Kitabı oku: «Norwyck's Lady», sayfa 4
Chapter Five
“Bartie!” Eleanor cried when she met Bartholomew on the garden path.
“What is it, Eleanor?” he growled. His young sister had managed to take him off guard, and that was highly unusual.
“Are you angry?”
“Nay,” he said, more harshly than he intended.
“But you look—”
“What is it?”
“I came to find Lady Marguerite in the garden,” Eleanor replied, abandoning her line of questioning. “I thought you were on the practice field.”
“Lady Marguerite told you she was coming here?” he asked, focusing on Eleanor’s first statement. “To the garden?”
“Aye, for a walk,” she replied. “She said she hoped ’twould help to clear her head.”
As would a walk outside the walls, he thought. Just because she’d told Eleanor that she was going to the garden meant naught. ’Twas just as likely she’d lied to Ellie about her destination.
“Did you see her?” Eleanor asked.
“Hmm?”
“Bartie,” Eleanor said with exasperation. “Are you listening at all? I asked if Lady Marguerite is in the garden.”
“Aye,” he replied absently. “But I think it unlikely her head has cleared.”
He left Eleanor in the path and returned to the keep.
It took a long time for Marguerite to regain her balance after Bartholomew left her. She picked up her shawl from the floor and left the shed, closing the door tightly behind her. She stood quietly for a moment, with her hands on the rough wooden door.
“Come to me when you’ve decided what you want,” he’d said, as if there was no question that she’d want to become his mistress.
A tremulous sigh escaped her. She could not deny the attraction that pulled so strongly between them. She craved the sensual pleasures of Bartholomew’s promise, but knew she could not engage in such intimacies without involving her heart.
And she knew Bartholomew Holton would never do the same. He guarded his heart like the fiercest sentry at the castle gates.
She would be no more to him than his leman, a woman who gave her favors to the lord in exchange for her keep, and any other gifts he might bestow. ’Twas an arrangement that would crush her spirit.
The sound of a child’s song interrupted Marguerite’s deliberations, and she turned to see Eleanor, skipping and singing as she made her way up the path. Marguerite stepped away from the shed and greeted her.
“Do you feel better now?” Eleanor asked.
Marguerite smiled. “Aye, I do. Especially now that you’re here to show me all the best places in the garden.”
“I know a much better place,” Eleanor said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She took Marguerite’s hand and pulled her in the opposite direction from which she’d come. “Shall we go and watch the men who are building our wall?”
“Nay,” Marguerite said. “First you must tell me about the jewelry you left in the shoes in the trunk.”
“Jewelry?”
Marguerite looked askance. “Aye. You knew very well that I would find those necklaces and rings among the clothes in the trunk.”
“I thought you would like them,” Eleanor said, clearly aware that further denials would achieve naught.
“That is not the question,” Marguerite replied as she walked along beside Eleanor. “Whose jewelry is it, and where does it belong?”
“They are the Norwyck jewels,” she said. “Bartie keeps them in a casket in his chamber.”
“Then you must take every bit of it back to your brother’s room when we return to the keep.”
“Very well,” Eleanor said petulantly, but she quickly brightened. “But shall we go and see the wall now?”
Marguerite followed along in good humor. She had seen very little of Norwyck through the tower windows and wished to see more. “What wall?”
“Around the village,” Eleanor said as she hiked up her skirts and pulled herself up onto a low branch of a tree. “Bartholomew says that is the only way to protect the village from the Armstrongs.”
“Ah, and ’Tis a good idea, too.”
“He just hasn’t figured a way to keep the Armstrongs from stealing the sheep and cattle from the hills,” Eleanor said as she climbed higher.
“Aye, but keeping the village safe is of greater importance,” Marguerite remarked as she watched Eleanor swing her legs from the limbs overhead, wondering at the same time where the girl’s nurse was.
“Still, our wealth comes from the sheep.”
“You’re quite informed for one so young,” Marguerite said. In truth, the child was an amazing dichotomy of youthful mischief and a mature understanding that seemed beyond her years.
“Aye,” Eleanor replied breezily as she reached up and climbed to a higher branch. “Someday I will grow up and be the lady of a grand demesne. Nurse Ada says I must learn all that I can here at Norwyck before I marry a great lord.”
