The Longing (30 page)

Unfortunately, his life had never been that easy, all he had ever gained requiring time, effort, daring and, on occasion, blood. Regardless, he would do what he had been sent here to do, and it would not be his veins that spilled crimson.

Once again feeling the quake he had experienced when the lord of Wulfen had turned to search him out, he raised his right hand to eye level and, palm facing down, watched the twitching and shuddering of bones and flesh. As always, he was fascinated by his body’s response to the prospect of bloodshed that ever proved his father wrong about his runt of a son.

However, Morris was not such a liar himself that he did not acknowledge there was something more to this quaking than excitement. Wariness, he once more named it, for it was possible the completion of his task would bring him face to face with the lord of Wulfen whose reputation preceded him as it did all those who bore the name of Wulfrith. But should it come to that, the big, slow-moving man would underestimate his opponent as many before him had done.

Morris dropped his hand to his side, expelled a long breath that ended on laughter. His life was about to take a turn for the better, for Sir Talbot had assured him that Lady Richenda would be indebted to the one who ensured her grandson lorded Cheverel—so much that she would grant him any number of things.

And the first of those things? Lady Susanna who, when this was done, would have no place to go but home. What she had long refused him and allowed others, she would refuse him no more. Such imaginings…

And they nearly proved his undoing.

He sat forward, swept his gaze over the wood that did not yet reveal what was felt and heard—riders, heading this direction, doubtless sent by Everard Wulfrith.

“Miscreant!” he hissed and leapt to his feet and ran.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The tale was told—as lightly as possible, but still Everard felt its weight, for until Susanna had come to Wulfen, he had believed it need never be spoken of, not even to his brothers. And nearly as discomfiting as the words that had flayed open his past was how often Abel’s gaze drifted to Everard’s shaved head.
That
had been left untold, but his brother was no fool.

Abel sighed and sat back in his chair.

Knowing his penchant for wry observation, Everard awaited the response that, he silently vowed, would not cause him to say or do anything he would later regret.

Abel frowned, looked to his hands that rested flat upon the table, turned up the scarred one that was no longer capable of wielding a sword. “I am sometimes astonished by the turns one’s life takes,” he said slowly, “the bad and the good—more, that the bad can lead to a far greater good than if that which cut us had not.”

Everard stared at him, searched for a glimmer of mischief. Was it possible Abel had expended it upon his introduction to Susanna? Not likely.

His brother curled his fingers into his palm as far as they would go, splayed them, looked up. “I am sorry for all you have lost, Everard, and I do not doubt it goes beyond what you have shared, but mayhap this is an instance of good out of bad—that, in the end, you will gain more. Just as I did.”

Still no glimmer. Was this what love had done to his brother who, before Helene, had been quick to jest and goad and wager, more often thoughtless than thoughtful?

“I know you do not wish to hear this anymore than I would have,” he continued, “but I do not believe I overstep in saying ’tis past time you let go of your regrets.”

This was not a conversation Everard would have expected to have with his younger brother. Garr, possibly, but not Abel. Still suspicious, Everard said, “I believe I have let go—or, at least, begun to.”

There was the glimmer, there was the smile. “Ah, the lady, Susanna.”

“What of her?” Everard asked so sharply that the light in his brother’s eyes began to dance.

“If my son, John, can see it, surely I can,” he said. “Of course, perhaps you do not, which is all the more reason to rejoice that I am here to point the way, eh?”

Everard narrowed his lids. “I think I liked you better when you were philosophizing.”

Abel’s laughter sounded around the solar. “Nay, you did not. It made you uncomfortable.”

He could not argue that.

“And now, I must make you so again—for John’s sake, mind you.”

Now
that
was arguable, for Abel had found his stride and was enjoying it too much to merely play the helpful bystander.

“Speak,” Everard barked.

Abel reached for his goblet and drained the last of its contents. “My son wishes to know if you intend to wed the lady.”

