The Longing (23 page)

And had determined she would see for herself. “I would have you know,” he said, “Judas resumed his training the day after and, throughout, has not been lacking the close, albeit discreet, regard of Sir Elias and myself.”

“I am heartened to hear it.” She moved again, her footsteps telling that she approached, then passed behind him. “And the others? How do they behave toward him?”

He had hoped she would not ask. Peering over his shoulder, he saw her retrieve her veil from the floor.

As she straightened, she glanced at him. Finding him watching her, she averted her gaze and began brushing the gossamer material. “I should not have been so careless. Now ’tis stuck through with rushes.”

Everard lifted the chessboard, crossed to the side table, and set it alongside the writing instruments he had sent her—ink, quill, parchment. His hand brushed the latter, causing the sheaf to shift and reveal small, beautifully worked writing along the lower edges of two parchments tucked beneath the others. One read:
Wednesday-an hour ere midnight.
The other:
for the days and nights of longing are long.

Then Susanna was beside him, shoulder brushing his forearm as she swept the parchments together. “Why have you moved the chessboard here?” she asked in a rush that bespoke her disquiet at what he might have glimpsed.

And to what
had
he been privy? The former was an accounting, and knowing of the night she had ventured out of her chamber, he did not doubt it was the means by which she had determined the best time to do so. Thus, it had been no impulse that had caused her to trespass upon his bedchamber. It had been planned, and well before he had brought word of Judas’s breathing attack. Though he knew she was no longer a sweet, innocent girl, this further evidence of what the years had wrought might have angered him if not for the latter piece of writing. A sennight past, when he had asked if she penned poetry, she had denied it, claiming she was no longer fanciful, but he was fairly certain the words that mourned the length of days and nights were in that vein.

He glanced at the parchments she had resettled farther along the table, then looked to her. Gaze wary, bits of rushes yet gracing her hastily donned veil, wafting the scent of roses, she stood too near for comfort. And for that, he was grateful it was his habit to submit to soap and water and don fresh garments after long, sweat-soaked mornings.

Deciding there was no gain in revealing what he had learned from her writings, he returned to the matter of the chessboard. “As I have foregone sitting at table with those of Wulfen in order to answer your summons, my lady, I shall eat my midday meal here. Hence, we have need of a table.” It was true, though what he did not tell was that he also wished to ensure she ate, for Sir Rowan had reported her appetite was waning though she continued to take the draught.

“Of course.” She gestured at the table. “While we await your squire, would you tell me more of Judas—how the others behave toward him?”

That last he preferred not to address since he did not wish to worry her—and the answer might give her cause to once more brave the hidden passageway—but twice now she had asked it and he did not think it would go away without a lie.

Once they were seated across from one another, he said, “There have been two altercations, one during the morning run through the wood, the other upon the training field.”

She sat forward. “Judas?”

“Be assured, your nephew—”

He caught the sound of Squire Werner’s emergence from the hidden passageway and nodded toward the door.

Her brow smoothed, and she sat back.

There followed a lightly spoken conversation between the squire and Sir Rowan and, shortly, the knight appeared bearing the viands, some of which yet wafted heat despite the distance from the kitchens to the tower room.

With regret at having reduced the knight to such servitude, Everard motioned him forward.

Sir Rowan lowered the tray to the table. “Should I close the door, my lord?”

“Nay, the lady and I speak of naught that cannot be told in your hearing.”

The knight inclined his head and withdrew. A few moments later, the sound of his feet on the steps told that he had removed himself from directly outside the chamber. Doubtless, he would wait upon the landing below.

Everard returned his attention to Susanna and was pleased when, without prompting, she retrieved the cup containing the draught and put it to her lips.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “your nephew is capable of teaching lessons of his own. Thus, I do not believe either of those who sought to test him—one of the same age, another a few years older—will bother him again.”

She lowered the cup. “How badly was Judas hurt?”

