The Longing (43 page)

“You speak true, Lord Wulfrith?” Lady Richenda asked.

This time she was not silenced, and the smile hovering near the queen’s lips told she would be allowed this outburst.

“Sir Morris attacked Judas and one of my squires,” Everard said, “causing grave injuries to the latter.”

“Vile, ignoble knight!” The woman clapped a hand to her upper chest. “Sly be his name, for never did he give reason to believe he disliked the boy enough to harm him. Ah! If ’tis true murder was his intent, mayhap he did, indeed, seek to cause the child to lose his breath.”

“I say again, I am not a child!” Judas growled and took a step toward her. “You lying—”

“That is enough, page of Wulfen,” Everard warned. Until now, the boy had been quiet and watchful as instructed, but Everard had known it would not last, for he had felt Judas’s boil. The surprise of it was that he had contained it as long as he had.

“Enough, page of Wulfen,” Everard repeated when the boy continued to hesitate over the reminder he was of that esteemed brotherhood, that in the short time he had been at Wulfen he had gathered into his being those who trained him and those with whom he trained, that it was not only his character that would be measured.

At last, Judas took back the step he had advanced on Lady Richenda.

“’Tis good to see you have learned to respect authority,
Judas
,” the woman said.

“And good that he escaped harm,” the queen submitted. “Would you not say, Lady Richenda?”

A simpering smile creased the woman’s face. “It is good he was not harmed, Your Majesty.” Her chin came around, and she raised her eyebrows at Everard. “Whereas Sir Morris…?”

Did she feel the stickiness of the web she tread? “He did not meet with a good end,” Everard said.

Her lids flickered, and he knew she savored relief.

“You are certain you knew naught of his intentions, Lady Richenda?” he put to her.

“How would I be privy to such ungodly plans?” She tried to stand taller. “If this is an attempt to sully me—the grandmother of Cheverel’s true heir—in hopes the queen will find in favor of one likely born of you, Lord Wulfrith, ’tis most un-Christian.”

Everard dipped his chin. “Apologies, my lady.”

She sighed deeply. “I certainly shall not mourn Sir Morris. Indeed, it is tempting to rejoice that such a knave received his due in full.”

“
Did
he receive his due in full, Lord Wulfrith?” The queen’s voice held a note of mischief.

“Not yet, Your Majesty.”

“What say you?” Lady Richenda demanded. “You told that he died.”

“I did not. I said he did not meet with a good end.”

“He yet lives?”

“He does.” As her mouth went lax, Everard shifted his regard to Eleanor. “Your Majesty, you said you would speak with Sir Morris. Shall I produce him?”

“I think you must, Lord Wulfrith.”

Everard turned, briefly met Susanna’s gaze where she sat forward on the bench—eyes wide, face flushed—and called, “Sir Elias!”

The knight stepped from the kitchen passageway. Sir Morris came behind him, drawn forward by a rope bound to joined wrists. Gagged, this time to ensure his presence was not too soon revealed, his seething eyes stuck to Lady Richenda who stared at him over her shoulder. He had heard every word Everard had meant him to hear. And he did not appreciate the murder attempt being laid solely at his feet.

“Lady Richenda,” the queen said, “I do not think this knight will be content to impale you with his eyes only. Rejoin your daughter. And you, Judas de Balliol, gain your aunt’s side.”

The boy’s name in full—not merely Judas as she had previously named him—portended well.

The two obeyed, moving opposite one another. Then Sir Morris stood before Henry’s queen.

“Ere we hear from Sir Morris,” Eleanor said, “I must ask of you, Sir Elias, if all you have heard told by Judas, Lady Susanna, and Lord Wulfrith is true.”

“It is, Your Majesty. Every word.”

She looked to Sir Morris. “I shall hear him now.”

Elias wrenched the gag down around the man’s neck, and the knight spluttered and coughed.

“So this is the good end with which Sir Morris did not meet,” Eleanor said as she considered the broken, heavily bruised face that Everard yet felt in his knuckles.

“This
ignoble knight
,” Sir Morris spat, “did not act alone.” He jerked his chin to the right, spreading his hatred from those who had thwarted him to the ones who had set him the task that would see him dead.

