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Leaving the prison of her father’s house had lured her into thinking she had more freedom than in fact she truly had. She would be much better off reassuming the mantle of a faintly witless woman.
“Yes, my lord,” she said in the slightly breathless voice she used with her father. “And you’ll be truly shriven, by our Lady, and go on to live a life of peace and justice.”
He was the one who snorted with laughter. “You think so?”
“But how else could it be, my lord? My father has told me so, and a good daughter knows the wisdom of her parents.”
She wasn’t expecting him to put his hands on her. He transferred the reins to one hand and took her chin in the other, turning her face up to his. It was too dark to see him, too dark for him to see the banked anger in her dulcet gaze. “And you’re such a good daughter, Lady Elizabeth, are you not?” he said lightly. “A fine housekeeper, a dutiful child, with a gift for herbs and healing. You’ll fit well into a convent, serving our Lady and keeping a still tongue in your head.”
“A still tongue in my head?” she echoed nervously, still looking up at him.
“You’re aware that Saint Anne’s is a silent order? Devoted to meditation? Most days you won’t be allowed to speak a word that isn’t in Latin. You’d best get all your arguments out ahead of time.”
She turned her head away from him, and he dropped his hand. In truth, the feel of his long fingers on her stubborn jaw had been almost as unnerving as the information he’d imparted. An order of silence? Where her only conversation would be the words of holy orders? She’d go mad.
And trust Baron Osbert not to have apprised her of that fact. If he had even a particle of wit she’d suspect he’d done it on purpose, but her father hadn’t the brains for such treachery. Besides, she kept her conversation to a minimum in his presence—he wouldn’t think silence would be a particular burden. He tended to think all tongues should be stilled except his own.
It would have served him right if she’d poisoned him before she left. A miscalculation in his calming draft could do wonders.
She wouldn’t have done it, of course. No matter how great the temptation, her gift with herbs and remedies was only to be used for good, not evil. Tampering with her father’s carnal desires had saved the servant women, though unlikely as it was, some didn’t appear to want to be saved. Tampering with his life would be unforgivable, and no journey of penance would wipe the stain from her soul.
She would deal with life as it happened. She had every intention of becoming abbess of the small order in record time—with her wit, learning and fierce determination she had little doubt she could do almost anything she wanted. She would find a way to relax the strict rules of the order. Or start talking to herself in her cell.
“I have no arguments, my lord William,” she murmured in her best, placate-her-father voice.
He muttered something under his breath, and she almost thought he said “like hell,” but she must have misheard. The wind had picked up, the warm spring day was growing cooler, and the ramparts of the small castle loomed ahead, looking ominously familiar.
It couldn’t be. Thomas of Wakebryght’s home was in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine. They would have had to spend the day traveling away from their destination in order to reach it, a detour that would make no sense.
No, many castles looked the same, built as they were to keep marauders at bay. And the shadows were growing long, making things hard to see. She’d only been at Wakebryght once in her life, on her betrothal day. The day her humiliation had been complete, and she’d sworn she’d never return.
“You might know this place,” the prince continued, unmindful of the thoughts racing through her brain. “It belongs to a neighbor of your father’s. Wakebryght Castle.”
“No!” She couldn’t help it, the word came out sharp and definite.
The man behind her seemed unfazed. “No?” he echoed. “I assure you, it’s most definitely yes.”
“Wakebryght Castle lies in the opposite direction of Saint Anne’s Shrine.”
“So it does. A little subterfuge for those watching who might wish to cause harm to the king’s beloved son.” There was a strange note in his voice. “No one will suspect us of doubling back. There’s no need to fuss, Lady Elizabeth. One day more or less won’t make a difference when the whole of your life stretches ahead of you, devoted to God and good works. And silence.”
“I won’t go.”
He seemed unfazed by her flat refusal. “I did rather doubt your vocation, but it’s not for me to question a father’s judgment. I suspect you’ll cause the good abbess of Saint Anne more trouble than you’re worth.”
“I mean I won’t go to Wakebryght,” she said flatly. “I’d rather die.”
“My dear Lady Elizabeth, neither choice is yours. We’re already here.”
They were at the front gate, and she could see the welcoming committee awaiting them. Including Thomas of Wakebryght’s harridan of a mother, Lady Isobel. Her reaction was instinctive, unwise and immediate. She tried to jump off the horse.
