The Redeeming (12 page)

Beatrix smiled. “I am very happy.”

“Then I rejoice with you.” Gaenor looked out across the hall. “Married…” As she herself would soon be. “Michael seems a good man.” She settled her gaze on him where he stood in the midst of the celebration alongside her second brother, Everard, who laughed at something Garr said. Then the entire group was laughing, including Annyn who cradled her infant son.

Beatrix sighed. “Aye, Michael is a good man.”

Gaenor laid a hand over her sister’s. “You are most blessed.”

“As you shall be.”

Gaenor laughed and hated that it sounded forced. “You have to say that to me,” she said, trying to tease away the uncertainty that had attempted to gain a foothold on her since her witnessing of Beatrix and Michael D’Arci’s vows.

“Aye, but it is also true.” Beatrix leaned toward her. “Christian Lavonne—”

“Did not come.” No sooner were the words spoken than Gaenor regretted her sharp tone.

After a long moment, Beatrix said, “Tell me of your stay at Wulfen Castle.”

“As already told, our brother, Everard, mostly kept me confined to a tower room in the donjon.”

“Then you saw no men other than our brother and the knights a-assigned to your needs?”

Gaenor averted her gaze. “From my window, I sometimes watched the young men train.”

“Hmm. Methinks you are not telling all.”

Hating how perceptive Beatrix was, Gaenor weighed the risk of revealing her meetings with Sir Matthew. In the end, she said, “’Tis true, but naught can come of what I do not tell.”

“Mayhap I can help.”

“You cannot. Regardless of my own wishes, I shall soon wed Baron Lavonne.”

Beatrix moved nearer. “Is there someone else? Another you would wed?”

Gaenor startled and immediately tried to disguise her reaction with a shrug. “I did meet a knight at Wulfen, but I hardly know him well enough to wish marriage.”

“How well
do
you know him?”

“We…talked. In the chapel. That is where I met him.”

Beatrix made a sound of surprise. “Surely you were not allowed to attend mass with the men?”

“Of course not. I went only after they were done that I might have the chapel to myself.”

“Then how—?”

“He was there one day when I thought myself alone.”

“When he should have been training pages and squires?”

Gaenor shook her head. “He was not one of our brother’s men. He was a visiting knight.”

“Truly? How long did he visit?”

Beginning to wish she had not confided, Gaenor said, “More than a month, though I did not meet him until a fortnight past.”

“For what purpose was he at Wulfen?”

“Abel and Everard were training him.”

“A knight?” Beatrix exclaimed. “A man who has already earned his spurs?”

She should have said naught.

As if sensing Gaenor’s unease, Beatrix said, “Of course, you are surely relieved to be returned to Stern Castle.”

Gaenor lifted her goblet and sipped at the warm wine.

“Wulfen Castle must have been t-t-” Beatrix’s search for the word caused Gaenor to wince. “It must have been tedious.”

Gaenor lowered the goblet. “Do you forgive me, Beatrix?”

“For what?”

“For the ill words I spoke the day King Henry delivered his decree that a Wulfrith wed a Lavonne and it was determined that I would be the one? More, for what happened to you—what would not have happened had you not drawn the king’s men away from me and Sir Durand?”

“Gaenor—”

“I thought I would die when I saw you in the ravine and realized what you had sacrificed to save me.”

Beatrix recaptured her sister’s hand. “There is naught to forgive. You were hurting when you said what you did and never would I fault you. As for what happened to me, had I to do it again, I would, for it gave me Michael.”

Slowly, Gaenor’s tension eased. “God favors you, Beatrix. You must please Him mightily. If only I knew Him as you do, perhaps I might better face what lies in wait for me.”

With soft eyes, Beatrix said, “You can know God as I do. You have but to let Him in.”

“It is not so simple.”

“’Tis far from simple, but still a-attainable.”

Gaenor looked across the hall to the group that included their mother, Garr, and Everard—and from which Abel was conspicuously absent. She had not been surprised when he had not presented at Stern for the wedding, for it had surely been determined that one of the Wulfrith brothers remain at Wulfen Castle to oversee the training. Still, she was disappointed.

A moment later, the one Gaenor sought joined the group. As Sir Durand had done at the chapel where Beatrix and Michael had exchanged vows, he brooded. Not that it surprised, for any remaining hope he might have had for claiming Beatrix as his own was stamped out by her marriage.

Though Gaenor did not want to feel for him, she did, despite all that had happened between them. And remembrance of her sin made her wonder if it was possible to know God as Beatrix knew Him.
Was
such a relationship attainable?

She sighed. “Attainable even when one has sinned greatly?”

Beatrix considered her a long moment. “Whatever you have done, you have but to ask for forgiveness and it will be granted.”

As guilt and embarrassment flushed Gaenor, the musicians once more began to play for the wedding guests. Hoping to lighten the mood, Gaenor quipped, “And if I ask Him to deliver me free of marriage to Baron Lavonne, will that also be granted?”

“If it is in His will.”

“Always His will, which means I shall wed Lavonne—unless the baron determines he does not want me. Which is possible.” And it was, though to seek such means of escaping marriage would bring great shame on her family. Gaenor rose, glanced at the gathering, then bent and kissed Beatrix’s brow. “God willing, I shall one day see through the eyes of love as you do, little sister.”

“I am certain you shall.”

“Now”—Gaenor summoned a smile—“I am going to dance at my sister’s wedding.”

Though the knight who held out a hand to pull her amid the dancers was not as tall as she, he turned her about the floor with ease. And for some minutes, Gaenor lost herself in the music that played through her body and caused her feet to step lightly. Indeed, at one point she felt as if she were flying.

