The Redeeming (11 page)

Christian planted his legs apart. “Be assured, Sir Abel, my wife will be safe within my walls.”

“As safe as your men who fell to the brigands on the night past?”

It was a valid concern, but it chafed, for Christian had been certain he had left the castle well defended. Of course, the absence of two men-at-arms was surely the means by which Robert and his brigands had gained entrance. Despite having dismissed men from his service months past, it seemed he had not uprooted all who stood against him. Might his father have recruited the missing men-at-arms during Christian’s training at Wulfen? Might there be more? If so, how was he to route them out?

“Naught to say?”

Christian returned Sir Abel to focus. “’Tis true ill has fallen upon Abingdale, but I give my word it shall be resolved such that it will not touch your sister.”

The knight took a step toward him. “Your word is all you can give?” He gave a short laugh. “The word of a Lavonne?”

This time, it was Christian who took a step forward. Bristling with anger born of the attack on Broehne, the death of his men, and the frustration of being thwarted in speaking with Gaenor one last time, he bit, “I give you the word of Christian Lavonne, and that shall suffice.”

The knight, less than two inches shorter than he, drew himself taller. “It is not enough. Grant me a delay in your marriage until the matter of the attack on Abingdale is resolved, and I give you
my
word I will speak no more against this union.”

It was a tempting offer, for Christian wearied of Sir Abel’s opposition, but he shook his head. “Though I would have your support of my marriage, there has been too much delay already. To allow more would grant my brother another victory.”

Grudgingly, the knight inclined his head. “Then it seems I shall fear for my soul.”

“Your soul?”

He smiled grimly. “If anything happens to my sister, I shall surely break one of God’s commandments.”

Christian had no doubt which one it would be. Still, the threat against his life did not sting as sharply as it should, for it told that Sir Abel truly cared for his sister, and he could not fault him for that. “It would be deserved,” he acceded.

Surprise glinted in the knight’s eyes, but he blinked it away. “We should make haste, for night is upon us and we have many hours of riding ahead.”

“We, Sir Abel?”

“Like it or nay, I give you my services to hunt down this miscreant brother of yours.”

Argument—alongside pride—rose in Christian, but reason won out. Though he did not doubt he could bring down Robert, Sir Abel was among the worthiest warriors and would be of certain benefit.

“I do not like it,” Christian said, “but I accept your offer.”

“’Twas not an offer.”

Christian stayed his hands from gathering into fists. “Aye, it was, Sir
Knight
.” A reminder of the rank and privilege Christian enjoyed over him.

The tension between them strained, but after some moments, Sir Abel shrugged. “If ‘tis as you wish to believe, so be it.”

Denying himself the satisfaction of landing a blow, Christian strode to his chest.

Ten minutes later, he returned to the hall, all hope of meeting with Gaenor trampled beneath her brother’s meddling. Forced to content himself with requesting a private audience with her before her sister’s wedding, he, his men, and Sir Abel rode into the dark of night.

Stern Castle, July 1157

I
t had only been a kiss, and not her first, but she remembered it as she did not remember Sir Durand’s—even though twice now in as many days she had seen that particular knight. Just as she had seen the anguish in his eyes each time they settled upon Beatrix.

Battling bitterness, Gaenor looked to her sister whose head was bent to the embroidery she worked upon the gown she would don to speak vows with Michael D’Arci on the morrow.

Gaenor did not begrudge Beatrix the happiness she deserved, but she ached to have a man look at her as Beatrix’s betrothed—and Sir Durand—looked at the youngest Wulfrith daughter. More, to have a man look at her as Sir Matthew had looked at her.

He had not returned to the stream. In all the days before her departure for Stern Castle, he had not sought her out. It was as if he had left Wulfen Castle. And she told herself it was surely what had transpired, that the riders who had descended on Wulfen Castle had come for him. But try though she did to convince herself his departure was not of his choosing, she had dredged up the real reason for his absence and finally accepted it. Her talk of stealing her away had made him leave. Doubtless, the more he thought on it, the more he realized the mistake of denying the Wulfriths what they wanted. Thus, this day, sometime before the nooning hour, Gaenor would finally meet the man she would wed.

She started to clench her hands, only to realize she yet held her brother’s infant son. She looked down, and all that had darkened her world seemed to lighten as she gazed into the little one’s ruddy face. Sucking on the fist shoved against his mouth, he smiled at her amid drool that ringed his lips and wet his hand.

How I want this. How I want to hold my own babe near my heart.
And with the arrival of Baron Lavonne this day, it was possible. Within a year, she might have a child of her own. Pity that it was not as simple as that.

“You see how s-simple ‘tis?” Beatrix asked, her words and faltering speech jolting Gaenor. Though Beatrix was much recovered from the head injury sustained months past during Gaenor’s attempt to escape marriage, enough of the injury remained as proof of her sacrifice.

Smiling wide, Beatrix lifted her face to Garr’s wife who bent near. “I could teach you.”

Annyn, who had set aside her book to watch the intricate pattern of vining leaves emerge along the sleeve’s edge, exclaimed, “Ah, nay!” and sat back in her chair as if fearful Beatrix might press a needle upon her. “Truly, I am content to watch.”

“Content, ha! You are restless. I know. After all, I also have ears to hear the…” Her lids fluttered as she sought the word. “…sword practice in yon bailey.”

Annyn sighed. “I am restless, but I assure you, needle and thread will only make it worse.”

“And I assure you, that I already knew.”

They smiled at each other, and Gaenor realized this was something else she wanted—the ease of friendship. Though she had come to accept and even care for her warrior sister-in-law, her relationship with Annyn lacked the depth that Beatrix enjoyed. And it was no one’s fault but Gaenor’s.

Lord, why am I so difficult? Why can I not be more like Annyn? Or Beatrix? Was it You who formed me this way?

