Lady At Arms, page 24
“I will stain my sword with his blood!” Ranulf bit.
“The knave is mine,” Gilbert countered, “as is this Darth.”
Ranulf’s mother leapt from the chair. “If ’tis my Colin, you will do no such thing, Gilbert Balmaine. He is my son and cannot be held accountable for those things another surely forced him to do.” She turned to Ranulf. “Is that not so?”
He looked from her to the woman he held in his arms. “We will have to see,” he said. “Some things can be forgiven. Others?” He shook his head, then eyed Balmaine. “We will do this together. When I have recovered sufficiently, you and I will meet Charwyck and demand satisfaction for the pain he has inflicted upon our families.”
Balmaine snorted. “Then you had best be recovered within the hour, for I ride this afternoon.” He turned on his heel and stalked to the door.
“How do you propose to get past my men?” Ranulf called, bringing the other man to a halt.
Balmaine returned and halted before Ranulf. “I shall place Chesne back in your hands. Your men can have no objections to allowing us to leave peaceably.”
Ranulf smiled. “Of course not—providing they have a good length of rope with which to string you from the nearest tree.”
Balmaine’s hands turned into fists.
“You may as well accept it, Brother,” Ranulf said, “for ’tis the only way you will leave Chesne alive.”
The man’s face reddened.
“Please, Gilbert”—Lizanne slipped off Ranulf’s lap, stepped near her brother—“do not do this alone. Wait for Ranulf.”
“You do not trust me?” he bit. “You think I will fail you again?”
“I do not. But as my husband, and a man terribly wronged, he has the right to go with you.”
Balmaine stared long at her, then shifted his gaze to Ranulf. “A sennight, then.”
“Nay, a fortnight,” Lizanne said. “His wound went deep.”
Her brother was nearly trembling with whatever he struggled to contain. “Very well, a fortnight. Then I ride—with or without you, Wardieu.” He turned, crossed the room, and slammed the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Over the next several days, Ranulf remained distant with Lizanne, angry with her for having kept her knowledge of Philip from him. He allowed her to tend his wound but was otherwise withdrawn. Between Lady Zara, Geoff, and Walter, all his other needs were met without so much as a single request made of her.
It pained Lizanne, but she refused to give in to the easy comfort of self-pity, accepting Ranulf’s anger as his due.
During that time, the tensions eased between her brother and him. From a distance, she watched their mutual animosity evolve into a tentative alliance. Though pleased, it also made her feel more of an outsider, especially since they always set aside their conversation in her presence.
Sleeping on a bench in the great hall, a coarse woolen blanket her only companion, she got very little sleep, though more because of her whirling thoughts than discomfort.
Each day, she determinedly set about familiarizing herself with the castle and its people. Though disheartened by her reception, she was not surprised that, as the sister of the man who had laid siege to Chesne, the castle folk were less than friendly.
They snubbed her, going out of their way to avoid being near her. Even Gilbert’s appearance could not clear a room faster than hers. It did not seem to matter that she was their lord’s wife. And Lady Zara, who had warmed only slightly, was short with her and ofttimes argumentative. It took very little intellect to discern that, until the woman accepted her, Ranulf’s people would not.
Once satisfied with exploring the castle, Lizanne spent hours in the outer bailey, watching with longing as Ranulf’s and Gilbert’s men tilted at the quintain, practiced archery, and fiercely tested each other’s sword skill. With nothing else to occupy her, she contented herself with analyzing the mistakes made by the competitors and visualizing what she would do differently. It sustained her. For awhile.
In the evening of her fourth day at Chesne, feeling the forced distance between Ranulf and her had gone on long enough, she climbed the stairs to the solar.
Softly, she closed the door behind her, leaned back against it, and contemplated Ranulf’s still form that lay in shadow upon the bed. Unnerved, but determined, she gathered her courage, crossed the room, and began to shed her clothes. When only her thin shift remained, she folded back the covers and slid in beside her husband.
She felt him stiffen when her thigh brushed his, but she moved closer.
“What are you doing, Lizanne?” Irritation was evident in his voice.
She pulled the covers up over her shoulders, lifted her head and, in the bare light of the room, met his sparkling gaze. “I am your wife now. It should not be necessary for me to seek accommodations elsewhere.”
“So, you grow weary of sleeping in the hall with the others. Is it too cold or too crowded?”
She bit back the prideful response that was the first to make it to her lips, shook her head. “’Tis too lonely.”
He was silent a long moment, then slid his fingers into her hair and cupped the back of her head. “I did not know you wished to be here with me.”
She shivered. “I do.”
“Why?”
“A wife should sleep where her husband sleeps. Otherwise, ’tis not likely there will ever be peace between them.”
“And you want peace?”
“Verily.”
Ranulf stared up into her shadowed face. At that moment, it would not have taken much for him to cross the line he had drawn between them and satisfy his baser needs, but he held himself in check. “What convinced you it was not me who committed those crimes against you and your brother?”
She sighed. “Sir Walter told me I must lead with my heart. And my heart told me it was not you.”