Marguerite stifled a smile. “Why don’t you come down here and tell me who you have in mind?”
“No one.” Eleanor sighed. “But Bartie will find a suitable husband for me.” She climbed down and jumped to the ground, then took Marguerite’s hand and continued up the path. “Kathryn will wed first, but Bartie will find a much better husband for me after he learns how with Kathryn.”
Marguerite laughed and asked Eleanor to tell her about Norwyck’s wall.
“Bartie says that every cottage must be within the wall. We’ll even have two wells inside, one in the castle and one in the center of the village!”
That was a definite advantage. Norwyck could withstand a siege as long as they had a water source. Food would be another problem altogether, but if the villagers stored their grain and kept chickens and pigs in their yards, ’twould not be quite so bad.
Marguerite had no idea how she knew all that, but did not question it when they reached the site where masons were erecting a gatehouse, using large stones gathered from the hills and fields. She was amazed by the extent of Bartholomew’s project, but knew it made perfect sense to defend Norwyck this way.
It seemed to Marguerite that he was a prudent and vigilant overlord, actively working toward the safety and well-being of all who lived within his realm.
There was a great deal of activity here. Dust flew and tools clanged as voices carried across the site. Men pulled carts laden with the stones that would make up the wall, and tipped them out on the ground near the masons. Others stood on ladders, laying rock and patching small holes with mortar.
Eleanor took great delight in showing Marguerite around, dashing here and there, speaking to some of the men at work. Marguerite had to direct the child away from potential hazards several times, but Eleanor continued to scamper everywhere, running on both sides of the wall. She tipped over one bucket of water, and stuck her foot in a mass of wet mortar.
“Eleanor!” Marguerite cried. Though she had no real authority over the child, she knew she had to get the girl away from the work site before she caused a serious disaster.
A burly man in a coarse brown tunic caught Eleanor’s arms before she could fall into the mess.
“I am duly impressed with the wall, Eleanor,” Marguerite said, looking up gratefully at the giant who’d rescued the child. She grasped her hand and pulled her away. “But we should take ourselves back to the keep.”
“Aye,” said the burly man, wiping Eleanor’s shoe, “your brother wouldn’t want ye here, m’fine young lady. Besides, we’ve got some problems.”
But an exuberant Eleanor slipped away again.
“M’lady.” The man turned to Marguerite. “Lord Norwyck has been sent for, and he’ll be on his way in a moment. ’Twould be better if he did not find his sister here.”
Nor did Marguerite want him to find her here, either. She gave a quick nod to the fellow and turned to go after Eleanor. She would insist that they return to the keep before Bartholomew arrived.
But Eleanor delighted in her game, running away from Marguerite and attempting to hide behind a precariously stacked pile of rocks. Marguerite worried that the child might upset the pile and injure herself. ’Twas obvious Eleanor was not going to come away easily, so Marguerite had to think of some way to entice her.
“I’ll wager I can beat you back to the keep,” she called. “I’ll even give you a head start.”
Eleanor laughed aloud and came away from the rock pile, allowing Marguerite to breathe again. “Nay! I’ll make it there first!” the girl cried, then ran away through the village lanes toward Norwyck Keep, while Marguerite watched her.
“I’ll give ye due credit, m’lady,” the big man said behind her. “Ye handled her better than most.”
Marguerite turned to face the man, and saw that Bartholomew had arrived and stood beside him. He still wore the sweat-stained tunic and hose she’d last seen him in, and he remained silent, quietly observing. Marguerite did not know how long he’d been standing there, but he said naught.
She gave a slight bow, hoping he could not hear the wild beating of her heart, then turned and walked away.
Bart was going to have to find a younger nurse for his sisters. One who was more capable of governing them than poor old Ada could do. The family’s old nurse had declined in the past year, and Bartholomew would not have his sisters making the poor woman’s life miserable.
As he stood watching Marguerite’s fading form, his mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile. She had handled Ellie like a master—better than even he could do, and he’d been the only one who’d had any control over the girl since William’s death.
“M’lord?” Big Symon Michaelson brought his attention back to the matter at hand.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“Er…the bailiff and the reeve are about to come to blows, m’lord.”