Everard was not surprised. “As discussed, she came to me that I might aid her nephew. For that, she is here.”

“Aye, but it does not answer my question. And ’tis a good one, for when we met outside the wood, Lady Susanna and you had just come from the falls, which is rather alluring this time of year.”

Everard scowled. “She has been too long confined to the tower room. I but took her riding.”

“Ah, the tower room.” Abel’s eyebrows rose. “That one better known as the consort room.”

Everard deepened his scowl. As women were not allowed at Wulfen, at least not in any visible way, that room which could only be reached by way of the secret passageway had served the lords of Wulfen Castle as a means of discreetly accommodating a visiting wife—or, in the case of their father, the occasional lover.

Though Everard hated defending himself, he would not have his brother think ill of Susanna. Thus, he said, “It was necessary to place her there to ensure she remained out of sight and not become a distraction to our young men. Do not read more into it than that.”

The humor about Abel’s mouth faded. “I do not, Brother. I but test your patience—and find it to be a bit more movable than usual.” He frowned. “You are changed, and ’tis not simply that you have more hair than I have seen in eleven years.”

Everard curled his hands over the chair arms. He should have shaved days ago. However, as on the mornings past, he had not done so this morn, though he had briefly taken up the blade before setting it aside. But it was not only remembrance of Susanna—her mouth beneath his, her fingers sliding over his scalp, her withdrawal and sorrowful conclusion that his heart belonged to Judith—that had stayed his hand. It was the realization that his heart did not belong to another and had not for a long time. He had loved Judith, and he remembered that love well and how it had moved him and how deeply the loss of it had hurt, but it was a memory. Susanna was not. And his protests against his brother’s conclusions about the ride to the falls were simply that. Protests.

“Ah,” Abel said, “you cannot argue it, can you?”

He wanted to, for he was more accustomed to winning than losing where this brother was concerned. But in this matter, denial would only make his loss to Abel that much greater.

“Nay,” he said, “I cannot.”

Abel did not give a shout of triumph as once he might have done, though he did smile. “Women,” he said, as if answering something that had been asked of him. “One thing we were not taught at Wulfen—or mayhap we were, though ’twas done subtly by the absence of women whom we were oft told distracted men from their purpose—is that the female may be the stronger sex.”

Everard frowned. “This from you? Either you are more changed than I, or you are laughing behind your face.”

Abel held up a hand. “I am serious. Much thought I have given this. Aye, we can better wield arms and physically subdue our foes and make ourselves heard above the roar, but women can change men—those same men who change the world. Consider Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

King Henry’s wife whose summons they awaited. A famed beauty and more than ten years older than her husband, she was said to be a force not only of words but action and that even Henry was oft in awe of her.

“For as long a shadow as the king throws,” Abel said, “who can say how much is his and how much is his queen’s?”

Everard knew he remained the subject of the conversation, but he was amused. “You
have
been giving this much thought, so deeply it makes me question if married life agrees with you.”

“It does—perhaps too much for a Wulfen-trained knight, but…” Abel settled more deeply in the chair, slid down a bit, and thrust his legs out before him. “…though Helene and I do not always agree, I am grateful to have a wife for whom I wish to change when change is called for.” He clasped his hands upon his chest, grinned. “Perhaps you will find such a wife yourself.”

Deciding to ignore that last comment, Everard said, “I am glad you are content, Abel, and that I will soon have another nephew or niece.”

“So you shall. Now tell me, how much does Garr know about Susanna and Judas de Balliol?”

Everard wearied of the conversation, but it was a reasonable question. “I sent a missive weeks past and informed him of the situation, though at the time, I did not have cause to go into detail as I have with you. Regardless, he understands ’tis a personal matter requiring an audience with the queen and that, when I am summoned, I may need him to take charge of Wulfen if you have returned to Baron Lavonne’s service.”