Walter had said that? Stern, serious Walter who rarely led with anything but his head? What magic had Lizanne worked on him to bring forth such flowery, poetic advice? Of course, Ranulf was not blind to the bond between his vassal and his mother, but it had always seemed more friendship than anything else—at least, until the day Lizanne had revealed the missing piece of her conversation with Charwyck and his mother had held tight to Walter’s hand. However, Ranulf had been too taken with anger and frustration over Lizanne’s revelation to expend thought on what his mother and vassal might feel for one another.
Lizanne’s next words pulled him out of his reverie. “Even before we wed, my heart was telling me this, but I would not listen. I was too frightened.” He heard her swallow and wondered if she pushed down tears. “And though I continued to deny your innocence when I saw you did not bear the scar, inside I knew. Ah, Ranulf, I am sorry.”
He drew her head down to his shoulder. “As am I for the suffering my family has caused yours. But why could you not have told me this sooner, Lizanne? So much pain it would have saved us both if you would have revealed your grievances against me when I took you from Penforke.”
She drew a shaky breath. “In the beginning, I was certain it was you, and I knew such a villain who was also a nobleman was far more dangerous than one born a commoner—that he could not possibly allow one to live who knew his secret. I thought you a murderer and…”
Her body convulsed with a sob, and then came tears.
Ranulf held her, stroked her hair, and whispered soothing words. When she calmed, soft hiccuping all that remained of the expression of her anguish, he said, “No more, Lizanne.” He lightly drew his hand down her spine and up again. “Henceforth, you will not cry over this. ’Tis done.”
She lifted her head, and he felt her gaze seek his. “You forbid me the comfort of tears?”
“I do not like it when you cry.”
It was not his intent to anger her, and yet when he felt that emotion stir between them, he was not at all averse to it, for it meant she would be fine. She was too fiery to be otherwise.
“Then I will be finished with crying—for now. However, if I must do so again, I shall.”
“You would defy me? Your lord and husband?”
“’Tis not defiance!” She sat up on her knees at his side. “You cannot tell someone when to turn their emotions on and off. It is more complicated than that. I am no puppet, and if you expect me to behave as one, there will never be peace between us.”
Ranulf could no longer contain his laughter. It rolled out of him and carried around the chamber.
“Why do you laugh?” she demanded.
He sobered as quickly as he could. “I am pleased with you, Wife.”
“Pleased with me? As the king forced you to this marriage, I would not think you would be pleased at all.”
Sliding a hand behind his head, he peered up at her shadowy figure. “The king did not force me, Lizanne. I chose to offer for you.”
That silenced her, and when she finally spoke again, her words were not much more than breath. “You told me you had declined.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It is something I am still sorting out for myself.”
Lizanne stared at him, longed to see his face that might reveal if his struggle was the same as hers had been before she had accepted it was love she felt for him. She sighed. “That is good—one less thing for me to feel guilty about.”
Ranulf chuckled and pulled her back down beside him.
She settled her head on his shoulder and placed a hand to his chest to feel the beat of his heart.
Shortly, his voice came low to her. “Each time you look upon me, will you remember what that other one—my brother—did?”
Lizanne did not immediately respond, not because she did not know the answer but because it was more easily answered than she would have believed. “When first I laid eyes upon you at Lord Langdon’s castle, ’twas as if only yesterday it had happened. Now it seems a very long time ago. Mostly, I see only you.”
“It is unfortunate such a tragedy brought us together, Lizanne, but I am grateful for it.”
She pressed nearer. “Ranulf?”
“Shh. Go to sleep. We will have our wedding night later.”
She started to protest his conclusion, but realized she would not be believed. And rightfully so.
She closed her eyes. However, though her mind was fatigued, sleep did not come, for she remained too aware of the warmth of her husband’s body. Nor did it help that he lay awake as told by his shallow breathing and the brisk beat of his heart beneath her palm.
Certain the only way she would sleep this night was apart from him, she lifted his arm from around her waist and moved to the edge of the bed.
To her surprise, he followed and curled his body around hers. It felt wonderful, but it was worse than before.
“I wish you would not do that, Ranulf.”
“What?” he asked near her ear.
“Touch me without…touching me.”
“I but wish to hold my wife.”
“But I cannot sleep for being so near you. And, it seems, neither can you. So why do you further delay our wedding night? Is it because of your…” She cleared her throat. “Is it because of your first wife?”
Ranulf tensed against her back. “What of her?”
“She has not been long dead. Do you still love her? Is that why you will only hold me?”
She felt and heard the breath move in and out of him, then he rose up and turned her onto her back. “You know not of what you speak,” he said, his face nothing but shadow above hers.
“Then tell me.”
After a long silence, he said, “God forgive me, but I cannot even mourn Arabella’s death.”
Lizanne nearly startled. “Why?”
“She was a cold, conniving woman, and more than once unfaithful to our marriage vows. She did not come to me a maiden, though she claimed to be one.”
Lizanne was almost fearful of her next question, but she needed to know the fate of her own marriage. “And you, Ranulf? Were you faithful to her?” After all, his father had not been faithful to Zara.