Everard leaned over one of two trenchers that contained rabbit poached in a wine sauce thick with onions. “That is the thing—your nephew bears not much more than scratches and a few bruises.”

“Truly?”

He dipped a spoon in his trencher. “Upon my word.”

She finished the draught. “What I do not understand is how these altercations can occur if Sir Elias and you keep watch over him.”

Famished, the breaking of his fast this morn too many hours past and the day as arduous as any, Everard allowed himself several mouthfuls of tender rabbit before responding. “They occurred because we permitted it,” he said and, before she could protest, continued, “What you must understand about training boys into men is that, as much as possible, they must make their own way—account for themselves, defend themselves, prove themselves. To remove that opportunity does them great disservice, making them appear weak and breeding in others resentment, disrespect, and scorn that serves far worse than any cruel words or beatings. To wit, those who set themselves against your nephew have learned to respect him and his abilities rather than one who intervenes on his behalf.”

Beneath her regard that remained troubled, he took another bite, then asked, “Still it does not make sense?”

At her hesitation, he said, “Consider this, when it comes around—and it will—that a grown man must defend family and home, is it better he set to it knowing he is capable of doing so without aid, or that he wait upon help that may never come?”

She slowly nodded. “It makes sense to my head. But my heart…” She shrugged. “I could not do what you do.”

“Nor are you expected to. You have done your part by raising a boy worthy of knighthood training. Be content with that.”

Her head bobbed. “This from one who believes I am a bad influence?”

He had said that, but as the hidden things of Susanna and Judas came to light, the less inclined he was to believe it—certainly not as intently as before. “I was harsh,” he said, “and for that I apologize.”

She blinked. “I thank you, Lord Wulfrith.”

The bits of gold in her amber eyes brightening, affecting him in ways it should not, he shifted his attention to her trencher. It remained untouched. However, he held his tongue and scooped up another spoonful of his own meal.

“I thank you again,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

Her lips bowed. “For not commanding me to eat.”

“Forsooth, I was much tempted.”

“Aye, you were.” She filled her own spoon with rabbit that appeared to be poured over with a lighter sauce and seemed to suffer a complete lack of onions, obviously in consideration of her stomach.

Deciding it best to let the conversation be while they ate, more to ensure she had no cause to lose whatever appetite she had than to alleviate his own hunger, Everard returned to his trencher.

Nearly a quarter hour passed before they spoke again, and only when she set her spoon down with what seemed finality. She had not eaten all—far from it—but neither had she nibbled.

Everard lifted his goblet and, as he carried it to his mouth, said, “Some good has come of exposing your nephew’s affliction.”

Susanna, who had been marveling at how well her stomach behaved, drew her hand back from her own goblet. “How can that be?”

“Squire Charles, the same who taunted Judas about his name and, for it, lost a tooth, now appears to be of a mind to befriend him.”

Though she wished it was something to rejoice in, it alarmed her. Not that she did not want her nephew to have friends, but it was not as easy as that.

“You seem as uncertain as Judas,” Everard said.

It struck her that she was becoming even less adept at hiding the expression of her feelings from him. “I cannot help questioning the young man’s intentions, just as my nephew cannot. As you already know in some regards and surely suspect in others, those of my brother’s household were not often kind to his son. Indeed, even friendship genuinely extended could be withdrawn once one learned it was wiser to show no affection for a boy shunned by his own father.”

Everard broke his stare, rubbed his eyes. “I guessed as much. Just as I suspect your brother did not treat you well, Susanna. Is that not so?”

Her breath stopped, not only from his conclusion but that he addressed her informally, the same as he had done when she had reacted poorly to the news that Sir Morris was among Sir Talbot’s party that had paused at Wulfen, the same as he had done all those years past before he had come to believe her to be the instrument of his loss.

He pushed his hand up over his shaved head. When he returned his gaze to hers, there was something raw in his eyes, as if he suffered.