This was not the first time the two men had clashed during the building of the wall. Norwyck’s Bailiff Darcet was a strict little man whose opinions and judgments often seemed overly harsh to the villagers, and Bart himself had had occasion to question his competence. On the other hand, the reeve was intimately familiar with the situations of every family in the village, and he exempted the village men or women from work accordingly.
Until now Bartholomew had kept the peace by keeping the two men separate. But the wall-building was an important function, one he could not keep either from attending. He just wished he could manipulate them as well as Marguerite had managed Eleanor.
He followed Big Symon to the gatehouse and spent an hour solving the dispute to everyone’s satisfaction, when all he wanted was to go back to the keep, get cleaned up and consider the best way to seduce Marguerite into his bed. He wanted her with an intensity that was entirely foreign to him. Even without knowing who she was, or what lies she’d told him, he felt a desire that was unparalleled.
That did not mean he would trust her. He would provide shelter and board at Norwyck, but ’twas not necessary for him to believe every tale she told. She was beautiful, and enticing, and that was enough for him.
Chapter Six
All day long, Marguerite experienced fragments of visions that made no sense, and left her feeling unsettled and uneasy. Try as she might, she could not remember who the blond children were, nor could she place the manor house with all the flowers surrounding it. She had no doubt that these images meant something, but she could not figure out what.
So preoccupied was Marguerite that ’twas after the evening meal before she remembered the jewels in the trunk in the tower room. But Eleanor had been confined to her chamber for the time being, as a penalty for evading Nurse Ada and causing so much disruption at the site of the wall construction. Marguerite would have to wait until the child was freed from her punishment before she could get the jewels back to Bartholomew’s chamber.
Supper was a quiet affair, and Bartholomew did not join them, since he was out on patrol with a company of knights. Only John made any attempt at conversation, while Henry attacked his meal silently. Kathryn excused herself as soon as she was finished eating, and Marguerite followed soon afterward, feeling troubled and lonely.
She went up to the tower and discovered that a fire was already burning cozily in the grate. She would have sat down and gazed out at the sea while she tried to sort out her thoughts, but night had fallen and ’twas dark outside the tower windows. She lit a lamp and stood alone in the center of the room, feeling chilled in spite of the fire.
She finally knelt by the trunk where she had hidden the jewels, taking each piece out to admire it in the flickering light. ’Twas awkward having them in her chamber, but there was naught she could do about it now. She would see that they were all returned to Bartholomew’s chamber as soon as possible.
Marguerite put the precious pieces away, then prepared for bed, kneeling first to pray for the return of her memory. Then she prayed for Bartholomew, that God would return him safely to the keep after his patrol, and finally added his siblings and all of Norwyck to her intercessions.
She undressed down to her shift and washed, and was just about to blow out the lamp and climb into bed when her chamber door opened and Bartholomew stepped inside.
As always, Bart was struck by her beauty. Unclothed as she was now, or fully garbed, she enticed him as no other had ever done.
“M-my lord?” she asked tremulously.
He stepped into the room, unsure why he’d climbed up here now, still smelling of horse and sweat, when he’d told her to come to him when she was ready.
“Is there…”
“My sisters need looking after,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. The idea had come to him just now, when he realized he needed some reason, some excuse to have barged in on her this way. “I thought perhaps you…”
“Perhaps I…?”
“Would take them on,” he said, taking one step toward her. “Only until I find a proper nurse for them.”
“But I don’t belong here, my lord,” she said. Her voice was quiet, naively seductive. She reached for her shawl and covered her gloriously bare shoulders.
Bart swallowed and moved closer. His fingers burned to touch her; his mouth longed to taste her. ’Twas a kind of madness he could neither understand nor control.
“As soon as I remember where I belong, I must leave Norwyck.”
“Have any memories returned?”
She shook her head. “Nay, not really. A few faces, a manor house…that’s all.”
“Then it may be some time before you remember who you are…where you belong.” He, too, could play this game.
Her eyes glittered with moisture, and Bart wondered if she’d produced those tears for his benefit, to play upon his sympathies.
She could not possibly know that he had none.
“I…I suppose I could look after Eleanor,” Marguerite replied. She slipped away from him and moved to the fireplace, unaware that the light from behind outlined her legs and hips in detail. Bart’s mouth went dry. “But Kathryn will not take kindly to my supervision.”
