The Longing (21 page)

Sir Rowan sat back in the chair. “And there, in all its sorrow, glory, and circumstance, ends my tale.”

“All of it is true, is it not?”

He nodded. “Thus, salted with much regret and much relief.”

“And you were Sir Knight?”

Another nod.

“Lady Annyn was—is—one of the Sisters of Mary whom you told came within Wulfen’s walls before me?”

“Aye. Now she is the wife of the eldest Wulfrith brother.” 

That made Susanna happy. Out of something terrible and painful had come something wonderful and joyous.

“They love?” she asked softly.

“Lady Annyn and Baron Wulfrith? Most assuredly,” he said, and yet the sorrow that had hovered over him in telling of the death of Lady Annyn’s brother returned.

Susanna reached across the table and closed a hand over his that rested alongside the chess pieces banished from the board. “You miss her.”

“I do. She was almost like a daughter.”

“Do you never see her?”

“My life is at Wulfen, hers is at Stern Castle. Thus, I have determined to be content with tidings of her well being and that of the children she has given her husband.”

She squeezed his hand. “Is it enough to determine to be content, Sir Rowan?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Far better than unabated sorrow.”

His words verified her suspicion that there was more to the tale of Lady Annyn and that it had to do with the character of Sir Knight, but she knew he had told all he would tell.

“I thank you for the game—more, the tale, Sir Rowan. Both have brightened a day that, otherwise, would have been dull.”

“’Twas my pleasure, Lass—”

Almost at the same moment, they each turned their head toward the open doorway whence issued the pound of feet upon stairs.

Sir Rowan pulled his hand from beneath Susanna’s and stood. She did the same, straightening just as Everard Wulfrith crossed the threshold.

Mouth grim, tension all about him, he halted.

He is angry. What have I done now?

The answer that flew at her nearly made her gasp. But surely no one had seen her upon the roof at night. She had been heedful, had stayed low near the battlements lest she was glimpsed between them.

“My lord,” Sir Rowan acknowledged him.

As Everard Wulfrith looked from the knight to the table to her, from one to the other again—as if gauging the distance between them to determine if there was more to their meeting than a game of chess—she gave thanks his advance had been heard. Had he come upon her with her hand covering Sir Rowan’s, he would have suspected something was afoot. Though it had been an innocent gesture meant only to comfort, it would have boded ill.

Feeling resentment rise, Susanna counseled herself against taking offense, reminding herself he would have good reason to suspect her motives since he knew she was not averse to trading a favor for a favor. Too, she must not forget all the kindnesses he had shown her, especially that of five days past when he had gifted Judas and her with proof that the other was well.

Hating the silence, she said, “Sir Rowan has shared the story of…” She let her words trail off, wished she had thought them through before speaking, for she doubted Everard Wulfrith would look kindly upon her being privy to his family’s history.

However, Sir Rowan said, “’Twas the tale of Lady Annyn Bretanne.”

Everard Wulfrith’s frown tightened. “Though I cannot say I approve, Sir Rowan, I cannot begrudge you the telling of it since ’tis your story as well. Too, it is rather convenient since one of the players in that tale has something to do with what I have come to discuss with Lady Susanna. Sir Merrick did figure into it, did he not?”

“Indeed, my lord.” There was a question in Sir Rowan’s voice.

“Good.” The lord of Wulfen’s long legs carried him forward, and he placed himself over Susanna such that she had to lift her chin high to hold his gaze. “I speak of that knight’s affliction,” he said gruffly, “one shared by another who is amongst us now. One who, by his silent tongue and that of Sir Elias and your own, did collapse beneath the weight of that same affliction—a terrible showing that could have been prevented had I been told he suffered from such.”

A chill went through Susanna, and she took a step back, coming up against the table so hard that several chess pieces toppled and fell to the rushes.

Gripping the table’s edge on either side of her to steady herself, she struggled to recall what was required to send forth speech and finally said, “Is Judas—?”

“He recovers.”

