The Redeeming (20 page)

Weary, though the afternoon had yet to wane, she left the cook to his grumbling over her changes to his menu and quit the kitchens. As Christian had predicted, her ankle had recovered sufficiently to support her weight the day following its injury. And one more day had seen it back to near normal. Still, she favored the other foot as she started across the hall.

“My lady, come see!” Aimee broke from two servants who carried a chest toward the stairs and ran forward. “Your clothes have arrived.” She halted before Gaenor.

It was good to see the girl smile, for she was more inclined to scowl. Gaenor returned the favor. “See them abovestairs. I shall be up shortly.” For, surely, the delivery of her clothes was accompanied by a missive from her family. As Aimee turned away, Gaenor picked out the Wulfrith knight where he stood inside the great doors.

“Sir Mark,” she called as she advanced on him.

“Lady Gaenor.” His gaze swept her head to toe, and she knew that, besides delivering her possessions, he was tasked with reporting on her appearance—a small thing considering Abel remained at Broehne.

Glad she no longer limped, she stopped before him. “I trust your journey was uneventful.”

His gaze returned to hers, and she was grateful there seemed nothing more in his eyes than there had ever been—no judgment or condemnation for her flight from Stern Castle. “We encountered no hindrances, my lady.”

She was relieved, though she knew it could not last. The search for the brigands that had caused Christian and her brother to depart Broehne the day after her wedding and seen them returned but two hours ago, had yielded little according to Abel who had come to the donjon to see how she had fared in his absence. As for Christian, he had yet to appear, and she dreaded when he did, for they had last been face-to-face when his kiss would have led to consummation had he not pulled back.

Trying not to relive his words that had fairly accused her of seducing him to legitimize a child that might be born of her and Sir Durand’s union, she asked the knight, “You have seen my brother, Abel?”

“Aye, and delivered him word from Baron Wulfrith.”

“Have you word for me?”

Sir Mark drew forth a rolled parchment. “Your mother asked that I deliver this.”

She curled her fingers around it. “I thank you, Sir Mark. Of course, you will take supper with us and pass the night at Broehne.”

He gave a curt shake of his head. “Many thanks, my lady, but my men and I are to continue on to Wulfen Castle. Sir Everard expects us this eve.”

As much as she longed to discourage him from riding into the darkening of day that might see him set upon, she knew he would not heed her. “Godspeed, then.”

A smile tucked up the corners of his mouth. “I have faith He shall.”

Gaenor watched him go before turning her regard on the half-dozen servants who were intent on the tasks she had set them, though not so intent she would feel comfortable reading her mother’s missive here—and less so in the presence of Sir Hector, the aged knight whom Christian had surely set to watch over her.

Minding her ankle, she crossed to the stairs and stepped aside to allow the men who had carried her chest abovestairs to continue their descent.

When she entered the solar, Aimee was on her knees before the chest. “Oh, my lady, such fine garments! And look, be this ivory?” She held up a comb, its spine worked with beautifully carved flowers.

Gaenor considered sending her away but decided she could read her mother’s missive before the brazier while the girl familiarized herself with the garments and accoutrements that it would be her responsibility to keep in order. “Aye, ‘tis ivory, a gift from my eldest brother.”

“Most kind he must be, my lady.”

That Gaenor could not argue. She crossed to the chair situated before the warming brazier, lowered to it, and broke the missive’s wax seal. While Aimee continued to chatter about her discoveries, Gaenor unrolled the parchment and felt her heart convulse over the familiar handwriting.

Beloved Daughter,

There are not words enough to tell you how sorry I am that you felt it necessary to flee Stern. I have wanted only your happiness, and it pains me that the king demanded such a sacrifice of you. I pray you will take comfort in knowing your family is most grateful and proud of you.

Gaenor closed her eyes. Proud? Did her mother know of her sin? That she had not come to her marriage chaste? She could not, for there was no gain in Garr telling her. It would only worry her more.

“And this hand mirror!” Aimee exclaimed. “It is so clear. Why, I did not think myself so pretty.”

Though Gaenor’s emotions were bound to her mother’s words, she could not help but smile over the girl’s excitement.

Of greater comfort is the surety that, had your brothers believed Christian Lavonne to be dishonorable, nothing would have impelled them to give you into his care.

The tinkle of bells preceded a gasp. “Hear that, my lady? Certes, ‘tis the language of angels.”

Gaenor remembered when she had bought the bells at market with the woman who would become her sister-in-law though, at the time, there had seemed no hope for it since Annyn was to have wed the rapacious Geoffrey Lavonne. The man’s death had changed everything, and now Gaenor was the one sacrificed.

“Do you not think, my lady?”

Gaenor peered around the chair. “I am glad you like the bells. Take them—they are yours.”

The girl startled so violently that, if not for the mouthful of teeth she showed, one might think she had been slapped. “Truly, my lady?”

“Truly.” Gaenor sat back.

I expect life must seem bleak, but I know you have the courage and fortitude to make of your marriage what I refused to make of mine. As Beatrix has found love with her Michael, I believe you will find love if you but look for it and learn to forgive where I could not. My knees and hands ache with prayers for you and your Christian.

“My Christian,” Gaenor whispered. Would he ever be truly hers? Or would their marriage be ever what it had been these past days—living in the same world in name only?

“This is most fine, my lady. What will ye make of it?”

Grudgingly, Gaenor heeded Aimee and saw that the young woman cradled a bolt of material the color of dewed moss. Her mother had included it, though there was no longer a need for a gown in which to be wed. “I do not know.” She returned to her missive.

