Rexanne Becnel (3 page)

“You should not seek me out,” she admonished him softly. Then she pulled away. “It does neither of us good and most certainly is a disservice to your wife.”

For a moment his eyes ran over her and Lilliane felt her heart quicken. “It was only that you are even more beautiful than ever, Lilliane. Even my memories could not do you justice,” he vowed with one hand held earnestly to his velvet-clad chest.

“Please, William. You must not say such things to me.”

“May I not speak the truth when I see it?” he reasoned, taking a step forward. “May I not say how like the fields your eyes are, amber and forever changing? May I not say how like the autumn’s russet leaves your hair is, red and brown and golden? May I not—”

“No!” she rejoined sharply as a knife seemed to twist in her heart. “You may not say such things to me, now or ever. It got us nowhere before, and now you have a wife.”

He seemed to come to his senses then, for his face became harder and his smile faded. “Yes, I do have a wife. But you have no husband. Is it still your father’s plan to find you one? Or will you continue at the abbey?”

Lilliane shook her head slowly. Her decision was suddenly easy to make. “No, I shall stay here. Whether he will see me wed I cannot say. But for now I shall stay.”

For a long moment William only stared at her, and she feared he meant to throw all caution to the winds and take her in his arms. A small part of her would have welcomed his domination: it had been so long since she had felt beautiful and desirable. But there was another side of her that found his amorous pursuit completely distasteful. He had a wife. His moral duty must be to her and to no other. Oh, she knew that many married men dallied with other women. But she would never stoop to participating in such perfidy.

Her disapproval must have shown on her face for William seemed to become annoyed. “You’ll have no say in whom he chooses, you know. He’ll use you for whatever purposes best suit Orrick.”

“Can you say you would do otherwise with your firstborn daughter?” Lilliane challenged him in quick defense of her father. “Can you say you will not use that babe that even now grows beneath your wife’s heart to achieve what you cannot get in any other fashion?”

Surprise registered in his face then, but his answer sidestepped her words. “I would have made him a good son-in-law. I would have made Orrick a good lord and I would have made you happy.”

“That may have been, but it’s too late now.”

Frowning, William turned to leave, but then he paused and peered closely at her. “Perhaps I should warn you that I’ve seen Sir Corbett at court, not three weeks past. He’s back from the crusade. He still has no wife.”

With that parting comment he left.

She heard the sound of his descent. She heard the faint echoes of the gathering below. But Lilliane did not heed any of those things. Instead it seemed that a dreadful weight of foreboding lodged in her chest. Like a web, the threads of her past seemed to wind about her and imprison her.

Then on swift feet she hurried to her own chamber and pulled the heavy paneled door closed behind her. Her fingers trembled as she unlaced her overdress, then removed her stockings and slippers. She loosened her wimple and unwound her hair from its tight coil, then shook its luxurious length free. Absentmindedly she began to plait it for bed when a sudden thought gave her pause.

She moved to an oaken chest beneath the narrow window and knelt before it. Within its depths were the memories of her entire childhood: the linen garments she’d stitched for her wedding, the fabric she had laid aside for her eventual husband’s wedding costume, and the tiny garments she’d begun for her babies. A chain of daisy flowers, withered and dry, a scapula that was torn but too sacred to discard, and a collection of pebbles also were buried within its depths, but it was not any of these she sought. In the far corner of the chest, wrapped in a rough bit of fustian, old and softened by countless washings, she found the package she searched for.

Lilliane sat back on her heels and stared at the abandoned bundle for a long time before she opened it. When she brought the two items into the light, she was almost disappointed with their shining beauty. They were an ornately designed hair comb and a silver looking glass, both engraved with curling tendrils and lily flowers. On the back of each a fanciful letter
L
was formed, set with sparkling chips of meridian. The lavender gems were from the Middling Stone, she recalled, the stone that marked the dividing line of Windermere Fold.

She traced each shape as she’d done so often in her youth. Somehow she’d expected them to be hideous now, as ugly and awful as the terrible state between their two families. But no, the two pieces were as exquisite as they’d ever been.

