The Longing (33 page)

One revered the silent raven-mantled sky resplendently torn through with bright lights too distant to do more than glimmer atop the tip of one’s finger. Another extolled the passage of young men into knighthood as, dressed in snow-white garments, they put on spurs, swords, and daggers to defend faith, family, and country. But it was the one with its familiar final verse that, despite remorse over his trespass, he read through a second time.

If one could live without a heart

better it torn from the breast ere ever it knew love

If not that—aye, if not that

better it lay light within one’s being, near forgotten

If not that—aye, if not that

better its beat unfelt, its coursing unheard

If not that—aye, if not that

better it moved by feelings far from love

If not that—aye, if not that

better it break over pain of sweet remembrance than bitter loss

If not that—aye, if not that

better one never knew the one who broke one’s heart

If not that—aye, if not that

comfort me, dear Lord, for the days and nights of longing are long

The muscles of his neck tense, he kneaded them. If the beautiful, pained words were Susanna’s, if they reflected what she felt, if those feelings were for him, if his unknown heart was in accord with hers—

He growled. If there were not so many
ifs
!

An instant later, a nearly nonexistent sound entered the chamber. It was the release of the hidden door’s catch, and that other sense told him it was not Squire Werner who came onto the stairs.

Though he knew the easiest course was to slide the parchment into the pack and not speak of it, this time he heeded the voice that had first warned him against trespassing. He strode out onto the landing where the flame of the torch he had brought with him writhed amid the stir of air from the hidden passageway.

And there was Susanna half a dozen steps down, face flushed, hair loose upon her shoulders, skirts raised to her calves.

Her wide eyes met his, and widened further when they fell upon that which he held. With a sharp breath, she slapped a hand to the wall to steady herself.

Everard extended the parchment. “Will you tell me about this?”

Her eyes flew back to his. “You had no right to go through my belongings.”

“I did not, and I will not attempt to excuse my unseemly behavior. I can only apologize.”

The intensity with which she regarded him was almost unnerving, especially as she appeared more cornered than angered.

“Will you tell me about the words written here?” he asked again.

“Why?”

“They are lovely, and I remember your fondness for penning verses. Are they your own?”

She shook her head. “They are not mine.”

Did she lie? And why was the possibility of a lie more appealing than what she had just told? “This is the parchment I sent you,” he said, “so ’tis your writing.”

He heard her swallow. “My writing, aye, but not my words.”

“Whose?”

After a long moment, she said softly, “Judith’s.”

Everard was surprised, certain that if the verses were not Susanna’s, or if they were and she refused to acknowledge them, she would have attributed them to a troubadour. “You are saying Judith composed this?”

Still she held her gaze to the parchment. “I am. They reflect what she felt for you—and her loss.”

Why would she not look at him? Because she did, in fact, lie?

He descended the steps until he was only one up from where she stood. “Susanna, never did I know her to be capable of such verse, spoken or penned.”

Her hand rose as if to snatch the parchment away, but she stopped herself and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “You did not know her capable of it because you did not know her those last nine months when she was much changed and given to deep reflection.”

“As, I am sure, you were,” he pressed further, still searching for the lie.

Once again, he sensed about her the air of a cornered creature, but she put her chin high and said, “They are Judith’s words. Thus, you should take it.”

She lied, Everard decided. She was too nervous, too cornered, and there seemed nothing else that could have so swiftly stirred her from her new chamber than the realization he might discover her writings.

Everard drew a thumb across the final words. “Nay, this is something for the giving, not the taking, best bestowed by the one who felt deeply enough to compose it.”

Her lips parted, and he thought she meant to remind him that bestowal was not possible in light of Judith’s death, but instead she drew the parchment from his grasp.

He turned up the stairs and said over his shoulder, “I shall retrieve your pack and see you safely returned to your chamber.”

Minutes later, Susanna once more ascended the passageway to the chapel, this time ahead of Everard, for the protection afforded her was nearly as good as holding his hand which, he had been certain, she would reject.