She’d taken the prince unawares, but he was still too quick for her. One moment she’d seen the ground looming up from a great distance, in the next she was pulled back against his hard chest, clamped there by strong arms, so tightly she could barely breathe. “Not wise, my lady,” he murmured in her ear. “Suicide is a mortal sin. Not to mention an overreaction. If you dislike your host so much you needn’t worry. His wife was entering childbirth when we left yesterday—most likely he’ll either be at her side or celebrating his new heir. The man is thoroughly besotted.”
She knew that, far too well. “Please don’t make me go,” she whispered. “I’d rather sleep in the forest. You don’t even need to leave anyone with me to guard me—as you well know I’m not the kind of woman to tempt men into dangerous behavior.”
She didn’t understand his sudden laugh. “You’ll sleep beneath Thomas of Wakebryght’s roof, my lady. And if you give me any more arguments I’ll have you tied to my bed.”
Not a pleasant proposition. Though if it made Thomas think she’d become the treacherous prince’s leman, then he might wonder at his own rejection.
No, he wouldn’t. As children they’d played together, betrothed in the cradle, good friends as they’d tumbled in the grass. But at age fourteen, when she’d been brought to marry him, he’d looked up into her green eyes as she towered over him and simply, flatly refused.
The bride gifts were returned. As was the bride, who traveled back to Bredon Castle in an uncomfortable cart, veiled to hide her shame, while Thomas of Wakebryght married his tiny, buxom, flaxen-haired cousin Margery.
And now she was back. “I’d rather be fed to dragons,” she said under her breath.
“Unfortunately there are none around. What have you got against Thomas of Wakebryght? Did he break your heart?”
She stiffened, saying nothing, but it was answer enough. She’d forgotten how unnaturally observant the dark prince was. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you needn’t worry about it. He’s unlikely to even realize you’re here. His wife’s confinement has been quite difficult, and she’s yet to be brought to bed with a living child. I imagine he’ll be too busy worrying, celebrating or mourning to pay any attention to you.”
“God willing,” she muttered.
“Then again, if he’s mourning this might be your chance. If his lady wife isn’t up to the task of delivering an heir, perhaps she’ll die in childbed and you can take her place. A happy ending for all.”
She looked up at him, but it was full dark by now and she could only see his silhouette against the night sky. “That’s a foul thought,” she said fiercely. “I would never wish misfortune to fall on an innocent.”
He said nothing, urging the horse forward into the brightly lit courtyard.
He was right—Thomas of Wakebryght was nowhere in sight. His mother, a sour-tempered shrew with an unlikely smile of welcome on her face, and Thomas’s uncle Owen were the only ones welcoming them. There was no way they could miss seeing her, trapped as she was in Prince William’s arms, but their eyes slid over her politely to settle on their exalted guest.
“You honor our household with your return, Prince William,” Lady Isobel said in her cool voice. “We had no idea we were to enjoy the pleasure of your company so soon. I regret that my son isn’t here to greet you. His wife is still suffering greatly. I’ve sent word, however, and he should join us for dinner.”
“There’s no need. Expectant fathers are extremely tedious.” The prince slid off the horse with surprising grace, then reached up for her. For a moment Elizabeth hesitated. If she grabbed the reins and drove her knees into the horse’s flank, he’d take off, carrying her away from this wretched place and the wretched man who’d held her and taunted her.
But that would require turning the horse, who’d doubtless be in a panic, or else she’d simply ride deeper into the courtyard, and nothing would be accomplished…
She didn’t have time to finish the thought. The prince put his strong hands on her waist and lifted her down, wresting her away from her grip on the saddle, her skirts flying up in an immodest fashion before he set her on the ground. He didn’t release her—a good thing, since she still wasn’t sure she could stand.
“You are already acquainted with Lady Elizabeth of Bredon, are you not?” he said smoothly.
Lady Isobel looked as if she’d seen a snake. “Of course,” she murmured. “Welcome to Wakebryght.” Her eyes went straight back to the prince. “I’m afraid we won’t be very festive—I expect by the time you leave we’ll be a house in mourning. Lady Margery is not expected to last the night.”
“And the child?” Elizabeth asked.
Not a snake, a garden slug. “The child will die with her,” she said. “There is nothing to be done.”
Lady Margery and her unborn child would die, and Elizabeth would be there, to comfort Thomas, to aid an unwilling Lady Isobel, to perhaps change her life to what it should have been. All she had to do was remain silent.
She could feel the prince watching her, and she had the uneasy feeling that he knew everything that went through her mind. She lifted her head, looking down into Lady Isobel’s hard, dark eyes.