With an angry oath she pushed them away from her.

She had no reason to fear Corbett of Colchester’s return, she told herself. He would never seek out his enemy’s daughter. Never.

Calming herself with that thought, she retrieved the silver glass and brush and quickly wrapped them back in their coarsely woven cloth. Then she thrust them into the deepest corner of the chest and piled the other items over them. She slammed the chest closed and quickly blew out the candles, then she hopped into her high curtained bed.

Then, as if for good measure, she pulled the heavy fur cover up over her head.

A
TRAY CLATTERED FROM
the servant’s hand. He cringed as his master sharply cuffed him, but he obviously knew better than to run from his lord’s anger. Every servant at Colchester was well aware that left without an outlet, Sir Hughe’s fury would increase tenfold. In spite of his quaking fear, the poor man only bowed his head and inured himself as best he could to the rain of blows.

Sir Corbett of Colchester could not hide his disgust at his older brother’s display. His face darkened in a frown and that, taken with the wicked scar that marred his brow, gave him a fierce expression. With three quick strides he entered the hall and crossed directly to Hughe.

“Do you have trouble with the servants? I recall no such problems at Colchester Castle in the past.”

Hughe drew himself up immediately. When he turned to his brother there was no trace of anger on his face, nor chagrin either. But the smile he forced to his lips was also devoid of any warmth. Corbett had to steel himself against the distaste he felt for his brother, the last living remnant of his family.

“He is lazy,” Hughe explained with a shrug. “As is the lot of them. I should send them all to work in the fields. Then they might appreciate my generosity, which they now take so much for granted.” With a flick of his hand he signaled the hapless servant to leave.

On the surface it was nothing of any great merit: a careless servant reprimanded by his master. But Corbett was finding too many disturbing incidents at Colchester for him simply to ignore. On the surface the castle was finer than ever it had been; rugs, tapestries, and even window glass made Colchester impressive indeed. Yet beyond the fine trappings all was not as it should be. Corbett had been home but three days, yet he’d not been able to miss that fact.

The conversation was strained as the two brothers made their way toward the bailey. Hughe spoke of inconsequential matters, of hunting and his prize falcons. Yet Corbett had the uneasy feeling Hughe was avoiding something. On the steps of the hall Corbett turned to face his brother. Although he was troubled, he kept his face carefully composed.

“There was not much talk of the northern shires in London. And you’ve said little enough. Does this mean nothing has changed in the years I’ve been gone?”

Hughe studied his tall younger brother through narrowed eyes. Then he pursed his lips and looked away. “We do well enough considering we do it without benefit of a king.”

It was a curious statement and Corbett was puzzled by his brother’s odd tone. “Edward has England’s good at heart. As a loyal citizen you can hardly doubt that. If he is not definite about his return from the East, we must trust that it is a well-considered decision.”

Hughe peered sharply at Corbett. But when his brother’s stare did not waver, Hughe’s dark eyes darted away. His lips thinned and sarcasm edged his voice when he replied. “There are those who say England is better off without his presence. I only hope the mad Scots to the north are as patient in awaiting his return as we ‘loyal citizens’ must be!”

There was an awkward silence between them as they descended to the bailey. Then Hughe recovered a modicum of good grace.

“Now that you depart Colchester, shall you make your way to London? Or perhaps return to the East?”

It was a polite question, forced perhaps, but polite nonetheless. Most certainly it would have been natural for Corbett to answer his only brother with the truth. But there was an uncomfortable tenseness between them, and Corbett responded with a caution he’d never thought to use with his own flesh and blood.

“London holds no real appeal. And I’ve no longer the stomach for the wars against the Turks.”

“Edward is said to be much in your debt. He is clearly enamored of Normandy. Mayhap he will settle you with some well-dowered Norman bride.”

Corbett could not help but note his brother’s satisfied expression, and he felt an inexplicable sorrow. It was clear Hughe was eager for him to leave Colchester. Only the reason behind it was hard to determine.

