The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (3 page)

Godric laid a hand upon her arm but briefly, in comfort, and then turned to go. Edmund stood in the open doorway, his expression open and reposed, as was his way. There had been nothing untoward in Godric's touch; the door to the guest house had been left open to prevent just such speculation, and Edmund's calm witness showed the wisdom of the practice.

"Edmund, it is good to see you. And good to see that you have done your duty by your lady. She was well served in choosing you as her escort to our house."

"Thank you. Abbot Godric," Edmund answered. "We had safe journey."

"God be praised for that. He watches most diligently after the widows and orphans of this world. But I have news of your brother, Peter."

"He is well?" Edmund asked eagerly.

"Most assuredly. He has been knighted by Baron Thomas and has pledged his fealty. I am told he walks well in his spurs."

"He should; he practiced often enough while yet a boy," Edmund laughed. "It is good news. I would that you could tell him of my own dubbing, when a messenger passes through the abbey, but it must wait apace. I am close. He shall not outstrip me. You may pass that on if the occasion suits."

Isabel dropped her head in sudden shame. Edmund was past due for his spurs; her father should have seen it done, but he had fallen into a weakened state so quickly that much was left undone, her own wedding the surest proof of that. He had pressed for her to marry for months, yet she had always had a ready and compelling reason why they should delay. First, because she was newly home from her fostering and wanted to enjoy Dornei before becoming the bride of Warefeld, then because her father's wife, Ida, had fallen ill and needed the care only a daughter could give. Then because Ida had died and she would not leave her father alone in his grief. Finally, because her father had taken ill himself and there was none to push her from his side. And so now. She had never mentioned Richard as the cause of her continued delay, but did not God see her heart and was she not guilty of disobedience? She was not married, certain proof of her silent rebellion.

Still, Edmund must win his spurs, and only his lord could see it done. If she had gone to Hubert... but she had not gone to Hubert. She had run to Richard, and Richard could confer the buffet on no one. Richard had cast aside his own spurs, the symbol of his knighthood, in favor of a cowl.

"I shall," Abbot Godric answered Edmund. "Your day will come," he assured.

Yea, when Hubert came to the abbey to fetch her... nay, he would come to marry her. Edmund would win his spurs, and she would win a husband she did not want. Unless God answered her impossible prayer, but God did not answer prayers rooted in disobedience and willfulness, no matter how heartfelt.

"Father Abbot!" Brother Anselm said, entering the room in a flurry of black Wool. "Father! A message most urgent."

"Hold, Brother Anselm," Godric soothed. "A message can wait until we are alone."

"But, Abbot Godric," Anselm said, trying for control, "the message concerns the Lady Isabel."

"Speak then, Brother," Godric said.

"Lord Robert sends word that Lord Hubert, the lady's betrothed, is dead."

He said more; she could hear the buzzing of his voice calling for Brother John, but she could not stay to hear the rest. She had prayed to be released from Hubert, and, as effortlessly as watching a petal fall to earth, Hubert had died. Such was the fruit of her careless and selfish prayer. In a gray and dim rush, Isabel fell in a swoon to lie heavily upon the cold stone floor.

Chapter 2

"You have much to learn in the art of courteous communication," Brother John said to Brother Anselm as he urged wine past the lady's lips.

Brother Anselm, good-hearted and only slightly impetuous, looked properly abashed.

Edmund looked ashamed and contrite; he clearly felt that he should have caught his lady before she fell so heavily to earth.

Brother John spoke softly to the lady as she slowly came to her senses. "You have had a shock and taken a fall. All will be well. Take a sip of wine to ease you."

She opened her eyes with effort and then made to stand immediately, her face flushed in profound embarrassment.

"Hold, Isabel," John said gently. "Be sure you are uninjured before you rise. Is your head clear?"

"My head is clear. My dignity is trammeled," she said with a rueful smile.

"You have had a shock. It is understandable. None fault you."

"I fault myself. I was taught better," she murmured.

"Rest easily," he coaxed, bringing the cup to her lips yet again, "and allow yourself to be helped. It is no great sin to lean upon others when the need is great."

"Thank you, Brother John," she said, rising as swiftly as he would allow.

John watched her, noted that her color had returned and that her eyes were clear and bright. He would not have faulted her for tears, but perhaps she did not have enough knowledge for tears, the news of death still too hot and bright. He knew her well, as well as any monk could know a woman, for he had helped ease her father's wife into eternity only six short months ago. She had stood well against that loss, tending Lady Ida in her slow march toward death with rare tenderness and skill. And now Lord Bernard gone so quickly, leaving Isabel alone. Still, Isabel would hold her place in the world, no matter what trammeling her dignity suffered.

"I am sorry, child," Godric said, his eyes soft and full of pity. "You should have heard such words in less abrupt a manner."

Anselm hung his head and tugged at his belt in silent agony.

"It would have jolted no matter the delivery," she said, smiling her pardon at Anselm. "What happened?"

The messenger from her overlord, Lord Robert, stepped from the corner of the small room and faced her. "Lady Isabel, Lord Hubert died in Anjou fighting in a tournament but a month past. When word reached Lord Robert, he began arrangements for your betrothal contract to be transferred to the next in line of that family, to honor the bond made between your father and theirs." Geoffrey, tall and vain; she was to marry Geoffrey. The messenger continued before Geoffrey could root deeply in her thoughts. "Geoffrey fell from his horse eight days ago in a hunting accident; it was a fatal fall, my lady. Lord Robert, believing the original contract sound, wants to keep the alliance between your families. With your father's blessing, it has been arranged for you to marry the next in line of that house."