He cleared his throat. “I saw how you handled Eleanor today,” he said. “I have no doubt that you can manage something with Kate.”
“Your confidence is humbling, my lord,” she said.
And her apparent naiveté was all too beguiling. Was that part of it? Had she been sent by Lachann Armstrong for some nefarious purpose, mayhap to seduce him, as Felicia had been seduced by his son?
Bart almost laughed at the thought. If anyone at Norwyck were to be seduced, ’twould be Marguerite. And soon.
“Will you do it?” he asked. “Watch over my sisters?”
She bit her lip. “Aye, my lord,” she finally said. “I’ll try.”
“All is quiet, my lord?” Sir Walter asked, meeting Bartholomew at the foot of the stairs in the great hall.
“Aye,” Bart replied. “No raiders in the hills tonight.”
“It’s turned cold, though.”
Bart nodded. His feet and hands had been nearly numb when he’d returned to Norwyck’s courtyard after his patrol. But his visit in Lady Marguerite’s chamber had warmed him significantly.
“My lord…young Henry asked me to speak to you with regard to his fostering.”
Bart rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t expected his brother to ask Sir Walter to intercede for him.
“The lad’s fondest desire is to become a knight,” Sir Walter said. “There must be an estate where he can go and squire, my lord. I would not deny him this, if I were you.”
“Nay,” Bart said with a sigh. “I know he should go, as should John. ’Tis just that the past months have been difficult…for all of us….”
“Aye,” Walter said. “You could not bear to part with them.”
Bartholomew would not deny it. He had needed the presence of his young brothers to help soften his grief when William had been killed. But ’twas past time to let them go.
“’Tis true,” Bart said as he poured warm, mulled wine into a thick earthenware mug. He offered it to Walter, then poured his own and sat down in one of the big, comfortable chairs before the fire. Everything continued on at Norwyck, different, yet just as it had before, with Will gone and Felicia’s betrayal. There were quiet nights in the hall, teasing banter with his siblings.
And now there was Marguerite.
“I have yet to meet the lady you brought back from the shipwreck,” Sir Walter said.
“I’ve asked her to look after Eleanor and Kate until she regains her memory.”
Walter frowned as if he had not heard Bartholomew correctly. “She still does not remember?”
“Nay. And she still wants me to believe she cannot remember who she is, or where she’s from.”
Sir Walter scratched his head. “I’ve seen that once, my lord.”
“What? A bump on the head—”
“Nay, the loss of memory,” the knight replied. “When I was a lad, no older than your brothers, a man in our village fell from a tree while he was picking apples. He was knocked unconscious, and when he came to his senses, he had no knowledge of who he was.”
Bart frowned. “Did he ever remember?”
“Aye, I think so. He must have,” Walter said, frowning at Bartholomew. “Mustn’t he?”
Bart had no idea. But the fact that Walter had witnessed the same kind of memory loss suffered by Marguerite lent credence to her story. Still…just because she might have told the truth about her memory did not mean they had to believe anything else she had to say. She was a woman, and therefore capable of any manner of deceit.
“My lord…” Sir Walter seemed hesitant. “You know that I had my doubts about Lady Felicia for many months after you and Lord William left with King Edward for Scotland.”
“’Tis pointless to belabor it now, Walter.”
“I just want you to know that I did what I could to control the lass,” he said. “’Twas my opinion, back when your father made the betrothal agreement with the lady’s father, that she was not to be trusted. She had too many opportunities to ally herself with the Scots while she was in France.”
Bartholomew had considered this possibility over and over after Felicia’s death in childbirth. He wondered if she’d begun her liaison with Dùghlas Armstrong while she was in France, well before their marriage.
’Twas altogether possible, since the Armstrongs had relations in France, and Felicia had spent several years there. But since Bart was not on speaking terms with the Armstrongs, he did not know if Dùghlas had spent any time in France while Felicia was there.
The two men let the matter drop as they sipped their wine. They had discussed William’s murder and Felicia’s betrayal until they both were sick to death of it. Bart did not need to hear Walter’s suspicions again to know that Felicia had never been worthy of his trust.
He vowed never to make the same mistake again.
She was drowning.
She struggled to keep her head above the water, but the waves overcame her and dunked her again and again.