“I was, though Arabella and I lived separate lives—did not even share sleeping quarters.”
Lizanne could not hold her relief inside, expelling it on a breath that sounded loud even to her own ears. “Then I will not be expected to share you.”
Ranulf’s fingers touched her neck, lightly feathered down to her collarbone. “Only if I must share you, and I have no intention of doing so. You are mine.”
“But Arabella—”
“I did not want her any more than she wanted me. You, I want, Lizanne, more than I have wanted any woman. Do you understand?”
Berating herself for daring to hope he might declare his love for her, she nodded and told herself his desire would be enough. But it would not, and she was grateful for the dark when tears filled her eyes. “If Arabella does not hold you from me, what does?”
He lowered his head and brushed a kiss across her lips. “You, Lizanne. I have been waiting on you.”
“Me?”
“For your consent, madam, and not merely consent by obligation.”
Remembering when she had declared she would never willingly accept his touch, her anguish eased. Telling herself it mattered not that only she loved, she said, “I give you my consent, Husband. And not out of obligation but…”
“What?”
How she longed to say love, but the old Lizanne—the one before Ranulf Wardieu had spilled the pieces of her single-minded world and rearranged them around him—would not let her. And so she spoke what was also true, though not nearly as deep, “Out of want, Ranulf. I want you.”
A moment later, his mouth was on hers again, and it was no brush of the lips. No quick end to it. No restraint. And no regrets, not even when Gilbert walked in unannounced the following morning and roared at finding them asleep in one another’s arms. It was some minutes before he calmed sufficiently to resheathe his sword, and only when Lady Zara appeared and suggested a stroll in the rose garden did he remove himself from the solar.
Fortunately, Ranulf was quick to distract his wife from her embarrassment, and the two of them spent the morning abed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After a full sennight, Lizanne still felt like an outsider. Though she cared for Ranulf’s injury and had spent these last nights in nuptial bliss, there were still so many hours of the day to fill that she thought she might go mad with restlessness. She had tried, repeatedly, to take part in the running of the household, but Lady Zara was still far from accepting of her presence.
In the end, there was nothing left for Lizanne but to spend her free time with Duncan, Gilbert’s squire. At the back of the donjon, away from others’ eyes, they set up targets and practiced archery.
To her chagrin, far too often the squire’s skill exceeded her own. It would not have been so bad, but she had taught the young man to shoot, and she was bothered by her failure to so much as match him.
She complained that she had not practiced in weeks and her chemise and bliaut were too cumbersome. Good naturedly, Duncan loaned her chausses and a tunic, but it was hours of practice that sharpened her aim.
It was not long before Geoff and Roland discovered their secret and persuaded Lizanne and Duncan to give them instruction in the proper use of the bow. Lizanne, knowing Ranulf would disapprove if he discovered she was practicing, secured a promise from both squires that they would say nothing of it.
So it was that Geoff forgave Lizanne for the imprudence of her act in attempting to end the duel between Ranulf and Gilbert and once more offered his friendship. Grateful to have someone else to talk with, Lizanne set about making an invincible archer of him. He did not disappoint her.
Roland, however, was a different matter. He had been sorely shamed by Lizanne’s trickery. Though he accepted her instruction, he stubbornly withheld his camaraderie until the day the four of them traipsed about the wood in search of prey.
Each with hares tied from their belts, they emerged from the trees.
“A good catch,” Lizanne called over her shoulder where she strode ahead of the others, so taken by the thrill of the chase that, not for the first time, she had to remind herself it was not becoming of a hunter to cavort. Fortunately, no one could fault her for a long stride. And, hopefully, none would fault her for putting meat on the table—
A great snort sounded, and before she snapped her chin to the right, she knew what it portended.
“Run!” Duncan shouted as the wild boar rushed at her.
Gathering her wits, Lizanne threw a hand over her shoulder to draw an arrow from her quiver. And found it empty as her brother’s squire had surely seen it was. For a long, precious moment, she could not move but then, still grasping her bow, she set her limbs to flight through the long grass.
Louder and louder, the animal’s angry wheezing grew, faster and faster the beat of its hooves as it closed the distance between prey and predator.
Certain she felt its hot breath on the backs of her legs, Lizanne pumped her arms harder.
Then the boar screamed, a tortured, high-pitched sound that cleaved the air before blessed quiet fell.
Lizanne whirled around and stared at the shuddering beast that lay feet from her, an arrow protruding from its side.
The bow fell from her hand and she dropped to her haunches in the wake of a world nearly torn asunder. Seized by a fit of trembling, she lifted her head and focused on the squires who ran toward her. Roland was in the lead, and she guessed it was his arrow that had felled the beast.
“You are well, my lady?” he asked as he hunkered beside her.
She nodded but could find no words to reassure him.
“Can you stand?”
She held up a hand in silent appeal for him to wait, then looked to where Geoff and Duncan had halted alongside the dead animal.
“God’s wounds!” Geoff exclaimed. “You could have been gored—”
