wcEND.rtf (34 page)

In bewilderment Godfrey stared at her. then nodded.

"I am glad you did not destroy it, Godfrey," Isabel said in further reassurance.

Relief relaxed the muscles on Godfrey's face. "Would you allow me to continue to work on it?" he asked tentatively.

"Absolutely."

His face broke into a big smile. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you. I am certain you will be pleased with the work once it is done and I vow not to allow it to interfere with
my duties to Windermere Castle. They shall always come first."

Isabel nodded. "I am sure of that." She paused. "Maybe I can help you with your work,"

"With my duties?"

She shook her head. Not exactly! "With the book." That was a chance of a lifetime. And though she had no experience with that kind of work, it would be just glorious to be able to try her hand at something new.

Godfrey hesitated. "I mean not to discourage you, my lady, but scribing and illuminating are difficult tasks."

He didn't seem to have much trust in her artistic talents. Obviously Détra wasn't interested in that kind of work, though she seemed efficient enough in just about everything related to the keeping of the castle. At this point, Isabel had ceased to worry about discrepancies between Détra'
s
behavior and hers. It was obvious everyone should have noticed by now a distinctive difference between the two women. Besides, she'd already gone out of her way, even at her own peril, not to cause Détra trouble. She needed to do this for herself.

"I am well aware of that, Godfrey," Isabel said. "I just feel inspired of late to pursue different interests. Besides, it cannot be any more difficult than the intricate patterns of embroidery I am used to doing
.
" Though she knew nothing could be further from the truth, she spoke with conviction to allay Godfrey's doubts.

The look on his face told Isabel she hadn't succeeded, but to his credit he didn't roll his eyes or contradict her.

Ah! The advantages of being the lady of the castle.

"I offer my assistance with the inscriptions," he said. "But I confess I have little talent with the illuminations. Brother Gene did all of those before he passed away."

Isabel picked up the parchments again and skimmed through the pile, realizing
the illustrations, or illumina
tions as Godfrey called them, were finished.

Disappointment filled her.

Godfrey must have noticed it for he said, "There is still the cover leaf to be done. Mayhap my lady would like to paint a picture."

Isabel's overburdened heart gave a leap of joy.

"I most definitely would." She hadn't done any painting in weeks and she was feeling the effects of withdrawal. Besides, she needed an outlet for all the worries in her heart; otherwise she would explode with frustration. God knew painting was Isabel's most cherished gift. She wouldn't turn away from such a pleasure.

"I wi
l
l need your help with the supplies," Isabel said.

Godfrey nodded. "I have some colors already prepared, my lady, but if you need others, I shall provide them to you."

"Excellent!" Isabel couldn't help the excitement rushing over her. She needed that, badly indeed!

"Mayhap we should begin on the morrow?" he asked. "The day grows old and the light of candles and oil lamps might not be enough."

Isabel wouldn't hear of postponing such pleasure until the next day. She wanted to start immediately. "I would like to get a head start," she said, already deciding in her mind what would be the most appropriate image for the cover of a Book of Hours.

******************

WONDERING IF HE WOULD FIND DÉTRA PORING OVER the ledgers in the war chamber, since there was where Maude said he could find her, Hunter crossed the hall with large strides.

Since she had found out the chalice was out of her reach,
Détra
's mood had been rather frazzled. Not that he could blame he
r
—
s
he had been through quite an ordeal
in the past few week
s
—
b
ut Hunter hoped she would return to her duties and therefore find some contentment in her new life.

He knew, however, through Maude, that Détra struggled in performing the duties that came so easily to her in the past, and that in frustration she had delegated them to others. Clearly, her lack of memories was taking a heavier toll on her than Hunter had thought.

Guilt speared him. It was his fault she could not remember, his wish that had provoked such a change in her. If she was unhappy with her life, how could she be happy with him?

Only the chalice could change that. Did he have the right to keep it from her?

Mayhap Détra would still find something to occupy her time and mind. He opened the door to the war chamber and found her bent over a table, totally entranced with her work. She did not even notice his presence until he stood beside her.

She lifted her gaze from the parchment to him. "Hunter," she said, breathless as if she had been running. Her eyes glowed and a smile of pure joy shone on her face.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"I paint." With undisguised pride she showed the beautiful painting of Our Holy Mother Mary she was working on.

It was beautiful, indeed. "I knew not you were interested in idle pursuits such as painting."

The smile disappeared from her face and, frowning, she jerked to her feet. Immediately Hunter realized her displeasure. What had he said to vex her thus?

"Idle pursuit? Is that what you think this is?" She glared at him.

Hunter glanced at the painting again, recognizing her gift, and then at the man
y parchments on the table, real
izing that together they would compile a Book of Hours. "I mean no disrespect," he said, feeling at an utter disadvantage. He knew naught of artistic pursuits. "But I was unaware painting or prayer held any interest to you." He certainly had not seen her spend any time on either pursuit before.