“Marie! Tenez!” cried a man nearby. She could hardly make out his features, for he was soaked, and repeatedly swamped by the violent waves of the sea. But he was young and handsome, and his hair was light.
Several times she tried to reach out to him, but something always prevented it. Then, all at once, she had hold of his hand and he was pulling her toward him.
“Ici! Prenez ma main!”
She grabbed him, but her hand slipped out of his—
“My lady!”
A heavy weight pressed the breath from her chest and she struggled for air. The mast had come crashing down and the sea was swallowing her! She thrashed against the water that was pulling her down, and tried to call out to the man whose hand she’d just lost. She thought her heart would burst with terror. She could not catch her breath, and she wept with the effort it took.
“Marguerite!”
She opened her eyes. ’Twas Eleanor upon her chest. Marguerite was not drowning, nor was there a light-haired man calling to her…in French. What was it he’d said?
“You were having a bad dream,” Eleanor said, as Marguerite tried to recapture the visions of the ship going down. Somehow, the dream should help her to remember. It must!
Another voice intruded. “My sister was so thrilled to have you looking after her, she could not wait to come up and see you,” Bartholomew said dryly. He stood leaning on the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest.
Marguerite had some difficulty catching her breath and gathering her thoughts. First the disturbing dream, and now Bartholomew…standing so tall and masculine, watching her with dark, hooded eyes. She knew he had barely restrained the urge to take her in his arms the night before, and Marguerite had hardly been able to think of anything but the way his mouth had felt upon hers, his hands caressing her body.
The man in her dream had never had such a tumultuous effect on her. Marguerite did not know how she knew it, but she could not have been more certain.
“What shall we do today?” Eleanor asked as she slid off the bed. Marguerite pulled the blanket up to her neck. “Will you teach me to play the gittern?”
“I—”
“Or take me to the garden and watch me climb—”
“Eleanor,” Bartholomew said with a warning in his tone. “You can easily be confined to your quarters again.”
“Nay, Bartie!” Eleanor cried, rushing over to her brother to implore him to have mercy.
Marguerite could not resist a small smile. “If you two will give me but a moment, I will dress and join you in the hall. Then we can decide what to do today.”
Anxious to do whatever was necessary to speed the process, Eleanor shoved past Bartholomew and scampered down the stone steps. He remained as he was for a moment, leaving his eyes locked on Marguerite’s. The promise in his gaze made her tremble. And when he turned and left the chamber, she flopped back on the bed and attempted to calm her wildly beating heart.
When she realized ’twas no use, she climbed out of bed, worried that she would feel edgy all day.
“What are you doing with that?” Henry asked when he came into the great hall, dressed in old clothes and smelling as if he’d brought the entire stable with him.
“She is playing Mama’s gittern,” Eleanor said, wrinkling her nose.
Marguerite would have preferred to take Eleanor and her music to the solar rather than making a spectacle of herself here, but she’d hoped to garner Kathryn’s interest. So far, the elder sister had gone to great pains to avoid Marguerite throughout the day. But from the time she had started playing the beautiful gittern, Kathryn had come through the hall twice.
Since early that morning, Marguerite had seen Bartholomew only at a distance, and the space between them gave her some relief from the tension she felt whenever he was near. The farther he stayed away from her, the less likely she was to succumb to his allure.
“You can play my mother’s gittern?”
“’Twould seem so, Henry,” Marguerite replied.
“Though I cannot tell you how I remember the music.”
“’Tis your fingers that remember,” Eleanor said ingenuously.
Marguerite heard a snicker behind her, but ignored it. She knew ’twas Kate’s reaction to her sister’s innocent remark.
“Play a tune, then,” Henry said.
Marguerite took the neck of the gittern in her left hand and put her fingers into position. Closing her eyes and making her mind go blank, she used the plectrum to pick out a tune. Then she began to hum.
John added his voice to hers, putting in a word or phrase as the song continued. When it was finished, Eleanor clapped her hands with delight. “Mama used to play that song for us!”
“’Tis a popular tune all over Britain and France,” Bartholomew said as he stepped away from the staircase. He was freshly washed and shaved, and Marguerite did not think he’d ever looked quite so handsome as he did now.
“Aye, but ’twas a favorite of Mother’s,” John said.
“True enough,” Bartholomew replied. “So, you remember how to play,” he said to Marguerite.