Thank you, Lord!

She swallowed. “Where is he?”

“Resting. Sir Elias keeps watch over him.”

She let her shoulders drop, then her chin to her chest.

I was not there for him—am not there for him now. Is he frightened? Does he need me?

A hard finger and thumb gripped her chin, lifted her face. “Why was I not told of his ailment?”

She glanced at Sir Rowan who stood motionless and watchful. “It…” She jerked her shoulders in a feeble shrug. “…did not seem necessary. He mostly has it under control.”

“Mostly!
Mostly
does not cover what just happened upon my training field and under my instruction.” He put his face so near hers that she felt his breath across her every pore. “Believing he held back, I took up the quarterstaff and told him that he needed to give more. I pushed him harder, demanded more, and he gave more—so much that he lost his breath and would have dropped to the ground had I not caught him.”

Susanna closed her eyes, wished the truth of it was that Judas had feigned another attack. However, though such a ploy was acceptable at Cheverel where most were acquainted with his affliction, he would not want those of Wulfen to know of his weakness.

She lifted her lids and found the eyes above hers hard and glittering. “Sir Elias was near? He gave aid?”

“He
and
I. As told, Sir Merrick suffered from the same.”

And so he had known what to do. “Forgive me for not speaking of it. Judas was ever made to feel ashamed of his fits, and here…” She drew a deep breath. “Surely you understand, Lord Wulfrith, that he would not wish anyone to know of it.”

“Yet they know now when but a word to me might have averted the attack and saved him his pride.”

“Aye, but then also—” Remembering they were not alone, she glanced at her guard.

Everard Wulfrith followed her gaze, released her chin, and stepped back. “Leave us, Sir Rowan.”

The older man turned and, moments later, closed the door behind him.

“Also?” Everard Wulfrith wasted no time bringing her back to what she had left unspoken.

She took a step away from the table, clasped her hands at her waist. “I feared that if Judas was, indeed, your son, you would be so ashamed to learn he suffers from breathing attacks that you would refuse to acknowledge him as being of your blood, just as…”

Say it, Susanna. There is no lie in it.

“…my brother was ashamed to own Judas as his son.”

Movement at Everard Wulfrith’s sides drew her gaze to hands that had closed into white-knuckled fists. “Almighty! I have enough sins of my own without others putting theirs upon me!” He swung away, strode hard across the chamber, strode back.

Eyes boring into hers where he once more stood too near, he said, “I do not know what else I must do to convince you I am not of the ilk you think I am, Lady Susanna, but as God is my witness, had I sinned with Judith and had Judas been born of that sin, for naught would I deny him. Naught!”

It was as she had begun to believe, but as she peered up at him, she finally accepted he was too honorable to have lain with Judith. Though it was a relief to finally believe, it was also an ache, for Alan’s misbegotten suspicions had denied him the blessing of knowing and loving his own flesh and blood. “That saddens me,” she whispered.

His hands descended to her shoulders. “What say you?”

“I know I should not be aggrieved that Judas is not your son, but I am.”

His nostrils flared. “You would prefer I had cuckolded your brother?”

“Nay! ’Tis just all those times that Alan did not know I watched him, when he stared long and hard at Judas, as if searching for himself in the boy… He did not know—never knew—he was looking at the son he longed to see. A terrible loss for both of them.” She felt tears in her throat and eyes, but did not look away. “Too, though I would not wish sin on anyone, I believe that had you fathered Judas, he would have a worthy sire.”

As her words slid through Everard, he told himself to let them pass without further consideration, but he pulled them back to make sense of them. Sincere though they had sounded, he struggled to believe she held him in such high regard as to wish his blood, rather than her brother’s—and hers—flowed through the boy.

Who was this Susanna de Balliol? And why did he care so much? Why did he want the tears in her eyes to dry? Why did he wish those in her throat to ease? Why did he long to coax a bow from the sorrowful turn of her lips? Why did he yearn to more deeply breathe in the scent of her and test her mouth beneath his?

