The Longing (37 page)

“Sir Morris,” she said as if slipping inside his head. “Judas said you believe he will be useful when we stand before Queen Eleanor.”

“For that, he lives.” Everard motioned Sir Rowan forward.

The knight stepped alongside. “Come, my lady.”

At her hesitation, Everard said, “As we depart for Stern on the morrow, see that your belongings are packed. I will send Judas to you later.”

She inclined her head and turned with Sir Rowan toward the stairs.

“Lady Susanna!” Sir Morris called as she began her ascent. “Plying your favors here, too, I see.”

“Gag him!” Everard bellowed.

“Doubtless, you have made many a Wulfen knight—”

It was Sir Elias who carried out Everard’s order. With a fist.

As the crack resounded throughout the hall, Everard looked to Susanna where she had paused on the stairs. Back stiff, she did not look around and, when she remained unresponsive to what Sir Rowan spoke in her ear, the knight braced her arm with his and guided her up the stairs.

Though Everard was not in the habit of cursing others, and he managed to keep the words from his lips, they resounded through his thoughts and stirred up that bloodlust. Thus, he determined it best to leave Sir Morris to his men and seek the chapel where he would give thanks for the day’s outcome and pray for strength to contain his bloodlust and forgiveness for his failings.

Such shame. Though Everard knew the truth of that to which Sir Morris alluded, Susanna had been pierced to have those crude words spoken in his hearing—her sins made all the more vivid and distasteful. And not only to him but the others, especially Judas.

At Cheverel, she had been discreet in the granting of favors, and though suggestive comments had sometimes been spoken in her nephew’s presence, she had been fairly certain he was yet too unsullied to delve their true meaning. But one would not have to think deep to understand Sir Morris’s taunt. The only way he might have bettered it was had he outright called her a harlot.

At the door to her chamber, she eased her arm out of Sir Rowan’s hold and met his gaze. “I understand if you think poorly of me, but though I long for your kind regard, I am too tired to explain what Sir Morris told.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My lady, you have my kind regard no matter what that knave tells. No explanation is needed.”

Her throat tightened. “I thank you.”

“There is, however, one thing I would ask.”

She stiffened. “Aye?”

“That you heed the words I next speak, that you hear no condemnation in them, that you receive them as a daughter would receive words from her father.”

Her eyes and nose stung more sharply. “Of course.”

He set a hand on her shoulder. “Desperation breeds sin, but it is the one who breeds desperation who must first answer for those sins.”

As his words wound through Susanna, joining with those spoken by Everard the night on the roof when he had said that what she had done to survive was between her and God, the chill that had settled over her began to recede.

“There now,” Sir Rowan said, “let that be your comfort.”

Oh, I shall miss you.

“I will,” she said.

He reached around her and pushed the door open. “If you require anything, Lass, you have but to ask.”

She managed a smile, stepped inside, and closed the door.

Her possessions were so few it did not take long to return them to the pack she had brought with her from Cheverel. Indeed, that which required the greatest amount of time was the one parchment across which she had written words of longing she had claimed belonged to Judith.

How she wished Everard had taken it. But he had said it was for the giving, best bestowed by the one who felt deeply enough to compose it.

“What do I do with you?” she murmured, lightly running fingers over the words that seemed composed more out of pieces of her heart than letters. Take it? Leave it? And if she left it, where? Here?

She sighed and turned her attention to the ruby she had found on the roof. This she must give to Everard, for he would surely wish it restored to his dagger. More, it would allow him to ever feel Judith’s presence at his side. Surely a comfort.

Elias was no happier this eve than he had been this morn when Everard had first told him ‘nay.’

“Unless you give good cause to remain at Wulfen,” Everard said, “you will accompany us to Stern Castle on the morrow.”