“Aye.” She nodded. The song had sent a sharp stab of bittersweet longing through her, and she had to struggle to find her voice. “I do.”
“You…play very well,” he said, the compliment sounding awkward on his tongue. “Play another.” He sat in a chair opposite her and pulled Eleanor onto his lap.
Surprised by Bartholomew’s kind words, Marguerite managed to continue playing, to the delight of the children, and many of the servants, who came into the hall to listen. Kathryn only walked through a few times, the scowl on her face never softening.
Yet there was a flicker of interest in her eyes that made Marguerite believe that the girl wished she could be part of the group, but had too much pride to join their frivolous activity. Besides which, ’twas Marguerite who was at the center of it all, and Kate had decided from the first day to dislike her.
Marguerite caught Bartholomew’s eye and tipped her head slightly toward Kathryn. It took a moment for him to understand what she intended, but he finally caught on.
“Kate,” he said. “Come and sit here with us.”
“Nay, Bartholomew,” she replied, walking away from the group. “I have work—”
“It can wait,” he said. “Why don’t you sit here by me, and show Lady Marguerite your own talents with the gittern?”
“I think not, Bartholomew,” she said indignantly. And she left the hall.
Marguerite tried not to let Kathryn’s rebuff worsen her mood. She played another tune, and another. For some reason, she’d had fewer “memories” today, as if her dream that morning had somehow shocked the visions right out of her.
In a way, she did not miss those snippets of memory. All they did was confuse and upset her. The images of those children and the feeling that something was horribly wrong disturbed her. What if they were her children? What if they were at home in the lovely flower-strewn manor, waiting for word of her, while she sat here in Norwyck’s great hall, entertaining other children with her music?
Pain and uncertainty suddenly choked Marguerite, and she felt a burning at the back of her throat. Her hands trembled and she was no longer able to play. Biting her lip to keep it from trembling, she stood up, set the gittern against the back of her chair and stepped away from the group.
“I’m…I—” She could not think what to say, but turned and fled from the hall. She did not think about where she was going, but blinked back tears as she moved, and eventually found herself in a quiet, dimly lit chapel at the opposite end of the keep.
There were several long benches against the walls, and Marguerite sat down on one of them. She leaned back against the cool stone wall and took a long, shuddering breath.
She did not know what had come over her. The sense of grief and loss had suddenly become overpowering, but Marguerite did not know why. For whom did she grieve?
’Twas a question she would not be able to answer until she regained her memory, and that did not seem likely to happen very soon. It had been days since Bartholomew had brought her to Norwyck. Outside of the improvement in her vision, there’d been no other change in her condition.
Why couldn’t she remember?
’Twas frustrating. Memories were right on the verge of her consciousness, but she was unable to get any kind of a hold on them. They escaped her like sand filtering through her fingers, every time she tried too hard to remember.
She wiped away tears that she’d shed without even being aware of them, and was startled by the sound of clapping at the far end of the chapel.
“Excellent performance,” Bartholomew said, continuing his mocking applause as he walked toward her. “Worthy of the greatest mummers in all of England.”
Marguerite refused to dignify his insult with a reply. She stood and turned away so that he would not see the evidence of her tears. He would only make sport of her pain, and Marguerite knew ’twould hurt the worse, especially now that she knew how tender he could be with his sisters.
If only he had a bit of kindness to spare.
“What?” he said. “No retort?”
She swallowed and forced a calmness that she did not feel. Then she turned to face him.
“My lord,” she said, clasping her hands together. “This is n-not working well. I cannot stay. If—if there is an abbey or nunnery nearby, or a—”
“You wish to leave Norwyck?”
Marguerite cast her eyes toward the floor. “I…I wish only to know who I am, from whence I came. I want to know if the children whose faces I see when I close my eyes are my own. I want to know if the light-haired man in my dreams is my husband.”
“What light-haired man?” Bartholomew growled.
“I dream of him drowning,” she said, her voice trembling and timorous. She turned quickly away so that he would be unable to see the emotion on her face, and composed her voice before speaking again. “We struggle to reach each other in the water, but just as we touch, our hands are wrenched apart. I know that he is desperate to get to—”
“You are no man’s wife,” Bartholomew interrupted abruptly.
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