“My lord?” she breathed.

There was a question in her eyes that should not be there, and he was to fault for it. He should not have drawn so near, should not have touched her, should not have looked upon her as he would never have believed he could.

“Forgive me.” He set her back from him. “All was long ago said that should be said. Now I will bid you good day.”
And get myself to the chapel for prayer.

However, before he could turn away, she said, “I would like to see my nephew.”

“And I would like to accommodate you, but I believe it best to stay the course, especially as he is well enough that he shall soon return to training.”

“I beseech you—”

“For this, Lady Susanna,” he said more sharply than intended, “women are not allowed at Wulfen. Do not waste your breath, nor my time, asking for what I will not give.” He crossed to the door, paused. “Is there anything else you hide from me that I ought to know?”

She shook her head. “Naught that matters. Naught you would believe.”

He did not like her answer. More, he did not like that, just as much as he wanted to know what was behind it, he longed to use it as an excuse to linger.

He pulled open the door and strode past Sir Rowan and down the dim stairs.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sir Rowan was two hours gone. And now, just past the middling of night, all would be abed. At least, she prayed it was so.

She peered down her ill-clad figure. Though covered modestly enough, garbed as she was in her thickest chemise, her lack of a bliaut would be unseemly were she caught. Unfortunately, there was no hope of moving undetected around the donjon encumbered by the rustle of thick skirts. If she was to reach Judas in the great hall where he bedded down, this was how she would do it.

Which you should not do.

She knew she should entrust Judas to the Lord, but in this she was weak. She had to see for herself that he was well. Hopefully, Everard Wulfrith would never know what she did.

“Everard…” She closed her eyes and saw again his face above hers, felt the moment she had thought he might kiss her. And, as she had done time and again since he had departed, wondered if it had only been imagined. Reason told her it was foolishness born of singular longing, but still there was a
mayhap.
Ever a
mayhap.

Susanna fixed her grip on the candle that would light her way and opened the door. As when she had thrice before ventured onto the roof, all was dark outside her chamber except for the light she brought with her. All was quiet. But unlike those other nights, she turned right, rather than left, for on the latter side there was nothing beyond access to the roof. She did not know what, exactly, lay to the right, but wherever it led and by what passages it coursed the donjon, it was certainly the way down.

The steps, a dozen rising up from the landing below, were solid and in good repair, and she quickly descended—only to find herself in another short corridor with a wall before her.

She turned, certain she had missed an opening onto another corridor, but there were only walls and stairs up to her chamber. Her thoughts bounced around but soon settled on the answer to this riddle. Set somewhere in these walls was a hidden door, the only access to her tower room.

Certain it would not take long to discover it since it was most likely built into the outer wall and its span was short, she set herself to the task. However, no matter how often she walked the corridor, passing candlelight over the stone joints of the outer walls and inner walls, certain air from an unseen crack would cause the flame to sputter, no matter how intently she slid her fingers over the joints, there was nothing to indicate the presence of a door.

The floor? It seemed unlikely, but she searched its every inch. To no avail.

“Think,” she muttered where she stood in the center of the corridor. “As surely as you draw breath, there is a way out of here.”

But which way? Certainly not the obvious and less obvious, meaning the obscure and more obscure. There was no doubt Everard and Sir Rowan used these steps, for she often heard their feet upon them. But perhaps they did not use all of them.

She thrust the candle before her. The surfaces of the three lowermost steps were fairly smooth, but those thereafter were not.

Susanna ascended to the first of the worn steps and passed her candle close to the wall. The flame sputtered.

“There you are.” She set the candle on a step up from where she stood and slid her fingers down the narrow crack. Twice she missed the door’s catch as she worked her way around the perimeter, but on her third try, she found it in the lower right corner. With a click and a scrape, the door swung inward and released a cold breath of air.

Wishing for the warmth of her bliaut, she retrieved her candle and stepped onto a narrow stairway that could not be an easy thing for a man the size of Everard to negotiate.