The man’s mouth tightened, eyes darted around the solar as if a good cause might be found amid the furnishings. “My agreement with Lady Susanna was that I deliver her to Wulfen.” He returned his gaze to Everard who stood with his back to the hearth. “That I did. Had you put us outside your walls, I would have aided her as best I could in gaining an audience with the queen. However, since she has you to deliver her, as well as speak for Judas—”

“This you have already told. And as I have told, it may be necessary for you to stand witness to what occurred at Cheverel. Now, unless you decide to speak in truth, your time would be better spent readying for our departure.”

Elias startled. “Truth?”

Everard tired of the game. “You are passing proficient at arms, Elias”—he purposely divested him of his title—“evidence of knighthood training or blessed natural talent, but there is more to you that would not only explain your impassioned talent for telling tales but the desire to absent yourself from Queen Eleanor’s presence despite your wish to be elevated to the head of Cheverel’s household knights and see justice done for Judas de Balliol.”

Other than twitches about the eyes and mouth, Elias had stilled.

Everard was about to send him away when the man heaved a sigh. “Shortly after our arrival at Wulfen, you said I sounded more a poet than a knight.”

“You do.”

Elias nodded. “Ere I tell the truth, first I would assure you I am of noble blood.”

Thus, if he was not as his garments, armor, and sword proclaimed him to be, exposure and the accompanying shame would likely be the extent of what would be required of him to atone. “Continue.”

“My name is not Elias Cant. It is Elias de Morville. My father, as much a brute to those of his family who defy him as to his enemies, holds lands from King Henry in Normandy. I am the second of two sons, held in reserve should ill befall my older brother. Thus, though I wished to pursue poetry and song, I was made to train for knighthood.”

Everard gestured to one of two chairs before the hearth.

Elias dropped into it and Everard took the other.

“Eight years past,” Elias continued, “at the age of ten and six, I fled the lord entrusted with my training. Realizing it would be impossible to pursue the life I wished in France without being dragged back to my father who would thrash me near unto death, I crossed the channel to England. Here, I joined a company of performers and, for four years, traveled town to town and castle to castle earning coin as a troubadour.” He frowned. “The living was not as I had imagined, and there were times I regretted rejecting my life of privilege, but mostly I was content.”

He turned silent, and Everard sensed a woman in that silence.

“Then I learned the folly—the true extent of helplessness—of being common. Our company was invited to pass the winter at the home of a great baron in the North, and there I fell in love with a serving girl, and she in love with me.” He leaned forward. “I know this to be so, that Lettice felt deeply for me.”

Everard waited.

“Her father had died the year before and her mother was more interested in grieving than seeing to the feeding of her children. It fell to Lettice to care for her family, but there was not enough coin. Thus, out of desperation she…” His hands closed on the chair arms. “…sold herself to clothe and feed her mother and sisters.”

Everard recalled the night on the stairs when, in defending Susanna, Elias had claimed he knew what desperation did to women. His peculiar choice of words—that it beat women down until all that remained were unplucked petals too bruised to stay long upon the stem—had first told there was something about him that did not fit.

“I tried to save her,” he continued. “I slipped her food, gave her coin, told that I would leave the company and remain in the North, vowed to wed her. At last, she agreed and set aside all others. Or so I believed.”

Everard heard the grind of his teeth.

“A sennight ere we were to speak vows, I came upon her with a household knight. I knew it was ravishment, certain she would not betray me, but when I dragged him off her, she protested. Then the knight beat me.” He was silent a long moment. “Barely able to stand, I was brought before the baron who refused to allow me to offer defense for having attacked his man. He had me beat again and thrown out. I made it to Lettice’s cottage in the village and waited outside for her. When she returned, she said I had ruined all, that never would her lord allow us to wed. I asked why she had given herself to the knight, and she told that he had offered good coin with which she could buy her sister shoes. I told her I would have given her the coin out of my next earnings, and she looked at me as if I were a half wit and said it was only her body and there was no quicker, easier way to see her palm filled.”

He closed his eyes. “I knew then that if we wed, she would not remain faithful—that there would be times when the quicker, easier way would win out over love for me.” He lifted his lids. “She was broken.”