Movement drew her gaze, and she watched as her mother, Lady Isobel, turned from the window before which she had stood this past half hour watching for the arrival of Christian Lavonne. As stiffly erect as ever, despite the back pain she increasingly suffered, she crossed the solar to where Gaenor sat opposite Beatrix and Annyn.

“Our little one is awake, hmm?” She settled a hand on her eldest daughter’s shoulder.

Gaenor nodded. “He is.” Which was as she preferred. Sleeping children were beautiful, but those awake and in motion were truly a sight to behold.

“Let us set him in his cradle that we may make you ready,” Lady Isobel said.

Ready for Christian Lavonne. As her mother bent to lift the babe, Gaenor said, “I am presentable.”

Almost on level with her daughter, Lady Isobel glanced at Gaenor’s bodice that bore evidence of the babe’s teething. “Surely a fresh gown of finer cloth is fitting for such an occasion.” She raised an eyebrow, then considered her daughter’s hair, much of which her grandson had caused to escape the braid that hung over her shoulder. “Your hair would be lovely plaited and turned ‘round your head.”

Gaenor’s first impulse was to refuse, but she knew her mother was as set against marriage to a Lavonne as was her daughter. Still, she had resolved to make the best of it. As Gaenor yet aspired to do.

“Aye, let us make ready.” Gaenor rose and crossed to the cradle alongside her sister-in-law. As she lowered the little one, he made a burble of protest and snatched at her hair.

“I will take him.” Annyn held out her arms.

Her son swung his head toward her and squealed. A moment later, he happily slipped into his mother’s arms.

Feeling empty again, Gaenor straightened.

“Nurturing comes easily to you,” Annyn said. “Certes, you shall make a fine mother one day, Gaenor.”

Though her words were meant to encourage, they panged, for Gaenor knew God might also deny her this. Should she prove barren, what was left to her over the long, tedious days while breath yet filled her lungs?

“You would like me to also assist, Gaenor?” Beatrix asked, setting aside her gown.

And once more suffer her sister’s talk of Christian Lavonne, her assurances and numbering of the man’s qualities? “Nay, you will only fuss over me, and I am in no mood for it. ‘Tis more important that your gown be ready for the morrow.”

“You are c-certain?”

“I am.” Gaenor turned from the concerned look Beatrix exchanged with Annyn and preceded her mother from the solar.

The preparations for the meeting with Christian Lavonne took more time that they should have, and when Gaenor finally stood from the chair on which she had perched while her mother crowned her head in braids, she felt as if released from a trap.

“Turn,” Lady Isobel instructed.

Gaenor swept all the way around, then smoothed the silken material of her skirts. “Will I shame my family or not?”

Her mother winced, and Gaenor felt a slap of remorse. “You are lovely, daughter. Any man would be pleased to take you to wife.”

Gaenor did not know whether to laugh or snap at so ridiculous a claim.

Neither, for either would cause pain. Thus, she bit her tongue against pointing out that those to whom she had previously been betrothed had
not
been pleased upon meeting her. Though most betrothals, once made, were kept regardless of the feelings of the two forced into a life together,
hers
had been broken.

As if aware of her daughter’s thoughts, Lady Isobel looked away. “Let us go belowstairs.”

Despite Gaenor’s resentment at being displayed, she nodded.

As she and her mother stepped off the stairs into the hall, her brother, Garr, entered the great room. As the renowned warrior strode the rushes with long-reaching legs that reminded Gaenor of Sir Matthew, she ached anew.

Not until Garr halted before them did Gaenor notice the parchment he carried. And knew what it was. “He is not coming,” she said.

With a tight, remorseful smile, Garr inclined his head. “Baron Lavonne tells that he has been delayed and sends his regrets.”

“When might we expect him?” Lady Isobel’s level voice did a fine job of covering her frustration.

“Mayhap on the morrow, more likely the day after.”

His mother’s mouth tightened. “The day after Beatrix’s wedding.”

Garr offered his sister the parchment. “Be assured, Gaenor, the baron’s delay was unavoidable.”

She unrolled the missive. The bold stroke of Christian Lavonne’s quill, had he wielded it himself, told no more than what her brother had told, though he did request a private audience with her upon his arrival. “He does not say the reason for the delay, though you seem to know it.”

“’Tis naught you need worry over.”

And that was all he would tell. Gaenor returned her gaze to the writing, paused over the name scrawled at the bottom, and let the missive roll back on itself. “It is as it is.”

Garr laid a hand on her arm. “I am sorry. I had hoped you and the baron would have more time to become acquainted ere your own wedding.”

As had she, but did it matter? Indeed, she ought to consider it a reprieve, perhaps the last she would have.

She pushed a smile onto her lips. “In a lifetime, what does one day matter? Or two? They are just days.”

A struggle rose on Garr’s face such as she had only seen when he had been forced to decide between fealty to the man who would be king and love of Annyn. And it gave Gaenor pause. Was his struggle the evidence she had sought since her return to Stern Castle? Evidence he
did
care for her? If so, there was solace in it, for it meant he would not wed her to a man who would treat her ill—that though he wanted peace, a sacrifice he would not make of her. Dare she believe Christian Lavonne was as Garr and the others told?

Believe.

It was hard, but she determined she would, and the weight upon her lightened slightly.

She stepped forward and pressed her lips to Garr’s cheek. “All is well, Brother. Think on it no more.” She looked to her mother. “Shall we collect my niece and go to the garden?”

The worry in Lady Isobel’s eyes waned. “It seems a good way to pass the hour.”

Shortly, Gaenor, her mother, and Garr and Annyn’s three-year-old daughter lay on their backs exclaiming over the pictures that God formed from the clouds.

“Y
ou are happy,” Gaenor mused.