The Redeeming (9 page)

“You are proposing I tilt at a quintain?” Were it so, it would be difficult to not take offense, for he had mastered the training device years past.

Sir Everard raised an eyebrow. “If necessary, the quintain, though I had assumed you were skilled at it.”

“I am.”

“Then we shall tilt at one another.”

They did not speak again as they left the wood and strode the meadow toward the castle. Thus, Christian’s thoughts turned to whether it was possible Gaenor would wait for him. From the sun’s position in the east, it was not likely. Still, upon entering the donjon, he went to the chapel. Though not empty as expected, the one within was not the one he sought.

The priest looked up from where he knelt before the altar and quickly covered his surprise at seeing Christian in the doorway. Starting to rise, he asked, “You seek prayer, my son?”

Christian held up a hand. “Nay, Father. Forgive me for interrupting your time with God.” He pulled the door closed. Grudgingly accepting he would have to wait until the morrow, he started toward his chamber. And paused.

He looked over his shoulder down the corridor that ran shorter than the one upon which his own chamber was situated. There were only two doors, but one might belong to Lady Gaenor. And then there was the winding stair at the far end. Might her chamber be in the corner tower?

Remembering when she had told of having watched him at training in the field before the wood, he determined it had to be so, for she would require such a vantage point to see beyond the walls. Too, a tower room would afford her more privacy and make it easier to guard.

That last made him frown, until he reminded himself she’d had no escort when she ventured to the chapel. Though during her first months at Wulfen she must have been kept well under guard, with all that had passed, such measures would no longer be necessary.

Though his belly groaned, there having been no time to break his fast this morn, he moved down the corridor toward the stairs. With each step, he listened for the sound of someone upon them, but it was silent. Twice, the stairs turned upward, and at the first landing was a single door.

Christian looked from it to the next turning of the stairs that led to the tower’s roof. Light filtered down from above, evidence that the door overhead had been thrown wide. Was Gaenor up there?

He took the winding stairs two at a time. The light grew brighter and, shortly, he saw sky ahead where the door in the tower roof had been laid back. Hoping he would find Gaenor there, and not another to whom he would have to fabricate a reason for his trespass, he continued upward.

“Do not think I do not appreciate your lack of stealth,” Gaenor’s voice welcomed him in advance of his appearance.

He stepped up through the hatch, and there she sat with her back against the wall. But she did not see him, her attention turned to the tugging of her skirts down her legs—shapely legs absent hose.

“Had you not taken such pains to alert me,” she continued, “I fear you would have found your sister a most wanton sight with her gown down about her shoulders”—she looked up—“and…”

Her eyes widened and smile dissolved.

From where Christian had halted two stairs down from stepping onto the roof, he stared at her. Gaenor
was
pretty. Though most women appeared at their best in dim light that hid their flaws, it did a disservice to the woman before him.

Day’s light crowned her bare head, turned through and lightened her dark blonde hair, brushed the tips of her lashes, sparkled in her brown eyes, and fondly touched the bow of her upper lip. Sunlight became her.

“Sir Matthew, I thought you were my brother, Everard.”

“My apologies, Lady Gaenor. I did not intend to startle you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Keeping our meeting.”

“But our meeting was some hours ago. And you did not come.”

“My delay was unavoidable. Could I have sent word, I would have.”

Her lids narrowed. “What kept you?”

“Your brother took me to the wood ere dawn that I might demonstrate my ability to detect sound amidst silence.”

She lowered her gaze over him. “Only now you are returning?”

“Aye, my lady.” He looked down and grimaced at the state of his tunic that bore evidence of his contest in the wood. “When I found you absent from the chapel, I determined to seek you out.”

“You should not have.”

“And have you, the whole day, believe me incapable of keeping my word?”

A smile crept back onto her lips. “I did think that.”

He took the last stairs up to the rooftop but, as he stepped forward, she motioned for him to stay low. “You might be seen!”

It was possible, though only between the notches in the tower wall, as the donjon rose above the outer walls. Still, Christian bent as he crossed to her side. There, he turned his back to the wall and lowered to his haunches.

She looked up at him. “Surely you considered I would be under guard?”

“I did.”

“And had I been?”

“My tongue would have had to prove as swift as my sword.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You think it possible?”

Christian was surprised by the ease with which laughter rose from him. “I do not. Doubtless, I would find myself dragged before your brothers.” Worse, he would be revealed.

Gaenor studied the man whose face was so near, whose unexpected appearance had stolen her breath, whose laughter sent a thrill through her, whose body smelled of salt and steel, who made her fear for a heart already wounded.

Pulling her gaze from his gold-flecked eyes, she looked down. Why did the Lord not deny her this knight’s company as she ought to be denied—as she had tried to accept when Sir Matthew had not come to the chapel?

“You have been reading?” he asked.

She glanced at the psalter in her lap and felt a pang at having been caught delving the Lord’s word as if in dire need of counsel—which she was. She curled her fingers around the book’s thick spine. “Mostly, I have enjoyed the sun.”

“I am intrigued, as most ladies eschew the outdoors for fear of freckling. You have no such concern?”

As if freckles would detract from her long face and uneven features…

She looked up and saw he had drawn nearer yet. “Though I would not disappoint you, Sir Matthew, I confess I am not the same as most ladies. I like the sun. Thus, when it deigns to come out from behind the clouds, I seek it—regardless of freckles, regardless of skin that does not gleam like alabaster.”

“I am not disappointed, Lady Gaenor. As told, I am intrigued. Indeed, I much prefer the warmth of your skin.” He swept fingers across her lower jaw.