I hope you will also seek God and remember all that I endeavored to teach you, above all that prayer is mighty. Have faith, beloved Gaenor, and know you are loved. ~ Isobel Wulfrith

As Gaenor closed her eyes that she might rest in her mother’s words, Aimee again made her presence known. “This is a psalter, is it not? Why, ‘tis more lovely than I have been told.”

Doubtless, Isobel had sent it to aid with Gaenor’s prayers.

“Oh, a page has fallen out!”

How had that happened? Had the binding—?

Gaenor surged to her feet, advanced on the wide-eyed maid who stumbled upright, and snatched the folded parchment from amid the rushes.

“My lady, ‘twas not I who loosened the page. I was most careful.”

The beat of her heart insistent, as if it sought to escape its cage, Gaenor forced a calming breath and took the psalter from her. “That is all, Aimee.”

Confusion furrowed her face. “I vow I did not do it, my lady.”

Gaenor nodded. “The psalter is of an age.” Not true, but she could not tell her that the loose parchment had never been bound with the words of God. Indeed, it was so far removed from holiness that its presence might be called an abomination. “Now leave me.”

Aimee glanced at the garments she had laid out on the bed. “What of your clothes, my lady?”

“I will see to them.”

“But—”

“I will see to them, Aimee.”

Resentment flashed in the girl’s eyes. “As you will.” With a tinkling of the bells she had secreted somewhere on her person, she hurried to the door and paused. “I may keep the bells, my lady?”

“They are my gift to you.” Hopefully, they would ease the sting of being sent away so abruptly.

As the door closed, Gaenor turned her attention to Aimee’s discovery. She should not have panicked, for it was not as if the maid could read a word of Sir Durand’s missive. Still, it boded ill that it was in the home of Gaenor’s husband.

She laid the psalter atop a woolen mantle in the chest, returned to the brazier, and reached the missive to the flames, only to pull back. Strange, but she could not clearly recall the words the knight had written though she had read them again and again. She unfolded the missive.

My lady, Gaenor,

I pray one day you will forgive me. ~ Ever your friend, Durand

So few words ought to be harder to forget than to remember, and yet they had slunk away with the advent of Christian.

Gaenor tossed the missive on the flames. The parchment darkened until it was indistinguishable from the black inked words, then collapsed and began its descent into ashes.

“Farewell, Sir Durand,” she whispered. “You are forgiven.” The absolution reminding her of her mother’s missive that advised her to learn to forgive, she spun around.

The parchment had rolled back on itself and lay beside the chair where, in her haste to retrieve Sir Durand’s missive, she had dropped it. She swept it up, read it again, and felt tears. Her mother’s words were to be cherished and were worthy of being always at hand—as far from abomination as the truth was from a lie.

She smoothed the parchment on the table beside the chair, folded it, and retrieved her psalter from the chest. Where Sir Durand’s missive had too long resided, she placed her mother’s missive. “Better,” she breathed, and though she had intended to set the psalter aside, she turned instead to the first psalm.

T
he maid, who surely had better things to do, was jingling.

More disrespect? Having received Sir Hector’s report that his wife’s attempts to claim her place as the lady of Broehne had been met with much grudging, Christian halted at the center of the hall. “Aimee!”

The young woman jumped, as did the servants around whom she had been prancing. “My lord!” She hurried forward, setting herself to jingling again.

“As it is your duty to see to my wife’s needs, I would expect you to be abovestairs tending to the arrival of her clothes.”

She came to stand before him, and the jingling ceased. “That I was doing, my lord, and still I would be had she not sent me away.”

He narrowed his lids. “Were you impertinent?”

“Nay, my lord. Indeed, she was so grateful for my help that she rewarded me with bells.” She shook a leg, causing the bells to sound again.

Christian ground his teeth. “Then you have settled her possessions?”

“I would have, but as I said, she sent me away.”

“Why?”

She drew a long breath. “I vow I did not do it, my lord—I was most gentle—but when I unpacked her psalter, a page fell out and methinks she blames me for it.”

Christian remembered her psalter that he had trespassed upon at Wulfen Castle and by which he had first learned the name of the one to whom she had given her heart. And her body.

“I do not think she will welcome me back, my lord, but if you wish it, I shall return to the solar.”

“Nay, you have done your duty.” Now if only his
wife
would do hers, but she likely clung to that accursed missive, was even now—

He strode to the stairs. When he entered the solar, he did not do so quietly, and yet Gaenor did not seem to hear him where she stood with her back to him before her opened chest. Her attention was held by whatever she bent her head to, and it would not surprise him if it was that miscreant’s plea for forgiveness.

Advancing on her, he said, “No welcome for the husband returned to you?”

He heard her breath catch, then the snap of what he saw was her psalter as she turned to face him. Stopping short of her, he stared at the unbound parchment just visible between the covers of the book.

She swallowed hard enough to be heard. “I did not hear you.”

Hating that his jealousy should be so strongly felt, he raised his gaze over her. “So deep at prayer were you?”

He expected a guilty flush to add to the color in her face, but it did not. Pressing her shoulders back, she said, “Indeed, I was.”

It was no easy thing to let her lie slip past—to not seize the psalter and expose her yearning for another man—but he pulled himself back from that edge. Still, he had to ask, “For what do you pray?”

She narrowed her lids. “That is between God and me.”

If not for the content of her prayers, he would advise her to seek the spiritual guidance of the castle priest as the Church advocated, but he did not trust her beseechings, nor her confessions, to remain private any more than he trusted his own. Though the priest seemed a good enough man, he was too prone to idle chat.

“Now…” Gaenor reached the psalter behind her and dropped it atop the remaining contents of her chest. “…what welcome were you expecting?”