Though Sir Talbot and Lady Richenda stiffened further, Lady Blanche appeared equal parts confusion and fear. Unfortunately, the babe sleeping on her shoulder would not likely remain thus much longer.

“I would hear your account, Sir Morris,” Eleanor said.

The man was slow to respond, but when he returned his attention to the queen, his words poured like water from a pitcher.

“’Tis true I sought to cause that whelp to lose his breath, just as it is true the task was given me and I was well paid though the end result was not the desired one.”

“I am sure you would like to tell us who pressed coin into your palm.”

He jerked his chin to the right. “Sir Talbot.”

“He lies!” The knight thrust to his feet—only to drop back to the bench when two of the queen’s knights moved toward him.

Sir Morris’s mouth bent as near a grin as his swollen, cut lips allowed. “Of course, I do not doubt it was that vile, ignoble Lady Richenda who first pressed coin into
his
palm.”

She yelped, and Sir Morris said, “Sly be
your
name, lady.”

“What of your attack upon Judas de Balliol in the wood, Sir Morris?” the queen asked.

“More than coin was promised me if I succeeded.”

“Tell.”

“Sir Talbot said Lady Richenda would be indebted if, by my actions, her grandson gained Cheverel.”

“How was such a debt to be paid?”

This time he looked to the left, past Everard whose every muscle tensed. “I was to have the Lady Susanna when she returned to Cheverel after her nephew met with an unfortunate death.”

“You were to
have
a lady, Sir Morris?” The queen’s words were so dangerously spoken that, had he a chance of living much beyond this day, he would have been wise to heed her tone.

“Aye, what she long refused me—what she willingly gave others.” He scoffed. “The woman is more harlot than lady, Your Majesty.”

His words sliced through Everard, its path so blue with heat he was certain it must be what it felt like to be struck by lightning. Despite having endured numerous battles and challenges throughout his life, many life-threatening, this seemed the greatest of all, for he absolutely must heed Sir Durand’s warning. He could not take Sir Morris to ground and feel the satisfaction of knuckles against bone, nor could he defend Susanna. He had to stand here as if his heart were not present and let the words spoken against her pass. And, throughout, he could not even send her a reassuring glance for what it might reveal to the queen who watched him.

He held, and finally she returned her attention to the knight. “I do not thank you, Sir Morris, for you are unworthy, but I am glad to know your tale. And now, lest one of those at hand determines to steal from the hangman the right to dispatch you, you are dismissed.”

She knew. Had he held his tongue and fists for naught?

“We are not done!” Sir Morris shouted as Sir Elias took hold of him. “There is more.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The tale is scandalous enough.”

“Ah, nay.” He laughed. “I can do better.”

She swept the air with a hand, and Sir Durand took charge of the knight and began to drag him away.

“Neither was Lady Richenda’s grandson fathered by Baron de Balliol,” Sir Morris screeched over his shoulder. “Look to Sir Talbot for that bit of betrayal.”

With the exception of the babe’s soft whimpering, there was silence, and then Lady Richenda set to weeping and moaning and babbling over the lies she was made to suffer.

Susanna could only stare, just as she had done since the aspersions against her had fallen upon the ears of all present and she had silently beseeched God to stay Everard’s hand.

“Aunt Sanna?” Judas asked softly, the reassuring hand he had laid upon her arm when Sir Morris had named her so vile a thing now trembling.

She glanced at him, shook her head to let him know she was as lost as he, then looked to Lady Blanche who slumped over her child and Sir Talbot where he sat unmoving and unprotesting. Was it true? Was little Alan de Balliol not a de Balliol? Or was this Sir Morris’s revenge upon those who had tried to heap their sins atop his own?

Suddenly, the queen laughed. “Henry will be most intrigued,” she pronounced, then called, “Come forth, Judas de Balliol.”

Her summons caused Lady Richenda to go quiet.

Susanna turned to face her nephew. “Whatever she decides,” she whispered, “you cannot lose, Judas mine.”

He nodded, released her arm, and strode toward the dais. As he passed Everard, Susanna glanced at the man whose roiling she had felt when he had denied himself the satisfaction of adding to Sir Morris’s cuts and bruises, the man who would ever hold her heart.

Determinedly, she shifted her regard to Judas who had halted before the dais.