“May I remain here a while?” she asked as he secured the door behind them.

“You may. I shall deliver your pack to your chamber and, when I return belowstairs, ask Sir Rowan to await you outside the chapel.”

Susanna braved Everard’s gaze that felt too adept at peeling back whatever layers she pulled around her. Did he know? Had her protests been for naught?

A moment later, he strode past her. When the doors closed behind him, she crossed to the altar, sank down on the kneeling bench, and brought her hands together only to falter over the rolled parchment clenched in the right.

A sharp laugh parted her lips, and she muttered, “For what am I here?”

She had come straight from one sin to ask forgiveness for others. She had lied, willfully and nearly as thoughtlessly as she had done at Cheverel where she had been given far better reasons to do so. Though when she had written the verses, she had tried to convince herself she was but giving voice to what Judith had felt for Everard, the truth had been inside her all along and was more true now.

Love had written those words. Her love, not Judith’s. But she had not claimed them as her own, could not bear the thought of Everard shouldering more guilt that might lead him to sacrifice himself in allowing her to ask more of him. And it was not only for his sake, but hers.

Better the ache of being nothing to him than simply Susanna,
she had told herself when she stood below him on the stairs, the thought of him pitying her more than he already did making her nearly sick.

She expelled her breath. At the end of it, she felt so empty she sank back on her heels and bowed her head.

“My lady?”

She snapped her chin around.

Moving toward her was the thickset priest who had blessed the meal.

“Father!” She rose to her knees.

He held up a hand. “Stay, child. I but wish to offer counsel if you are in need.”

At that moment, she was more inclined to retreat, but when he settled in several feet distant and clasped his hands behind his back, she did not move from the bench.

“I know you to be Lady Susanna,” he said. “I am Father Stanis.”

“I am glad to meet you, Father.”

He inclined his head, and candlelight slid over his silver hairs among the black. “You seek the Lord?”

“I did, but… I should not be here.”

“Of course you should. Here is where all should be no matter their burdens—especially if they are ready to have those burdens lifted.”

“For that, I should not have come. I fear I have too recently added to my burdens.”

Above eyes that were incredibly soft for a man, his thick eyebrows rose. “Will you tell me more?”

It could no do no harm, could it? And it was so long since she had known the comfort of speaking with a man of God. She glanced at the parchment. “I told a lie, one that came so easily I am tenfold more ashamed to admit it.”

“Shame is a good thing, and all the more reason you should be here.”

“Even though I would likely lie again?”

He frowned. “You are not ready to own to the truth and ask forgiveness from the one who suffers from this lie?”

“Blessedly, he does not suffer. Indeed, the lie serves him as well as it serves me.”

“You are certain of that?” Quickly, he added, “Not that it would make it right.”

“I believe so, and yet…”

“Then you are not certain.”

“Perhaps I just wish to not be certain, for there to exist the possibility, no matter how small—”

Wondering how she had let herself be drawn so far down this steep, crooked path, Susanna shook her head “Regardless, I hate that I lied, and more so that I lied in nearly the same breath as that with which I now seek to be absolved of other sins. God cannot be pleased I am here—repentant on one hand, unrepentant on the other.”

Father Stanis stepped forward and touched her shoulder. “My lady, no matter how hard you strain to live free of sin, rare will be the day when you are not tempted to succumb even in some small way. You will yield, you will sin, but that does not mean you do not come before the Lord to give thanks for your blessings and seek His strength in righting unrepentant sins alongside those for which you are ready to repent.” He lightly squeezed her shoulder. “He is pleased you are here. Now He waits to hear from you.”

Did He? She looked to the cross upon the altar. “I never feel worthy enough to be in His presence.”

“There are others of my calling who might not agree”—he chuckled—“rather, who would
not
agree, but I believe those humble enough to question their worthiness are more welcome in the Lord’s presence than those who believe themselves worthy.”

She frowned.