Isabel remained standing by pure will. She would not faint again, no matter the death on the messenger's lips. No matter the clamor of her guilt. She said nothing. With one deep and trembling breath, she looked at Abbot Godric. Godric, his expression solemn and sympathetic, turned to Anselm.

"Brother Anselm, please inform Brother Richard he is needed here."

* * *

Anselm knew exactly where to find Brother Richard and he was not anxious to go. Not because he was uncomfortable in the scriptorium, which he was not, though he could not read, but because he was uncomfortable with Richard. It should not have been so. All were brothers in the abbey, each called upon by God to serve and pray until the reward of death. All were equal under the care of Father Abbot. It was only that Richard was more equal than most.

Anselm entered the scriptorium quietly, gently. One error with the quill and the manuscript would be worthless; he did not want to startle Richard at his appointed task. He did not want to startle Richard at anything, though Richard was not the sort to become startled. Only a year among them and Brother Richard was the most self-controlled man Anselm had ever encountered; for one so newly introduced to the life of the brotherhood, it was a rare thing. Still, he supposed Richard of Warefeld had come to them with that gift.

He waited until Richard lifted his quill from the vellum before speaking. "The abbot would see you now, Brother Richard. It is a matter of some urgency."

Urgent or no, Richard did not move any more quickly than he had before. He calmly set his quill aside, protected his half-completed manuscript, and turned to face Anselm. Though Anselm predated Richard at the abbey by some twenty-five years, Richard preceded him out of the room. Anselm did not take offense, though it went hard against the Benedictine Rule of precedence. Richard seemed to soar above such earthly rules without effort and certainly without malice.

"We have opened the guest house to someone seeking sanctuary today," Anselm said, hurrying to keep pace with Richard's long-limbed stride.

Richard, in keeping with the Benedictine Rule, did not engage in idle talk. Anselm felt it was not idle since the heaviest portion of the news would concern Richard himself. However, if Richard was ill disposed to speak, there was little Anselm could do without some encouragement.

"I believe you know her," Anselm prompted.

Richard moved inexorably through the golden stone of the abbey corridors, a black and silent silhouette of relentless intent.

"I believe Abbot Godric will have some disturbing news for you, Brother Richard. I would wish you prepared for what you will find when you meet with him," Anselm tried.

"My life is in the hand of God," Richard said without turning his head, his profile sharp against the dressed stone arches. "Let Him do with me what He will."

A most proper answer. Since God had obviously prepared him to marry a beautiful and wealthy woman, Anselm could only wonder at the great mercy and generosity of their Heavenly Father. But a novice monk to marry? The Lord's ways were indeed mysterious.

Richard knocked firmly upon the prior's chamber door, his face resolved and somewhat grim—his normal visage—and entered at Godric's bidding with a stride perhaps more forceful than was common for a lowly novice. Until he spied the form of Isabel.

Isabel stood like a falcon on the wrist, stiff and proud, her eyes going instantly to Richard. And Richard's eyes went instantly to her. In a glimmer, what warm recognition that had flashed in his eyes was gone, replaced by cold courtesy, and that only a veneer to shield some colder emotion. She could feel her heart shrink against his blast of grim civility, but she did not drop her gaze from his. Let him first look from her, if he could; she would not relent. She smothered her guilt; he would not have that from her, not when he was so quick to look for such from her. Let him look. Her heart and her guilt were God's province, not Richard's. Lifting her chin, she stared into his eyes, eyes so deep a blue that they appeared near black against the black of his monk's robes. She knew those eyes, that face, that form. She knew the words he spoke in his heart, the words he had never spoken to her, the words chiseled into his granite soul, words that whispered like the echo of ghosts in his dark blue eyes. Words of rejection, of disdain, of disapproval.

It had not always been so between them. Once, there had been warmth. He had not always disdained her.

Nay, he had been her closest friend.

Children still, alone within the sea of new faces and new customs at Malton, the house of their fostering, they had found each other. How to explain how they had come together? It was not that she was betrothed to the eldest brother of his house, though that was an immediate connection; nay, it had been with their first tentative exchange of words that she had found him admirable. They had been so lost at Malton, the memory of their separate homes becoming more indistinct with each Malton dawn. Yet they had found each other, the bond between them growing with the passing months.

She had been in training to be lady of a great holding, he to be a knight; how often could their paths have crossed? Yet they had found a way. They had ridden to the hunt together, he twice checking the length of her stirrup before they left the bailey. They had played the game of tables, which he had brought with him from Warefeld, and she had beaten him most roundly until he had instructed her in chess, which had taxed her skill and left him the most often winner; he had preferred chess and she tables. She had confessed that she was afraid of Hubert, his brother and her betrothed, and he had listened without censure. He had told her one summer day of the pain of grief he carried still over the loss of his mother and how he feared that he did sin with such unremitting grief over what was surely God's divine will. She had held his hand and cried with him, his pain her own.

They had shared their secrets, their plans, and their fears; he was her closest friend, and she knew that he had valued her companionship above all others. In the world of Malton, Richard had acquired few friends among the boys.

Never had she thought to lose Richard from the inmost circle of her heart. And then, one day, she had.

He had been a squire then, his first beard dark upon his chin, and she had been watching him train. She loved to watch him move. She had smiled to see him knock the sword from his fellow squire's hand and shouted her pleasure at his victory. His opponent, Nicholas, had smirked and said something murmured, looking to her. Richard had ducked his head, shaking it, and turned from her. Willingly, he had never looked at her again.