Abel was quiet a moment. “I am sure my lord—our brother-in-law—would not object if I remain at Wulfen longer than planned or, if the summons is a long time coming, return to Wulfen sooner than planned.”

“Your wife may object.”

That smile again. “That is the thing about marrying for love—much understanding, much forgiveness.”

Everard nodded. “Then I shall call upon you.”

“Good.” Abel yawned. “’Twas an early start to the day, thanks to John who does not require as much sleep as I did at that age.”

Everard did not gainsay him, though he could have, for he remembered well the little brother who had rarely required prodding to arise with the groaning and grumbling squires and pages before the dawn.

Abel sank further down in the chair. “If you do not mind, rather than seek my chamber abovestairs, I shall catch a nap here.”

“Of course.” Everard pushed his chair back and stood. “Rest as long as you like, for the morrow is soon enough to begin work with the squires.” As he started across the solar, he said over his shoulder, “I shall see you at supper.”

“Nay, you will see me before then,” Abel said. “I need only an hour.”

When Everard came out from behind the curtains, the lead squire of the patrol he had sent to the falls was conversing with Squire Werner who looked not a little uncomfortable. Everard might have thought it portended ill if not that John had fastened himself to Werner’s side as he had done with Joseph during past visits to Wulfen. Fortunately for Werner, this visit would be different for John who would soon turn eight. Beginning on the morrow, while his father trained squires, he would begin training as a page.

Everard halted at the edge of the dais. “Anything?” he asked the young man who had sidestepped Werner.

“My lord.” He dipped his head. “As ordered, we searched the wood near the falls and beyond, but we found no trespassers or signs of trespass.”

That did not mean someone had not been there, for the area was regularly traveled during morning exercises and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate the presence of squires and pages in training from that of one passing through who may or may not be of ill intent.

Everard inclined his head. “Tell the patrol to remain alert.”

“I shall, my lord.” The young man turned and strode opposite.

A moment later, John stood where the squire had, face turned up, eyes wide. “Uncle? I am ready to begin my training.”

“Are you? It was a long ride.”

“I am not tired.”

Of course he was not. Though one other than Abel had sired the boy, John had the spirit of the man who had claimed him as his own in taking the widow, Helene, to wife.

“Then you shall serve me the remainder of this day,” Everard said.

The boy’s face flushed with excitement, but he contained its loud, verbal expression as he had not been able to do even a year past. Though John Wulfrith would remain at Wulfen only as long as his father did, he was ready to take the first steps along the arduous path to becoming a man and a knight of England. Two years hence, his feet would be firm upon that path when he came to stay.

A glance at Werner confirmed what Everard sensed—the squire was not pleased, but like John, he knew how to conduct himself.

“Come, John,” Everard said as he descended the dais. “There is much to do ere nightfall, and I am in need of assistance.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Too late, she wished she had not come. But she had and now, again, she was free of the tower room. Now, again, the back of the tapestry was before her. Now, again, she was about to set foot in the solar.

But this time she was fully clothed as befitting a lady, would not need to carefully pick her way over the rushes, would not find it necessary to pass so near Everard’s bed. This time, she was expected.

“My lady?”

Susanna focused on Sir Rowan who had stepped out of the passageway ahead of her and held the tapestry back to prevent the torch’s flame from tasting the tightly woven threads.

He smiled reassuringly. “There is only one way now, and that is forward.”

Liking him even better for understanding her hesitation, she listened for voices in the solar and, hearing only the sound of those in the hall beyond who gathered for the evening meal, hoped she could settle in before Everard or his brother joined her.

Smoothing her hands down the waist of her bodice, then her skirts, she stepped from the passageway and followed the knight out from behind the tapestry.

And there was Abel Wulfrith before the fire that glowed and crackled and spat, hands clasped behind his back, gaze awaiting hers.

Outwardly, she did not falter. Inwardly she stumbled—and once more when he came forward and she noted the hitch in his stride. Another injury suffered during the battle that had damaged his sword hand?