“I have a gift for childbirth,” she said flatly. “I’ve helped the women of Bredon through many a hard labor. Take me to Lady Margery and I will see if I can be of any assistance to her.”
It wasn’t a request, but Lady Isobel looked as if she were about to refuse. Until the prince spoke.
“Take her to the poor lady,” he said. “I grow weary of arguing in a stableyard.” And he gave Elizabeth an obnoxious little shove.
Peter watched Lady Elizabeth disappear into the depths of Wakebryght Castle, her slender shoulders squared beneath the veil of bright hair that cascaded down her back. He recognized that cool posture—it was the gait of someone marching into a battle they weren’t convinced they wanted to win, but knew they had no choice but to try.
He knew, because he’d been in that very position too many times. Trapped in the midst of bloody battles for a land already awash in human suffering, and he was never sure for what. The desert was scorching and inhospitable, the wealth that had accumulated there of little value when measured against the lives of innocents.
A Holy Land, to be sure, but a Holy Land to all faiths. And he was no longer certain that his own God wished him to kill and plunder in order to wrest it from other poor souls who happened to follow a different God who, in the end, was not so unlike his own.
She would fight for Lady Margery and her unborn child, just as he’d fought for the Holy Lands. And she wouldn’t find her sword red with the blood of those who didn’t deserve to die.
The real prince was watching him with that faint, knowing smile on his pretty mouth, as if he could read Peter’s thoughts. He was a dangerous man who’d been free to roam and ravage for far too long. For as long as he’d known him, William Fitzroy had been a vicious, dangerous man. The Crusades had suited him well—slaughter was his great pleasure—and life back in England must have paled without infidels to butcher. He’d had to turn to English innocents. It was simple enough to see how he’d managed to get away with it for so long. His enchanting smile tended to make women forget the brutalities he was capable of, and his knowledge of human nature made him far too wise when it came to getting what he wanted. William would know what plagued him. And knowing, William would use it as a weapon.
Which meant that Peter needed to redouble his efforts to keep Elizabeth away from him. To his knowledge William had never touched any but the most comely of women, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that made Elizabeth of Bredon safe. She might not be a fragile beauty, but her very strength would be an affront to someone like William.
Adrian was watching him, a troubled expression on his face. In his own way he was just as knowing as Prince William—he could sense Peter’s unexpected weakness.
It made little difference in the end. Peter had no choice but to protect Elizabeth, and if being near her brought up unexpected, long-dormant desires, then it was nothing more than fit punishment for his sins. The more he wanted her, the more painful her presence was, and he was a man who embraced pain as a means to salvation. He would welcome the torment of Lady Elizabeth’s clever tongue, knowing he would never taste it.
In the end it wouldn’t matter. In the end Brother Peter suspected he would pay the ultimate price, and it was up to his God to judge him. The sin he contemplated was far greater than the sin he was avoiding.
He was afraid he was going to have to kill Prince William. Cut his throat and let him drown in his own blood, rather than let him live to murder another innocent. There were too many women and children weighing on Peter’s soul. If he had to give his up in order to save even one, then he would do it. If he must.
He would give him time to truly repent. There was always the chance that Prince William would attain a state of grace, though he doubted it would last long. Peter had killed before, so many times he’d lost count of the corpses that had lay at his feet. He’d killed innocents and villains, women and men, aging crones and young children. In war, death was impartial.
He would break his vow and kill the man he’d been charged with protecting, kill when he’d prayed never to kill again. He would do what he must to keep one more innocent from dying.
And God have mercy on his soul.
4
For the past three years Elizabeth had been unable to think of Margery of Chester, Thomas’s chosen bride, without bitter feelings. Margery was everything she was not—small, plump, blond, docile, with a silvery laugh and an enchanting smile and the intellect of a dairy stool. Thomas had taken one look at her and forgotten his duty, his promises, his honor.
Not that Elizabeth would have wanted him against his will. But it still smarted, painfully, and while she was determined to do her Christian duty and help Margery through the dangerous journey of labor and delivery, she didn’t have to like it or her.
There were no loud screams as the servant led her through the winding halls of the small castle to the room where Margery lay. Which was either a good sign or a bad one. Perhaps all was silent because the pain had lessened and things were progressing as they ought to.
More likely Lady Margery was probably too weak to make much noise. The servant pushed open the door and Elizabeth stood still, surveying the tableau. A fire was burning brightly, so that the room was miserably hot, and a crowd of people huddled around the bed so that the occupant couldn’t be seen. There were at least of dozen of them, maybe more, including Thomas of Wakebryght, and they were arguing noisily over the bed. The smell of blood was ominous in the room. Perhaps it was already too late for mother and child.