And she did not doubt he did. Though he did not ask after Judith, his thoughts surely went beyond Judas and Susanna to the woman he had loved and, knowing what he now knew of life at Cheverel, imaginings of how Alan had behaved toward his wife during their short-lived marriage.

Susanna struggled against the need to reassure him, for she did not think her efforts would be appreciated. But she could not let it be. “Lord Wulfrith, hear me. You should know that though my brother could be cold toward Judith, he was not cruel. Truly, he was not. And when it was known she was with child, it seemed as if their marriage—”

“I did not ask after her,” he said sharply. “I asked after you.”

“But—”

“I will not speak of her.”

She lowered her gaze. Was his anger directed solely at her? Or did some of it extend to Judith?

Susanna’s friend had spoken little of him during her nine months of marriage to Alan, but when her infant son had been laid in her arms—in the midst of her cooing and marveling over the bits of blond hair that would later grow dark—she had murmured, “Now that I have you, no longer shall I wish I had let him take me away.” And then she had removed the pendant necklace and held it out to her friend. “I shall wear this no more.”

Hope had fluttered in Susanna’s breast, only to be stilled when the jolly midwife lost her smile, announced there was too much blood, and told Susanna to take the babe.

Was some of what Everard felt for Judith anger? That though he would have defied all, risked all, to make her his own, she had rejected him? Might he believe Judith had not loved him as he loved her?

Susanna drew a hand upward, pressed it to her midriff to keep it from venturing higher and laying hold to that which evidenced Judith’s great love for this man. How she wished she could share it with him, for it might ease whatever pain remained of his loss were he to know he had not been forgotten, that though Judith had done her duty, she had not undertaken it lightly. But Susanna feared he would not be receptive to it coming from her, and so she lowered her hand to her lap.

And jumped when Everard reached across the table and lightly gripped her chin. “Judith is gone,” he said solemnly. “Naught can be done for her now. What matters is what can be done for Judas. And you.”

She stared into his eyes, could hardly breathe, for she was too aware of his warm skin against hers, the rough pads of his fingers, the quiver of her lower lip upon the edge of his thumb.

With a deep breath that further broadened his shoulders, he released her chin, picked a rush from the edge of her veil, and sat back. “Methinks we ought to speak of other things.”

“Other things?”

“This day I received tidings from Sir Niall.”

Forgetting the heat and sensation of his touch, she sat straighter. “What news have you?”

“He was granted a night’s lodging at Cheverel and observed that the household is under the control of your brother’s mother-in-law”—

Lady Richenda.

—“as well as Sir Talbot, the same who rode upon Wulfen a fortnight past.”

That did not surprise her. Following Alan’s death, Lady Richenda’s partiality toward the head of the household knights had become something more, and Susanna had known an agreement had been reached between them even before Sir Talbot had done the lady’s bidding by summoning the two knights in whose care Judas had been left the day he had feigned a breathing attack.

“What of my brother’s widow, Lady Blanche? And her babe?”

“Present as well.”

Susanna was relieved, for no matter her circumstances, she wished no misfortune upon the lady, nor the babe who was as much her nephew as Judas. All she wanted was for what rightfully belonged to Judas to remain his.

“Thus,” Everard continued, “just as we have not been granted an audience with the queen, we can assume they also await a summons.”

“Was there talk of Judas—if they still search for him?”

“None in the hall, though Sir Niall learned from the blacksmith that the tale of Sir Elias’s abduction of Judas and you has spread throughout Cheverel, and that most believe both of you are victims of mortal ill.”

Susanna pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “Which could prove useful if Judas falls into the hands of those who seek to steal Cheverel from him.”

Everard moved as if to sit forward, and she thought he might once more reach to her, but he pressed back and curled the fingers of his hand upon the table into his palm. “Fear not. The boy and you are under my protection and shall remain so until his inheritance is secured.”

She frowned. “Then you believe the queen will find in favor of Judas?”

After a long moment, he said, “I think it more likely than that she will not.”