I am not breathing. Is he?
Drawn to his mouth, Gaenor watched as his smile lowered and lips parted.

“Will you allow it, my lady?”

Do not,
a small voice reminded her of the last time she had allowed a man so near. It would be terrible folly to have such pain visited on her again. And it was wrong.

She gripped the psalter tighter. Only a short while ago, she had prayed for the Lord’s guidance and now she longed to turn from it. To allow him to kiss her. To sin again.

She met Sir Matthew’s gaze and feared she might become lost in those golden flecks. “I cannot, for I am promised to another, as are you. Pray, do not ask me to betray him.”
Any more than already I have done.

“Lady Gaenor”—his fingers curled around her lower arm—“I would—”

She jerked her arm free and sprang to her feet. “Do not ask it of me.”

He rose. “My lady, I—”

“Gaenor?” a voice called up the stairs.

She clamped her lips closed against the cry that would have brought Everard bounding to the roof with sword in hand. Desperate to avert disaster, which might have proved mortal had she allowed Sir Matthew to kiss her, she shook her head at the knight, then tucked her psalter against her side and hastened to the hatch. “I am here,” she called and stepped onto the first stair.

From half a dozen steps below, her brother peered up at her. “Seeking sun again, eh?” he chided, unaware of the heart that knocked hard upon her breast. “If you are not more mindful, you will turn brown as a nut.” He frowned. “You have left your slippers on the roof?”

She had. “Nay,” she lied, only then remembering the psalter she held, “my slippers are in my chamber.” She took a step down and, as she reached to pull the door closed, glanced over her shoulder at Sir Matthew.

He stood where she had left him, hand on his sword, gaze steady.

Knowing it was likely the last time she would see him, for it was too dangerous to continue to meet, she closed her lids to impress the image of him upon her mind. It was all she would ever have of him.

She looked back around. “You wish to speak to me?”

“I thought you might enjoy a ride.”

Though, normally, she would have been flushed with excitement, she felt little more than a dull jolt. Easing the door closed overhead as she began her descent of the stairs, she said, “Most assuredly. Shall we depart anon?”
Pray, let it be now that Sir Matthew might sooner come down.

“If you are ready.” Everard turned and led the way.

Grateful for his back, which allowed her to ease the false smile from her face, she said, “I have but to don my mantle and slippers.” As for the latter, it was fortunate she had another pair.

Everard threw open her chamber door and she stepped in ahead of him. Within a quarter hour, they guided their horses toward the wood, and it took all of her will not to look around and search out the tower to see if Sir Matthew watched.

H
e could have made it right—revealed his identity this day. But Sir Everard had stolen the opportunity, and from Gaenor’s response to Christian’s desire to kiss her, there would be no more opportunities.

Driven by impulse to do something he should not have attempted, he had frightened her away. But some good had come of it. She had shown herself to be true. Admit it or not, she
had
wanted to kiss him and denied herself so she would not betray her betrothed. That she would not betray
him.

Hearing the pound of hooves, he stepped into the notch between two embattlements and picked out the riders who headed for the wood—the one on the left undoubtedly Sir Everard, the one on the right, Gaenor, whose hooded mantle hid her woman’s figure and hair.

As they entered the wood, Christian looked to the slippers she had left behind and determined he would deliver them to her chamber.

When he stepped into the room where she had spent these past months, he saw it was simply furnished but of good size. Still, it was far from large enough to contain
him
for as long as it had done her. She likely spent a good deal of time on the roof.

He strode across the rush-covered floor and set her slippers on the chest at the foot of the bed. Though it was all he had come to do, he paused and looked closer at the furnishings that might reveal something about Gaenor. However, the only evidence of her occupancy was a side table set with quill, ink pot, parchment, basin, and towel, and a bedside table on which lay a comb, a piece of embroidery, and the psalter she had earlier gripped as if it were life itself.

He stepped toward the latter and drew his fingers across the gilded cover. What had she been reading before his interruption?

He opened to a brightly illuminated page that immediately wafted memories of the monastery where he had bent over parchment to embellish the Lord’s word. It was as near as he had come to feeling peace in the Lord’s service—an inner calm that assuaged what was too often monotony.

Surprised by a lightening about his heart, he read the first two lines of the psalm, then closed his eyes and drew forth the remainder that was more easily coaxed to mind than expected.

He lifted his lids, flipped forward a dozen pages, and again pulled a psalm from memory. The words were still there. He had but to summon them.

He touched the illumination of King David on his throne, then turned to the front of the psalter. However, it was not a psalm he laid open, but folded parchment spotted where wax had once sealed it against eyes for which it was not intended.

Though Christian knew he should not further trespass, he unfolded it and looked upon bold, black strokes made by a dull quill.

My lady, Gaenor,

I pray one day you will forgive me. ~ Ever your friend, Durand

Christian remembered the knight who had escaped the king’s men with Gaenor and delivered her to Wulfen Castle—the same who had later accompanied Baron Wulfrith to Broehne Castle to attend Lady Beatrix’s trial. Forgive him? For what?

He had paid the knight little heed other than to be offended by his presence when Baron Wulfrith brought him along to discuss the proposal Christian had put to him—in exchange for the Wulfriths yielding up Lady Gaenor without further defiance of the king’s decree, Christian would supply testimony to aid Lady Beatrix at trial.

Remembering the seething Sir Durand who had stood behind the baron, gaze wrathful, face flushed, teeth bared, Christian wondered if he was the one to whom Gaenor had given her heart. The one whose own heart lay elsewhere.