Her Noble Lords (8 page)

“Yes, sir,” I murmur. “I understand and I am deeply sorry for the harm I caused by my foolish actions. I desire only that you forgive me and I wish that my husband, too, could absolve me of the guilt I now feel.”

“He might. I believe I already mentioned to you that he is a tender-hearted soul and in my opinion far too easily swayed by a maiden’s pretty tears. Whilst we are alike in many ways, my brother and I, you will find I am not of such a merciful persuasion.”

“I am not pleading for mercy, my lord. I know what is to happen and I accept your justice.”

“Well, that is something, I suppose. You may be thankful though, as I am, that it is not my justice you are to receive this day. It is his.” He tilts his chin up in the direction of the far end of the chamber to a spot to the rear of where I stand.

Slowly, not daring to hope, to believe, I turn.

My knees melt, and I start to crumple to the Oriental rug beneath my feet. Ralf steps forward from his position leaning against the wall of the chamber but he is slow. It is Piers’ arms which encircle me from behind and prevent me from falling to the floor.

“My lord? My husband,” I whisper, “…you live.”

“Aye, he does. Not that this felicitous state of affairs is in any way due to any lack of effort on your part, madam. You may thank our excellent surgeon for your husband’s recovery and the mercy of almighty God for your own deliverance.” Piers lifts me in his arms and takes two strides across the room to deposit me on the large, ornately carved settle before the fire. Despite the hostile words and the anger emanating from the men before me, warmth starts immediately to seep into my being. There is a roaring fire beside me but it is not only that.

Ralf is not dead. I did not kill him. He lives. He lives!

I am sobbing with relief, with the lifting of the burden of grief, uncertainty, and guilt I have borne for weeks and hardly dared give voice to. Perhaps the knowledge I am not, after all, to end this night dangling from a noose has something to do with it. Mostly though, I weep tears of absolute joy that the man I have adored since childhood has not died at my hands.

“Such an emotional reunion. You should be touched, brother.” Piers’ tone is scathing.

Ralf’s voice is only a little less icy. “Indeed. It is to be regretted that my lady wife could not find such devotion within her before she planted a dagger between my ribs but perhaps she will be more accommodating in the future.”

“I would advise against such boundless optimism, my brother.”

“Ah, but as you always see fit to point out, I am a trusting soul. She will accept punishment for her misdemeanours, and we will move on. Is that not so, my lady?”

Ralf approaches the settle and sits beside me. Incredibly, he lays an arm across my shoulders and pulls me in toward his body. “Weep if you must, Eleanor and murmur your pretty apologies, too. When you are quite collected once more, you will accept the whipping you deserve for damn near doing me to death. Or maybe you won’t accept it but that makes no difference.”

Despite my raw emotions and confusion, some sense of what is being said manages to penetrate. My husband is talking of whipping me but he also talks of the future and of moving on. Is there really a way forward? Will being punished make this whole tragic mess all right again?

Is it really so simple?

Maybe it is and I want it to be so. Just moments ago, I yearned for the opportunity to seek Ralf’s forgiveness for the wrong I did him but that appeared a hopeless dream. He was gone, lost to me, or so I thought. Now it seems I am to have my chance after all.

“Yes, my lord. Anything. I just want you to forgive me. Then perhaps I can forgive myself.”

“We shall see. Thirty strokes with the switch on your bare bottom and thighs should be sufficient to create the required degree of penitence I expect.”

Thirty? Thirty strokes. Oh, dear Lord!

Ralf continues. “Piers will administer the punishment as I find myself still somewhat fragile and unable to do proper justice to your needs.”

“Piers? But I…” I raise my head to gaze from one to the other. Ralf is seated beside me, his body close enough to mine that I can feel the thick bandaging around his chest. His expression is more one of resigned regret than anger but I detect no softening of his resolve. Piers remains standing, several feet away. His muscular arms are folded, his features inscrutable. He does not appear angry any longer but neither should I expect any solace there. He will deliver a sound thrashing, in grim retribution for my attack on the brother who is so dear to him.

So be it. I am ready.