“Be assured, my lady, He wishes to be your strength.”

Did He?

“Would you like me to pray for you? To seek forgiveness of your sins and strength to come out from under the lie?”

She nearly agreed, but his time with God was better spent elsewhere. “Nay, my nephew is more in need of intercession—for his health and that justice be served in defense of his claim to his father’s lands.”

The priest’s brow creased. “Surely you do not think the Almighty incapable of attending to prayers for you as well, my lady?”

“Of course not. I—” That
was
how it sounded.

“Lady Susanna, I will pray for you, as well as that fine lad.”

She looked nearer upon the man. “You know him?”

“He attends morning services with the others. I should tell you that twice he has sought me out to ask for prayer.”

That surprised, but what surprised more was when he added, “For you, my lady.”

She stared at him.

He inclined his head. “As I said, a fine lad. And now, I shall pray.”

He was right about the lifting of burdens in this place, for the weight upon her felt suddenly lighter. “I thank you, Father Stanis.”

Without further word, he passed behind her, stepped to the kneeling bench on the opposite side of the altar, and lowered to it. When he bowed his head, Susanna started to do the same and found she yet held the parchment that was both her truth and her lie. She set it upon the bench and clasped her hands.

This time when she prayed, she did so without apology—absent the disclaimer of asking the Lord to bless Judas even if her sins were too great for her to be blessed.

A while later, she ended her prayers with the beseeching that Everard again find what he had lost, that he love again as once he had.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The days whiled away, clambering one upon the other until their collective past amounted to a sennight and, at last, the summons arrived.

Susanna stared at the man before her, in whose presence she had not been since the night he had left her in the chapel. It was almost too much to be so near him again and see up close what she had known only from a distance when he had come within sight of her chamber window. But it was necessary, for he brought word that Judas’s moment was near at hand and they would not be required to travel to London, a journey that would have taken days.

Since Queen Eleanor was touring the country to ensure it was properly administered in her husband’s absence, she would pause at Stern Castle, the home of Everard’s oldest brother, Baron Wulfrith, and there the matter of Cheverel’s heir would be decided.

Susanna rose from the chair in which she had received Everard. Determinedly holding her gaze to his to prevent it from straying to his scalp that was less visible than the last time she had been so near him, she said, “’Tis of good benefit, is it not, that the queen conducts her inquiry at Stern?”

He loosely folded his arms over the dirt-streaked, perspiration-dampened tunic that evidenced he had come directly from the training field. “Most often,” he said, “there is an advantage to meeting an enemy upon ground with which one is familiar, but though I do not doubt your sister-in-law and her mother will find it unsettling and believe it to be a show of favoritism, it is surely a matter of expediency. We still must prove to Queen Eleanor’s satisfaction that Judas is the legitimate issue of your brother.”

“Of course. When do we depart?”

“As the queen arrives at Stern three days hence, we leave Wulfen in two days.”

When she would be gone from here as if she had never been. “I shall be ready.”

Eyes once more tempted to his blond hair, she lowered her gaze to his booted feet, the muddied soles of which had collected bits of the rushes he had tread upon.

To her surprise, he stepped forward and halted near enough that the scent of his hard labor was unmistakable. Near enough that, if he chose, he could touch her.

“Worry not,” he said. “As promised, if the queen denies Judas, he will return here with me and you shall remain at Stern Castle to serve as my mother’s companion.”

For one not entirely selfish moment, Susanna wished the queen would not find in favor of her nephew. Never had she known Judas to be as content and certain of himself as he had become at Wulfen. Not that he no longer wore the years of oppression like a great mantle, but during his two visits to her chamber this past sennight, he had been quicker to smile and converse, and she had even glimpsed what appeared to be happiness when he told her of his training and the areas in which he excelled. Too, for one who was better on his way to becoming a man, he seemed younger—nearer his age than his eyes told. As for the selfish part of that moment, Susanna could not help considering that, were she at Stern, she might see Everard from time to time.