Displeasure rose with the color of her cheeks. "You know me not at all," she accused.

Indeed that was a fact of which he was more and more aware as time passed. He knew little of the
Détra
of old and even less of this Détra of new.

There was no doubt in his mind and in his heart, however, which one he preferred.

Not since his mother's death had Hunter felt so cherished and loved, and he treasured the intoxicating feeling. He would not allow his
l
ack of knowledge to destroy what he had found with
Détra
.

"
Then help me know you better," he said. "And I shall endeavor not to displease you with my comments."

She sighed, sitting down at the stool. "I have no need for false praise. A
l
l I ask is that you do not dismiss as inconsequential something that is very important to me."

He picked up the pile of parchments on the table and inspected them.

"I did not do those," she said.

He nodded, then looked at the illumination she was working on. Immediately he could see a subtle difference. Hers was more vivid, more real, with more feeling. For that was how Détra was. She had turned from a withdrawn
,
hostile wife, into a loving, attentive one. A wife with no qualms about touching or kissing him no matter in whose presence. A wife not ashamed of his humble beginnings.

Hunter's heart seemed to fill his chest. How he wished
he could make some enlightened comment about her wonderful work.

"I am just a warrior, Détra," he said simply. "But even I am in awe of such a gift
.
"

She looked at him for a moment, judging his sincerity, and he withstood her stare, for he meant what he said. She smiled, and her whole face glowed with pleasure.

"I have no doubt of your valor as a warrior and I have been extremely pleased with your skill as a lover
.
" She smiled wickedly at him. "Of course, it would be too much to expect an art connoisseur as well." She shrugged her shoulders. "Perfection is, after all, overrated."

He would show her perfection. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. What could be more perfect than the two of them together?

******************

THEY WALKED HAND IN HAND
I
NTO THE GREAT HALL and sat at the lord's table. They had shared a meal there several times in this past week, and only a few curious gazes still lingered on them.

Serving wenches brought small basins with water so they could wash their hands, then in the absence of a priest, Hunter broke the bread with a prayer of thanksgiving so everyone could finally eat.

The meal progressed amid animated conversation in a joyous atmosphere that Hunter had seen only recently in his hall
.
When he had first arrived in Windermere he had found the castle and its people immersed in such gloominess, he had thought at first he was the cause. Later, he had learned that the oppressive life William, their former lord, had pressed upon them had been the true culprit of their unhappiness. That they now seemed freer, happier, pleased Hunter immensely. He felt a measure of pride for his contribution.

Even Détra, who had been in a morose mood this past week, seemed to be enjoying herself this night.

Hunter was pleased Détra had found a distraction after all.

After supper, Godfrey played the lute, st
ri
nging along a love song. Hunter had the impression he was singing to Maude. Were they sweet on each other?

When the strands of the melody died, Godfrey turned to Détra and asked, "Mayhap our lady would enthrall us with her enchanting voice."

Everyone in the great hall lifted an expectant gaze to Détra, and so did Hunter. He had heard her singing a long time ago at Hawkhaven and he had never forgotten that day. She had an angel's voice.

But at the horrified look on Détra's face, Hunter frowned. Surely it could not be modesty what prevented her from rising and entertaining them with her voice.
Détra
had not a bashful bone in her body. Besides, she had showed him the illumination of Our Holy Mother Mary with unabashedly pride.

Why would she balk at singing when her talent was evident?

Uncertainty rose again in his mind. There was so much about Détra's change he did not understand. Détra had forgotten how to ride a horse or tend wounds, a
n
d knew not how to embroider or make candles, according to Maude. And yet she painted beautifully when she had never done before, loved apples when she had detested them before, and loved him when she had hated him before.

Even the way she walked and spoke, the way she smiled, the way she looked at him, made him think of a completely different person. He could not comprehend such changes in connection with loss of memory. One did not forget certain aspects of life.

And yet Détra had. His doubts resurfaced.

"You need not sing, if you do not wish," Hunter said. 'They will understand, however much they long to hear your beautiful voice."

Beautiful voice!
That was one thing Isabel had never possessed.

Daughter to two singer/musicians, her parents had expected her to be able to sing, but no matter how hard she'd tried she could hardly hold a note.

Finally her parents had accepted her talents lay elsewhere. Isabel had embraced her painting with undisguised relief, though in the back of her mind she often wondered whether her relationship with her parents would've been closer had she been able to sing.

And now these people expected her to sing for them? Of course, Isabel realized she was in possession of Détra'
s
voice, not hers. And by Hunter's accounts the woman could sing. And yet, Isabel didn't know any medieval songs.

"I do not remember any songs,'* she said.

Hunter nodded, then addressed the people at the hall, "My lady feels unwell to sing this night."

There was an audible noise of disappointment. Isabel had offered that same excuse so many times already to avoid doing something she was inept at that these people must think her the biggest sissy aliv
e
—
a
sure contrast to the
Détra
of old.