“It is to be here? Now?”

Piers nods.

“Not… in public?” I still retain the powerful image of the whipping I witnessed as a child, out in the bailey, the entire population of the castle and Egremont village looking on, cheering as justice was served.

It is Ralf who answers. “As far as our household is concerned, you are my wife, the countess of Egremont. It is sufficient humiliation that you have spent the first weeks of your life here in our dungeons. I see no reason to undermine your position further.”

“Thank you, my lord. But…” I hesitate, though only for a few moments. “I am not your countess. I cannot be since I am not Lady Eleanor. I know you do not believe that but ‘tis true and I cannot allow you to think otherwise.”

Ralf scratches his chin in thought. “Ah, yes, as to that… it would appear that you have succeeded in convincing Hugh Belcher of your story.”

“Yes, he believes me. He has spoken to you then?”

My husband nods. “He has provided daily reports to us on your welfare, including the details of your conversations.”

I had never considered that possibility. “He did not say. I thought…”

Piers is the one to respond to that. “Hugh had his instructions, direct from me. He is a loyal and diligent servant to Egremont as well as a fair and humane jailer. That is why I placed you in his keeping and it is why he did not allow you to know we were monitoring your captivity.”

“I believed I would be imprisoned, forgotten, until someone realised I was still alive and took the trouble to hang me.” I hang my head, the despair of the recent weeks starting to take its toll.

Ralf gets to his feet and crosses the room to stand beside his brother. “Your physical punishment now will be severe, as you deserve but true contrition will come as much from the uncertainty you have borne and your emotional response to it. I trust you will be in no hurry to repeat the experience?”

I have no doubt at all on that score. I must just pray Piers is swift in his delivery of justice and that I can survive the ordeal reasonably intact. At this moment, I am far from convinced of either.

“Do you recall that night on the Welsh Marches? It would be three, maybe four years ago. We were camped out just west of Gloucester with Henry Marwood, preparing to subdue the Marcher barons on behalf of the crown. Yet again.” Piers utters the question slowly, as though giving some consideration to his words.

“Aye, I recall the occasion well enough. Henry was in his cups as I remember it. We were not convinced his powers of recovery would permit him to see the battlefield in the morning, let alone give a decent account of himself upon it.”

“That is the very evening I have in mind. Do you recall much of his conversation that night?”

“Some. He was very drunk but I remember he spoke of his lands and estates and of his new bride, the lovely Eleanor.” Ralf casts a wry grin in my direction. “He was most enamoured of you, my dear.”

I have no opportunity to respond, though in truth, I have nothing left to say on the matter.

It would seem Piers does. “Aye, he was. Perfectly besotted in fact. He waxed quite lyrical as I recall, sharing details of a particularly intimate nature as the ale flowed and the evening grew late.”

Ralf is frowning, clearly trying to remember just what was said that night that was of any significance. Piers does not prompt him. After a few moments, my husband’s expression clears.

“The birthmark!”

“Indeed,” agrees his brother. “If Henry described it accurately and I see no reason to suppose otherwise, a most unique birthmark, too—one which would identify the bearer and leave no room for doubt, I would say.”

“How is it we did not remember this before?”

“‘Tis simple enough. We did not believe the wench and we saw no reason to seek further corroboration of her tale one way or the other. We should have.” Piers looks to me. “If your story is true and you are indeed lady’s maid to Eleanor of Wellesworth, you will know the mark of which we speak. It is on her person, in a location not likely to be known to any but her closest servants and her husband. Are you aware of such a birthmark?”

I nod. I know exactly what they are referring to. Lady Eleanor has a horseshoe-shaped mark below her right breast, almost hidden under the lower curve there. It is pinkish in colour, almost half an inch in length.

“Would you describe the mark, please?” This from Ralf.

I do so, at their request pointing to the exact spot on my own body where the identifying birthmark is to be found.

“Do you have such a mark on your body?” asks Piers.

“No, sir.”

He turns to face his brother, an enquiring grin across his features. “Ralf, I do not suppose you reached the stage where you might have…?”