“You are called by your full name, Judas de Balliol,” Eleanor said, “because it has been decided that, regardless of whether or not you and Lady Blanche’s babe share your father’s blood, you are the acknowledged de Balliol heir. Cheverel is yours.”

As Lady Richenda cried out as if someone had stuck her with something sharp, Susanna was swept with relief so intense that she was grateful for the support of the bench beneath her.

Dear Lord, thank you!

It was over. Judas and she could go home. Far away from Everard…

Unless he truly feels for you,
hope whispered. Might he?

Judas bowed. “I am grateful, Your Majesty.”

The queen inclined her head. “Regarding the charges leveled at Sir Talbot, Lady Richenda, and Lady Blanche, though I believe it possible they are not without merit, we lack sufficient proof and must consider it may be vengeance at work.” She narrowed her gaze upon those from Cheverel. “Thus, I caution all to give no cause for this matter to be revisited. That said, all that remains is to entrust someone with the administration of Cheverel until its heir is of an age to fully assume his responsibilities. Thus, I propose we find a husband for Judas de Balliol’s aunt.”

It was a blow for which Susanna was unprepared, and she could not keep her eyes from flying to Everard who had not moved his gaze from the queen. Had his shoulders been as square, his jaw thrust so far forward when last she had looked upon him? 

“I will think on it,” Eleanor said. “We are done.”

“Your Majesty!” It was Lady Blanche. She had taken to her feet so abruptly that her babe returned to fussing where he lay in the crook of her arm. “I would speak to what Sir Morris told.”

With a cry, Lady Richenda bounced to her feet and gripped Blanche’s arm. “You need not defend yourself, Daughter. All know—”

Lady Blanche wrenched free with such violence her babe squealed. “I shall not defend myself. ’Tis the truth I will tell.”

Her mother grabbed at her again, but she evaded those hooked fingers and, a moment later, Lady Richenda was held by one of the queen’s knights.

“You are certain you wish to do this, Lady Blanche?” the queen asked.

“’Tis the only way to free myself and my child.”

“Then I shall put the question to you. Is your babe of Alan de Balliol’s loins?”

Amidst her mother’s moaning and groaning, Blanche set her chin high. “It is possible.”

“You cuckolded your husband.”

“I did as my mother commanded so I might give my husband the son he desperately wanted.”

“If the father is not Alan de Balliol, is it Sir Talbot, Lady Blanche?”

“It is.” She peered across her shoulder at Judas. “I am sorry. Truly, I am. I hated what I did, but…” She shook her head. “I wish to go home, Your Majesty.”

“Under the circumstances, methinks Cheverel may not be—”

“Nay, home! My home. I would live under my brother’s protection.” She pointed at her mother. “Without her.”

“That can be arranged,” Eleanor said, then to Blanche’s mother, “I believe that if you have any hope of saving your depraved soul, you shall require years of solitude, reflection, and prayer. Thus, you shall be removed to a convent.”

As Lady Richenda took to screeching and straining, the knight who held her began drawing her away.

“As for you, Sir Talbot, you will have to sell your sword arm to another, for you will not return to Cheverel. Nor will you ever again venture near Lady Blanche. And now we are quite finished.” She stood and swept out from behind the table.

Near numb with relief, foreboding, and shock, Susanna watched as Eleanor exited the hall.

Then Judas was upon her. He embraced her and pressed his face into her shoulder as his body gently convulsed with the release of emotion.

She wrapped her arms around him and pressed a kiss atop his head.

“We did it, Aunt Sanna. We did it.”

“You did it, Judas mine.”

“And you. And Lord Wulfrith.”

“So we did.” She lifted her gaze to Everard who watched from a distance, who had said he wished to speak to her regardless of the outcome. But he could not have known that Judas’s acknowledgement as heir would also see a husband provided for her—one of the queen’s choosing, which surely would not include Everard whom some might yet believe had fathered her nephew.

Judas raised his head. “Are you very sorry you shall have to wed?”

There had been occasions over the years when he had asked the reason she lacked a husband. Refusing to burden him with the truth that her betrothal had been broken as punishment, always she said it was because she had found no one to love who would love her in return. He had been baffled, for he had seen no love between his father and Lady Blanche, but always Susanna had called herself silly and changed the subject.

She tried to smile. “I suppose it is past time I wed, hmm?”