The Marriage Bed (The Medieval Knights Series) (23 page)

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He could not refuse them entrance. Henley had been the father of his fostering; he could not turn him away. His face a mask of stone, Richard watched Henley and his retinue ride into Dornei.

He was not prepared to greet guests. He and William had been at battle, he learning rare skills in combat that William had learned in fierce battle with the Saracens. He was sweaty, dirt streaking his leather gambeson. His muscles quivering with exertion, he faced the last man on earth he wished to face.

All within the bailey could feel his tension. William lowered his sword and drew near his side. Rowland stood just to his back, his presence a dark weight which comforted. Gilbert grunted and fondled his hilt, his distrust obvious. Yet Henley had done nothing. It was Richard who was deserving of their suspicion. He knew it. Isabel knew it.

He looked toward the hall for her then, yearning suddenly to see her and yet not wanting to see her at all. Let her be spared this. God in heaven, let her not bear witness to his shame.

"Who is he?" William asked softly.

"Lord Henley of Malton. I was fostered there," Richard answered.

"A hard fostering? You are not pleased to see him," William stated. It was no question.

Richard did not answer, for what answer could he give? With a prayer of submission on his lips, he shook off his sense of doom and walked over to Henley, prepared to greet him. If he were any man at all, he would tell Henley all that had passed between himself and Bertrada. If he were a man, he would face the death that was due him without protest, as Christ had done, though Christ had been innocent and he was not.

But there was Isabel. He did not want to leave Isabel alone, without a protector.

He did not want to leave Isabel.

Then all thought left him. Henley had not come alone, nay, and the men who rode at his back lifted off their helms. One face stood out, the sun glinting off hair the warm color of polished oak, gray eyes shining with joyful malice. Adam was within Dornei again, having come with Henley. Adam, whom he had cast out, had returned.

Before he could speak, Henley preceded him. It was his way; he was a man full of the pride of life and overflowing with bluster. No simple and courteous greeting would stop him from declaring what he knew and what he wanted.

"Stay you, Richard," he commanded, his voice as thick as his torso. "Adam is pledged to me. He is as freeborn as you and may pay homage where he will. You have no authority over him now, not when you cast him out."

William and Rowland came forward to stand side by side with Richard, their hands ready upon their sword hilts. Never before had anyone stood with him; always he had stood alone. It was good to stand with trusted men, and men who, without explanation or apology, trusted you.

“The man committed offenses against my wife," Richard said evenly. "He is not welcome in Dornei."

Henley smiled. His smile was big and harsh; he had lost a tooth in the year of Richard's monkhood. "You did, perhaps, take the point too sharp, a trait I remember well in you, Richard. Adam has sworn to me; he is my man now."

It was a speech designed to shame Richard, as if he were a boy crying from a simple fall and needed urging to become more the man. It was a technique which Henley had perfected and which Richard remembered well. But his year in the abbey had taught him something of self-discipline and the danger of wild blame and false guilt. He was not as easy to shame into compliance as he had once been.

Henley continued, "Can you not forgive? Or do you seek to pluck the splinter out of his eye when the log is in your own?"

It had come. A year of running and praying, and still, it had come to stand before him in the bright light of day. There was no hiding from such a moment, though he fought the urge even now.

Richard felt the wind suck at his soul with the words. Damning words accompanied by eyes bright and hard with knowing.

Henley knew.

Henley knew all.

What had passed between himself and Bertrada stood naked and white within the bailey, there for all to see. Shame and guilt rose afresh within him, as if his year of repentance and prayer had been a night's dream. Even Adam sat his horse, smiling down at him as if he, too, knew of his sin and shame.

All would withdraw from him now; the sudden friendship of the two good and godly men at his side, men who had walked the Way of the Cross, would be ripped apart, like a weed from tilled soil. As it should. They should not bind themselves to him, he who had fallen so far and so deeply.

Into it all, flew Isabel. Wild, impulsive Isabel, who should stay as far away from this turmoil of male pride and fleshly sin as she could; yet she did not. She flew straight to him, as straight as the hawk which plummets to snag the sparrow. And her anger was writ large for all to see in her clear and shining eyes.

And she cared not who knew it, Henley was gloating; she could see it and remembered instantly all the many times she had seen that same look when he had dealt with man or maid younger or less powerful than himself. He was a proud and pompous man, and she was glad her contact with him had been little, though the shadow he cast was long and all within Malton had felt its chill to greater or lesser degree. Richard had felt it most sharply, for, while Henley had kept Richard close to his side out of favor, therein laid the problem. None were at peace that dwelt long in Henley's shadow. To bring Adam with him, to thwart Richard's will in who would or would not enter Dornei's gates, spoke all that needed to be said of the man.

And Adam—how he gloated upon his horse. All his good looks vanished with such a countenance, his pride and malice so clear to see.

She rushed to them, her eyes taking it all in—the silent support of William and Rowland and Gilbert, the mute rage and desperation of Richard. Oh, aye, desperation, for she knew well what Richard was suffering at seeing Henley again, now that she knew of Bertrada. Her husband suffered under an affliction which most men avoided for a lifetime: holy integrity. He faced the man he had betrayed, and she could almost feel the knives of guilt ripping at her as they surely ripped at him.

He looked at her then, his blue eyes as dark as deep water, and her anger fired higher, higher than the clouds, higher than the sun itself, for she could read his eyes, and his eyes told her that he expected her to join in the attack that had commenced against him within his own bailey. He expected her to stand with Henley, against him. Stupid man! Was ever a man born who understood a woman less? Did he not know that she would always stand with him, even when she did not want to be anywhere near him? He did not know her at all.