And then the crowd parted, revealing Margery in the center of the huge bed. She was no longer the great beauty that Thomas had chosen. Her belly was swollen, her face tear-streaked, puffy and totally without color. The ankles protruding from her shift were swollen, as well, and her blond hair was a dark, tangled mess.
There was no blood on the shift or the bed, praise God. The man who was presumably the doctor was bleeding her, only making matters worse. Before the night was through the lady would be losing more blood, and she was so pale she didn’t look as if she had much to spare.
“Get out of here!” Elizabeth said in her firmest voice. “The poor woman can’t breathe, and all this noise must be driving her mad. One of the women can stay, but the rest of you must leave.”
Thomas looked at her, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, and for a moment he didn’t seem to recognize her. “I won’t leave my wife,” he said simply, turning back to Margery.
He was holding her hand, looking down at her pale, wretched figure with total adoration mixed with deep fear. He knew he might lose her, Elizabeth thought. It might already be too late.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. “This is women’s work, Thomas,” she said in the kind of voice her nurse used to use with her. “She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this….”
“I don’t care! She’s beautiful to me no matter what!” he cried.
The beauteous Lady Margery looked like a sow in labor, miserable and bloated, and the last trace of bitterness vanished from Elizabeth’s heart.
“Of course she is,” she said in a kinder voice. “But you’ll be in the way. Go and get something to eat, and take the rest of these people with you. I promise I’ll send for you if…if you need to be here.” Tact had never been her strong point, but she couldn’t come right out and discuss the awful possibility that each childbirth brought.
For a moment Thomas didn’t move. And then he brought his wife’s pale hand to his mouth and kissed it, and Elizabeth could see the impressive ruby ring that had, for a few short hours, belonged to her. And then he set it back down on the bed.
“You’ll save her for me, Bethy?” he said in a pleading voice. He was the only one who’d ever called her that, and she had actually found it quite annoying, but now she simply nodded.
“I’ll do everything I can, Thomas. Just take these people out of here and let me work in peace.”
“I’m staying, my lady,” a stout, aproned woman announced in a forbidding voice. “She’s been in my care since the day she was born and I’m not leaving her now.”
“Have you any experience with childbirth?”
The woman laughed derisively. “Eleven of my own, all living, and I’m none the worse for it. And I’ve helped with countless others. If anyone can help my lady it’ll be me.”
“Let Berta help,” one of the other women spoke in a measured voice. “She has more wits than the rest of the household women put together.”
Elizabeth surveyed the woman who’d spoken. She was a stranger to her, a newcomer to the household since her aborted marriage, but judging by the fineness of her silken garments she was one of the family. Not in her first youth, and so beautiful she put Lady Margery, in her prime, to shame.
“She may stay,” Elizabeth agreed. “And you, my lady. You seem to be possessed of calm good sense, as well.”
The faint smile on the woman’s beautiful mouth was faintly sorrowful. “You’d be the first to say so, Lady Elizabeth.”
“I don’t think my mother would approve….” Thomas began, but Elizabeth interrupted him, taking secret pleasure in her ability to order him about.
“Your mother’s wishes in the matter have nothing to do with it. Between Berta and this lady we may just save your wife and child. But if we’re to have any chance of it, the rest of you need to leave here. Immediately!”
They scampered away like mice, some clearly relieved, some disappointed at missing the high drama. Thomas was the last to leave, and he stood in the open door, lingering.
Elizabeth went up to him, putting her hands on his arm and pushing him gently out the door. “I’ll do my best, Thomas,” she said. “Go and pray.”
“Save her, Bethy,” he whispered. “If it’s a choice between her and the babe, save her. I can’t live without her.”
Elizabeth didn’t blink. “We won’t have to make such a choice, Thomas. Go.” She closed the heavy door behind him, turning to survey the scene.
The room was bigger than it had appeared with all those people in it, but Margery lay pale and still in the bed, too weary to even cry out at the pain that was lashing her body.
“Open the window a bit, Berta,” Elizabeth ordered, stripping off her cloak and rolling up the sleeves of her gown. “We need fresh air in this place. If she’s cold we’ll layer more covers on her.”
She half expected the nurse to object, but Berta did her bidding without comment as Elizabeth approached the bed. “How long has she been like this?”
“In labor?” the well-dressed woman asked. “Two days. She stopped crying out this morning. I’m afraid the baby’s dead.”