My husband shakes his head. “Nay. My bride’s rather extreme response to my attempt at lovemaking rather curtailed matters before I reached that point.”

Piers returns his attention to me. “I see. In that case, madam, perhaps you would be so good as to remove the shirt.”

“But…” It is on the tip of my tongue to protest that they do not both need to see the evidence. I bite back the words. It will do no good since it is clear that neither man intends to leave. Even so, I balk at being nude in front of the pair of them.

My husband’s normally relaxed features take on a sterner edge. “We will strip you in any case for your switching, since we will require you to be naked for that. Please do not make it necessary for me to summon guards to aid you in disrobing.” Ralf’s tone has hardened and I know the outcome is inevitable.

Resigned to what is to come, I stand, reach for the hem of my garment, and pull it up over my head.

Both men gaze at my breasts and I resist the almost overpowering urge to cover them. Instead, I remain still, my own gaze fixed on a point on the far wall, close to the ceiling. Ralf steps forward, cups my right breast in his hand and lifts it. He is gentle, his palm warm on my flesh.

“Her skin is unblemished. I consider that proof enough.”

“Aye,” agrees Piers. “It would seem we owe you an apology, little maid. Our actions have caused you considerable inconvenience.”

Somewhat of an understatement in my view but I remain silent.

“And placed all of us in a difficult situation,” adds Ralf, “not least in the matter of our so-called marriage.”

“At least the wench called a halt to proceedings before your blessed union could be consummated,” observes his brother dryly. “You will be able to obtain an annulment without undue difficulty.”

An annulment? I suppose I knew this outcome to be inevitable but the bald statement saddens me. My marriage was tenuous, at best, based on falsehood and misunderstanding but it was still curiously precious to me while it lasted, the culmination of a child’s idealistic dream.

“Aye, that will be best. I will send a courier to the priest who performed the ceremony summoning him here. It would be better to resolve the matter with no undue fuss. Few enough people are aware of the marriage, indeed none outside our own immediate circle, so the damage will be minimal.” Ralf smiles at me. “You will find yourself able to marry another should the occasion arise.”

I sincerely doubt any such opportunity will come my way, nor would I wish to marry again. My marriage was a sham but it was the only union I have ever desired, however far-fetched the fantasy.

Piers continues. “You will be free to go as soon as your punishment here is concluded. You will no doubt desire to return to Wellesworth, in which case, we will provide you with an escort.”

“I… I see.” The matter of my switching had momentarily slipped my mind. I clench my buttocks in dread anticipation of the assault to come.

Piers marches over to the table to pick up a slender branch of wood which must have been left there in readiness for this moment. The protruding twigs have been torn away to leave a smooth, even surface. He slices the switch through the air, causing a loud whistle to pierce the tense silence within the solar. I wince. This is going to hurt terribly.

“Given the circumstances, I am minded to reduce the girl’s punishment accordingly. The lass was, after all, defending her honour. Fifteen strokes rather than thirty. Would you agree that seems fair?” Piers addresses his words to Ralf, one eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

“I have no objection to that.” My not-quite husband tilts his chin at me. “Do you understand why you are being punished, Linnet?”

“Yes, sir.” I see no point now in delaying matters. “It is because I attacked you and injured you.”

“Indeed. We accept that the fault was not entirely yours. Far from it in fact. But your reaction was extreme and unwarranted and you damn near killed me with that dagger of yours. I lost a lot of blood and lay ill with a fever for a week. The matter cannot go unpunished.”

“No, sir.” It is true that I bitterly regret my actions and it is with relief that I note the reduction in my punishment. “I am sorry.”

“I do believe you. Now, please bend over the table, Linnet.”

My legs are shaking as I step forward. This will soon be over, I tell myself. I will survive. They do not intend to injure me. I repeat that mantra as I lean on the heavy, solid table.

A hand between my shoulder blades presses me forward. It is Piers. Ralf has moved around to the opposite side of the table and is reaching to take my hands.

“Rest on the table. I will hold your hands. Do not be afraid, you will not fall.”

It is not the fear of falling which so dismays me but I find the touch of his hands on mine comforting even so.