Their parting was not fond, although Hughe forced a jovial mien. For three days Corbett and his band of knights and men-at-arms had sought the comfort of the home they’d left four years earlier when they’d joined Prince Edward’s crusade. But there had been a coolness to their welcome just as now there was a subtle but undeniable relief about their departure.

Before Corbett would leave, however, he made a final visit to the family’s tomb. The chapel was cool and dim. And musty. Another change from the days when his mother had seen every least portion of the castle clean and well aired, Corbett brooded. But his mother was dead now. She had not long survived her husband’s death. Only he and Hughe remained, and there was a strain between them that he feared was caused by more than merely years and distance.

Corbett sighed and rubbed the jagged scar that marked the side of his brow. Whatever he had expected of his return to Colchester, this most certainly had not been it. He could always return to London and await the new king there. He was sure that was precisely what Hughe expected him to do. But that did not fit into his plans. Instead he would have to move his men into the Colchester fields and set up a temporary camp. Some more permanent arrangement would have to be made before winter fell in earnest, but for the present he had no alternative. Hughe was clearly ill at ease with him at Colchester and equally uneasy about King Edward’s tardy return to England.

With another sigh he turned to leave. He had long ago grown tired of the miseries of war, of the suffering and the slaughter. Still, at least in war one knew what one must do and who the enemy was. Here in the northernmost reaches of England his purpose was vague and his enemies unknown. And yet, he was the prince’s—the new king’s—man. He would do as his liege lord required, and he would do it well.

When the contingent of soldiers departed Colchester a short time later, there was none of the gaiety that more commonly marked such activities. No horns sounded or flags waved, save the standards Corbett flew. They rode north, and once they were well away from the castle, one of the knights joined Corbett at the head of the double column.

“Blessed relieved I am to be leaving,” the burly giant muttered. “’Tis very like a morgue there. What ails the place?”

“Hughe,” Corbett replied curtly. He shifted in his saddle and looked at his second in command. “My brother was always a strange one, Dunn. You can recall that. Often given to moods. But this …” He shrugged. “He was thoroughly unsettled by my return.”

Dunn snorted. “His knights—if you want to honor them with that title—have all grown fat and lazy. ’Twould be an easy task …”

Corbett smiled grimly. “If it were that simple. But that’s not our purpose here.”

“’Tis our purpose to quell the opposition to King Edward in northern England—”

“Our purpose is to put down any treasonous plots. That has nothing to do with Hughe.”

“Nothing apparent,” Dunn intoned somberly. “He was not happy to see you. God’s blood, man! If it is not you he fears, then who?”

It was a question Corbett was to ponder long and hard. During the gruesome years of fighting at Edward’s side, then throughout the perilous return journey across the European continent and the dangerous crossing of the channel to England, he’d been sustained by thoughts of this beautiful, green valley. Windermere Fold had been like a shining beacon in the forest, promising peace and respite from the endless horrors of war.

His gaze swept slowly across the valley, taking in the wide sloping fields divided neatly by low stone fences and dense green hedgerows. It was this very place he had longed for, and yet now that he was back he found it mired in secrecy and deceit. His mouth turned down as he thought of the name he’d earned: the king’s Bird of Prey. He’d gladly protected his liege from the threats of the infidels. But now it was a threat from within that he must quell. And his enemy might be anyone—even his own brother.

The sun was well into its downward arc when Corbett broke ranks with his men and pushed his rambunctious destrier forward. Just ahead of them was the Middling Stone, and he urged his mount up the narrow trail that led toward its peak. Little more than a ledge protruded from the great stone outcropping, and it provided scanty footing for the mighty steed. Yet neither man nor beast was deterred. Upward they went, passing beyond the view of the men who waited at the base of the stone.

When the heavy destrier reached the end of the rugged path, he stood obediently while his rider dismounted. Then hand over hand, with his leather-shod feet struggling for a hold on the cold jagged rock, Corbett hauled himself up toward the peak. His breath was coming hard and fast when he finally reached his goal.