It was then Sir Durand appeared. The household knight, being of lower rank, relinquished Gaenor before she could protest.

Finding her hand and waist gripped by a man she had vowed to never again allow so near, Gaenor glared at him where he stood two inches shorter than she. “I do not wish to dance with you, Sir Durand.”

His mouth was a severe line. “There is a matter of import we must needs discuss.”

“Here?”

“Elsewhere if you will allow it.” He turned her in time with the lively music.

“I will not.”

“Then here it must be.”

He turned her again, and she realized he had worked her from the middle of the dance floor to the edge where it was less likely they would be overheard.

“Do tell, that we might be done with this farce, Sir Durand.”

“I would steal you away.”

She stumbled, and only his hand on her waist prevented her from landing at his feet. “What?”

“I would see you free of this marriage into which you are being forced.”

“Why?”

“You are being sacrificed.”

As she had believed but had endeavored to disprove to herself.

“I cannot bear it,” he said.

This time, she did laugh. “Nay, Sir Durand, you cannot bear that my sister is wed to another.
That
you cannot bear. And now, when you find all is lost, you come to me resolved to contenting yourself with mere leavings.”

His face hardened. “’Tis more than that.”

“Then now that my sister is wed to Michael D’Arci, you realize you
do
have feelings for me. You
do
love me?”

“That would be a lie, but I care—”

“Care! Methinks I shall take my chances that my betrothed will come to care for me and that I will not suffer his anguish over a lost love.” At least, she prayed she would not suffer so, for it was true she knew little about the baron. All she knew of Christian Lavonne’s past was that he had been a monk previous to gaining his inheritance. Meaning, she hoped, he had not set his heart elsewhere.

Sir Durand tightened his hold on her. “He is a Lavonne, Gaenor.”

“That he is, but different from the others.” As she had been told numerous times—and longed to believe.

“Nay, he is as deceptive and dangerous as his father and brothers whose blood runs through his veins.”

“How do you know this?” she demanded as her skirts brushed against those of another lady. “You have not—”

“But I have. Do you recall, I was at Broehne Castle during your sister’s trial.”

“Even so—”

“Listen to me. When your brother was summoned by Christian Lavonne ere the trial, I accompanied him.”

The baron had summoned Garr? “Aye?”

“Do you wish to know the bargain struck between them?”

Again, her feet faltered.

“In exchange for testimony of Beatrix’s innocence from the baron’s man—a knight who knew the truth of the one your sister was told to have murdered—Christian Lavonne demanded that your brother accede to the king’s decree and hand you over.”

Like chattel.

“Your brother agreed. For Beatrix.”

Beloved Beatrix. Trying not to resent the sister she loved, Gaenor reasoned that Garr had been given little choice. Refuse and cost Beatrix her life? Or accept and cost Gaenor her happiness? Providing, of course, Sir Durand spoke true. And she prayed he did not for what it also told of Christian Lavonne. It did not fit that the man who was said to be honorable—different from his father and brothers—would bargain so. And with Beatrix’s life.

Gaenor shook her head. “I do not believe you. Christian Lavonne saved my sister’s life and proved himself a man of—”

“Proved himself?” Color seeped into Sir Durand’s cheeks. “By throwing a dagger that wounded his illegitimate brother, a man for whom he cares nothing, who stands against him?
That
is proving himself? Nay, Gaenor, you have been betrayed.” He stepped back, and only then did she realize they had ceased dancing.

From where he had guided her away from the others, she stared at him.

“Think on it,” he rasped, “and if you weary of being made to play the pawn and desire a life of your own choosing, I shall be at the sally port come midnight. Otherwise, I will not see you again, for I am bound for France.”

Insides crawling with uncertainty, sorrow, pain, and anger, all of which she told herself she should not feel, Gaenor watched him go—a man who had offered comfort when she had believed Beatrix had died for her. For whom she had felt deeply. Who cared enough to deliver her from the obligation her family pressed on her, thereby breaking fealty with the Wulfriths as few dared to do.

Realizing she was staring at the emptiness left by his departure and that it would draw attention, Gaenor composed her face and turned to those who stepped to the music. There was Beatrix and her Michael, faces reflecting the love they shared. Love that Gaenor desperately wanted to experience herself.

Though she knew she should not do it, she could not help but ponder whether Sir Durand might come to feel something for her like what Michael felt for Beatrix. However, almost immediately, the memory of Sir Matthew returned, and she shivered as she recalled his kiss.

He had felt for her, though to what extent she had not had the opportunity to explore. Of course, considering he had disappeared following her suggestion that he steal her away, his feelings could not have been very deep. Regardless, Sir Matthew
was
lost to her, just as Sir Durand would be lost to her on the morrow if she remained true to the family that had bargained her away.

Anger tied a knot in Gaenor’s belly and, despite her attempt to loosen it, it knotted again. And again until she thought she might scream if she did not escape the joyous voices and peals of laughter.

As she grabbed up her skirts and turned toward the stairs, her gaze fell upon Annyn who stood on the far side of the hall. The frown furrowing her lovely brow told that she had witnessed Gaenor’s dejection. Had she also seen the encounter with Sir Durand?

Knowing that if she did not allay her sister-in-law’s concern, the woman would attempt to engage her, Gaenor forced a smile. Annyn’s frown eased, though not entirely.

Longing for solitude but fearing an abrupt withdrawal would result in attention she could not bear, Gaenor forced herself to return to the dais.

As she sat there, blindly observing the merriment that knew every corner save hers, one word turned through her again and again: midnight.