"Welcome, Lord Henley," she said, her words welcoming if her voice was not. "Welcome to Dornei. Dismount. Take your rest. I will have food prepared for you."

Henley eyed her as he eyed all who stood below him, with speculation and mild contempt. "Thank you, Isabel. You are now Lady of Dornei, I see, in deed and in truth."

"Of course I am," she bit back. She would not play his sharp and pointed games of speaking words which were shaded unto darkness and deceit. "You knew that well, I think."

"I knew it." He smiled, his missing tooth a black hole that his lips could not cover. She found malicious pleasure in that, and did not care that he would read it in her eyes. "I did not know how well you would do as lady of a great holding; you always seemed a bit dreamy to me, though Bertrada assured me well and often that you would come into your time. She read you right it seems."

She could feel Richard's tension pounding outward from him as one can feel the buffeting of the wind, and she knew well its cause... and cursed Henley for it So much came back to her of Malton then, so many memories of dinners with Henley. She had thought her memories had been the stuff of childhood, of a girl far from home in a household unfamiliar to her, but she had remembered aright. She did not like Henley. And she did not care if he knew it. "We all come into our time, my lord, and pass out of it as well." She smiled maliciously, enjoying it. “With Bertrada as my instructor in the household arts, how could I do less than succeed? Or do you think her incapable?"

Henley grunted and dismounted. "Your wife has a sharp tongue, Richard. She wants discipline. Can you not tame her?"

Richard quivered and clenched his hands into fists, the muscle in his jaw working with the rhythmic force of a pulse. "I am well content with God's provision for me. Naught is amiss in Dornei."

"Each man has his own standard," Henley grumbled spitefully.

"And mine is met in Isabel," Richard said, his silent and controlled rage a living thing which threatened to consume him.

"And Dornei will see to your needs, Lord Henley, while you are here," Isabel interjected. She did not heed Richard's words of being well content with her; she knew that it was merely a part of the verbal sparring with Henley. They had bested him, between the two of them. 'Twas a fine moment. No longer were they children, under his command and control. Now they were lord and lady, and they did not need to tolerate his oafish insults. Let Richard understand that and leave off his anger. Did he not see how it fed Henley?

"Edmund," she directed, "show Lord Henley the way to the hall. Robert, see that a light meal of chicken pasties and cheese is spread for our unexpected guests. Aelis, run and see that water is heated for bathing. I am certain that at least one bath will be required today," she said, smiling at William.

He smiled in return, and in his eyes she could read admiration. It warmed her.

Henley walked off, Adam and the rest of his men trailing behind him, as was their place in life. Adam—he should have gone to her dower lands and stayed there, as she had bade him.

Upon their leaving, Richard eased his shoulders and said, "Make certain there is enough water for two baths, Isabel. Rarely has my need been so great. Does Dornei possess a tub great enough to wash the whole of me?"

"It does," William interjected. "I have it."

For the second time in a single day, Richard smiled.

Chapter 23

Dornei had more than one tub. Richard was soaking in it, Edmund attending him, when Isabel entered the chamber. He had sent for her, knowing he would be naked and covered in naught but water when she came to him. He did not understand his own motives. He did not want to look too deeply into his heart to find them.

He soaked, wanting to wash away the odor of Henley's presence in Dornei. And Adam's. Their arrival had opened wounds barely closed from last night's confession on the marriage bed. He knew only that Isabel was angry with him. She did not seek him out. She thought him in love with Bertrada. Yet she had stood with him as he faced Henley in the bailey He had not expected such from her, yet, knowing her as he did, he should have expected nothing less. Always she had stood by him and for him, when he had done nothing but endeavor to ignore her for most of their long years together at Malton. Even now, when she had every right to spurn him, she had come when he had beckoned. And now she stood within their chamber, her eyes flashing her anger and her rejection.

Would that he could ignore her anger.

"Edmund!" she said, targeting him for her outburst, ignoring Richard. For the moment. "What was in your mind that you would attack a guest of this house and without provocation? For no matter what Ulrich said to offend you in the bailey, I know he would not have prompted anything but a smile from the stoniest heart."

"Lady," Edmund said, his eyes beseeching, his hands clasped, "I did not think—"

"That has been well documented," she cut in. "by all within Dornei."

"Hold, Isabel," Richard said, pinning her with his dark eyes. "Leave off. The boy has answered for his deeds. All has been dealt with. Say no more to him. A boys' fight, nothing more."

Nothing more? When swords had been drawn and blood sought and eyes alight with battle lust? For such she had seen, even from her perch within this very room. But she was to say no more about it, when it concerned Edmund, whom she trusted as a brother, because the Lord of Dornei and Warefeld had commanded her silence? Richard's highhandedness was intolerable. But she would say no more, not now, when it would impair Richard's credibility with those he must command; in front of Edmund, she would say nothing. To Edmund, she would say nothing more about the fight; she could acknowledge that Richard had dealt well with the matter, if only in her heart. From her lips, he would hear nothing. Would that she never had to speak to him again.

Would that he would not lie about so languidly in his tub.

She had seen little on their conjugal night; the night had been dark and her eyes had been tight with tears. Now she could see all clearly.

He looked nothing like a monk.

His arms were chiseled with muscle, his thick veins prominent, even in repose. The column of his throat was long and supple, the shading of his shaven beard a dark outline of pure masculinity that traced its way down to a lightly furred chest. His chest was broad and muscular, his stomach banded by lines of muscle that pushed at the water when he shifted his weight to sit straighter in his tub. Yea, he was lean, but not in the way of a monk. He was warrior lean and hard, battle-ready, and eager to fight. This was the Richard she remembered. This was the man she had sought as her own.