As Elias had feared Susanna might be. But she was not. Nor would Everard allow her to be.

“For many,” Elias said, “that is what it means to be common—sacrifice, lack of self respect, the realization you hold no value other than that of chattel. When I left Lettice, I determined to never again suffer the helplessness of a commoner, nor the beatings of a man less noble than I. Thus, I took up sword and armor and became a knight errant. Eventually, I sold my services to the lord of Cheverel.”

Everard inclined his head. “How came you by sword and armor?”

“Stolen from the knight who beat me.” He held up a hand. “I vow I did not plan it, nor did I kill him. As I recovered in a nearby town, he and others came for a night of drinking and wenching. Fortuitously, his loud boasting brought him to my notice. Thus, once he was sated senseless, I bestowed the favor of relieving him of all that extra weight.”

It was hard to fault him for that. “You love this Lettice still?” Everard asked, his thoughts having touched upon Judith.

The man’s eyebrows jumped. “Four years it has been. Though I feel for her, more, I ache that one as lovely and kind as she should be so ruined.”

And for that, he had set himself as Susanna’s protector.

“That is my sorry tale,” Elias said, “and the reason I prefer to remain at Wulfen.”

“You fear Queen Eleanor will recognize you?”

“Though I have never met her, I resemble my father, and then there is my given name that might jostle her memory. If I am found out, she will surely be angered that I deserted my family and claimed the unearned title of knight. Thus, not only do I fear for my neck, but my presence could prove detrimental to Judas, the words I speak in his defense rendered worthless.”

Silence fell in which Everard thought on all that had been told and tried to determine if there was a way to negotiate the waters of Elias’s deception. In the end, he accepted what always served best—honesty. But there was help for it, and he would give it even though it went against the reputation of Wulfen with which he was entrusted.

He stood and called to his squire.

The young man thrust aside the curtains. “My lord?”

“Send for Sir Abel and Sir Rowan.”

Squire Werner inclined his head and departed.

“What do you intend?” Elias asked sharply.

Everard crossed to his chest atop which lay his sword. “You will right one wrong, Elias de Morville”—he pulled the blade from its scabbard—“and I shall lessen that wrong by righting the other.”

Elias rose and warily eyed the sword as Everard advanced on him. “I do not understand, Lord Wulfrith.”

“You will accompany us to Stern.” Everard halted before him. “Ere the defense of Judas’s claim to Cheverel, we shall seek a private audience with the queen, during which you will lay claim to the de Morville name.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“Queen Eleanor will be displeased,” Everard continued, “but as
Sir
Elias de Morville, knighted at Wulfen, methinks it will go easier for you. More, any words you speak in Judas’s defense will be better heeded if they do not stand in the shadow of deception.”

Dread chased uncertainty across the man’s face, but at last he said, “Very well.” Then he sighed. “I think I am glad of it. ’Twill be good to finally come out from under fear of discovery.”

A quarter hour later, in as seemly a manner as possible, Abel and Sir Rowan standing as witnesses, Elias de Morville received a blow that promised to leave its mark upon his cheek, then rose as Sir Elias in truth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It was Sir Elias who confessed all to Susanna when the Wulfen party paused before the nooning hour to water the horses. Standing in the shade of trees near the stream’s bank, the knight touched his swollen cheek in response to the question she had waited hours to ask, and revealed the truth Everard had pulled from him.

Much of what she had thought she understood about the man upended, much of what she had not understood explained, she had marveled at the blessing that was Elias de Morville. She had thrown her arms around him to express her gratitude—and past his shoulder seen Everard and Judas and others watching. Sir Morris’s taunt of the day past returning sharp as a slap, she had pulled away. But what was seen was seen, what was thought was thought.

Thus, when it came time to remount, she was not surprised to find Everard at her elbow. Recalling when last he had seen her and Sir Elias so near—nearer yet—she tensed.

“He told you,” he said.

She moistened her lips. “He did. And I thanked him. Most inappropriately but—”