther,” the servant said.

Kennedy looked more closely at Jaspar’s maid who might have a gown she could borrow. She was not as tall as Kennedy, but there would be plenty of swimming room in any garment she might loan.

“My mistress has given me to serve as your maid for the duration of your stay.”

What was behind the generosity? From Esther’s white linen cap to the hem of the dowdy wool skirt packaging her five foot seven frame, she looked harmless enough, but looks could be deceiving.

“Do you need anything, you have but to ask.
Is
there anything you require, my lady?”

Kennedy considered the bed, the stool, and the three-legged table. “You have no idea,” she muttered. “No, thank you. I require nothing—or ‘naught’ as you people say.”

As the woman turned to the door, Kennedy ran her tongue across her teeth and grimaced. “I take that back.”

Esther looked around.

“I could use a toothbrush and paste.”

“I shall see what I can find.”

As for the perpetual draft up Kennedy’s skirt. . . “I don’t suppose you have any extra underwear laying around?”

“Underwear, my lady?”

“To cover your. . .private parts.”

The woman gasped. “Surely you do not mean braies?”

Was that what they were called? “Yes, braies.”

“But, my lady, ‘tis unseemly for a woman to wear braies.”

Only men wore them? No, Esther just didn’t understand. “What do you call a woman’s braies?”

“You do not, my lady. Though, mayhap, where you come from women wear these. . .underwear, ‘tis not done in England.”

“You’re telling me
you
are wearing nothing under your skirt?”

“Indeed, my lady. What need have I for the like?”

Kennedy rubbed a hand across her face. Men were behind this. “I’ll need some material, needle and thread, and scissors.” Not that she knew much about sewing, but how hard could it be?

Esther made a sound in her throat. “I shall return anon, my lady.”

When she was gone, Kennedy lowered her aching bones to the feather mattress. Now if she could stay awake long enough to brush her teeth and remedy this pesky draft.

H
ow hard could it be?
Kennedy silently mocked as she sucked a finger. Though the needle was so dull it could barely pierce cloth, it suffered no such difficulty where flesh was concerned.

“Mayhap you ought to leave it for later, my lady,” suggested the woman whose threadbare gown hung shapeless on Kennedy.

Kennedy considered the woman perched on the stool, then the crude garment. Excepting a drawstring that would have to do in place of elastic, it was finished. “Tell me about Lady Jaspar.”

“Ah. I fear my mistress does not like you, Lady Lark.”

“That’s obvious.” As Kennedy picked up the material she hoped to transform into a drawstring, she tongued her lower front teeth in hopes of dislodging the bristle there. The “toothbrush” Esther had brought—a miniature broom—had left behind several such reminders of its crudity.

“You must forgive my lady,” Esther said. “Her life has not been easy.”

Didn’t Jaspar take responsibility for anything? First Leonel, now her maid apologizing for her.

“She should never have been wed to a man old enough to be her grandfather twice.”

Kennedy blinked. “Lady Jaspar is married?”

“Lord Thurford died last summer. Four score, he was.”

Eighty. Talk about robbing the cradle.

“My lady had hoped the king would match her with Lord Wynland. They were once to have wed, you know.”

The needle slipped and caught in the flesh beneath Kennedy’s thumbnail. She grunted and pulled it out. “Come again?”

Confusion.

“I mean. . .say that again.”

“They were betrothed. You did not know?”

Never a dull moment. “What happened?”

“Six months ere the wedding, Lord Wynland went to France to help put order to the king’s war. Following the recapture of Limoges, word of Lord Wynland’s death was brought to my lady. While she grieved, her father made a marriage between her and Lord Thurford.”

Though Kennedy didn’t want to pity the woman who had tried to make her feel like scum, sympathy crept in. So did suspicion. Why was the maid so forthcoming?

Esther cleared her throat. “Hardly were the vows spoken and the marriage bed warmed than Lord Wynland returned to make a lie of his demise. Broke my lady’s heart, she so loved Lord Wynland.”

Was this what had soured him—put him on the road to murder? Kennedy scratched a thigh chafed by Esther’s wool gown. “When did this happen?”

“My lady was fifteen when she wed the old baron and is now twenty and three.”

Fifteen years old! There were laws against that—in the twenty-first century. Kennedy threaded the drawstring through the casing.

“My poor Jaspar, she who should have been wife to an earl wasted on an old fool.”

The story grew muddier. “Jaspar was to have been the wife of an earl? But you said she was betrothed to Wynland.”

“Aye, and he would have been earl if his older brother had not turned from the monkhood to take his father’s title.”

Following this was about as easy as wrestling a Rubik’s cube.

Esther frowned. “’Tis strange you know naught of this.”

“As I’m sure you know, King Edward is a busy man. Since my betrothed didn’t become earl, he must not have thought it important to mention. So what made Wynland’s brother change his mind?”

Though Esther looked skeptical, she said, “’Twas the earl’s mother who convinced him to take his birthright.”

“She’s not dead?”

“She is now. Let me explain. After five years of marriage to his first wife, Fulke’s father sent the woman to a convent in France where he had her take vows to become a nun. That done, the church granted him an annulment that allowed him to wed Fulke’s mother, Lady Aveline. Thus, had Fulke become earl, he would not have attended the king’s war and would now be wed to my Jaspar.”

Kennedy congratulated herself on wading through the mishmash. But though she knew she should accept the pats on the back and run, it would be foolish to not take advantage of Esther’s knowledge. “I understand the earl of Sinwell may have been murdered. What do you think?”

“You are asking if I believe your betrothed murdered his brother?” A hint of a smile wrinkled her upper lip.

She seemed pleased with herself, as if she had led Kennedy down a path her mistress had said she should.

“’Twas likely he did it. ‘Tis not beyond one such as Lord Wynland.”

A ruthless military advisor. Still, Kennedy had the feeling Jaspar was behind Esther’s revelations, that all the woman said was designed to send Kennedy scurrying for cover. “For argument’s sake, let’s say it wasn’t Lord Wynland. Who else could it have been?”

The question seemed to set Esther back. After some moments, she allowed, “I suppose ‘tis possible it was simply an accident.”

“And if not?”

Esther shrugged. “Mayhap you ought to look to the one who attacked your baggage train, my lady.”

Fulke Wynland.

“Too, it could have been Baron Cardell.”

Kennedy frowned. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He covets wardship of John and Harold, which the earl promised him in the event of his death. ‘Tis a position of great power.”

Sticky. “How did Fulke Wynland gain wardship of the boys?”

“By the king’s decree. Lord Wynland is a favorite of his.”

“But if Cardell may have killed the earl, why does Wynland allow the man to accompany him?”