Beauteous book two age o.., p.7
BEAUTEOUS: Book Two: Age of Honor, page 7
“’Tis not possible to know the mind of one such as he,” she finally said, “but if he loves his lady wife as rumored, for her he may make no effort to expose ye.”
Even so, that did not mean he would not be rooted out. “Without his cooperation, still the search could extend to what I believe to be the Wulfriths’ hunting lodge.”
“Once it was that, but as ’tis deep in the wood, long abandoned, and mostly forgotten—”
“Forgotten? Long abandoned?” He glanced around. “This is a fine lodge and well cared for.”
“Aye, that surprised since I did not know it was being kept and ’tis not evident from the outside. Though the two I sent to tend yer injury confessed they keep it in good repair, ’tis otherwise forgotten.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Superstition or some such because of people who…died here years ago.”
“Fear of ghosts? Evil spirits?”
“I imagine,” she said low, but not so much he missed what wound in and around her words.
“You fear this place, yet brave it to aid me.”
Movement drew his regard to lovely hands clasped atop the table. They parted, splayed, slid down and gripped the edge.
Hating he did not know her name, he leaned in. “Woman?”
“Do ye wish to make good your bid fer freedom, Sir Knight, you must remain here out of sight, using the time given ye to heal. When ’tis certain the king’s men search elsewhere, ye have only to take the long way ’round to reach yer destination.”
She was right, but he felt trapped, which had become too common a state, as at the Tower of London though King Edward had called it soft confinement. “Still, once more I am stuck,” he said.
She drew a sharp breath. “’Tis sanctuary you have been given! For all my efforts—” She went silent, then more calmly said, “The least ye could do is feign gratitude.”
He blinked. “I apologize. Though I eluded capture for six months, it is long since I enjoyed freedom of the sort where I can move without peering over my shoulder and into shadows.”
Staring at him out of the eye holes, she said, “As told, I know not yer offenses, but for Lady Séverine I sympathize with yer plight though I suspect you bring much on yerself.”
So he did, and not always because his sense of right over wrong was different from others’. Because of oaths given and, at times, being moved more by emotion and impatience than reason.
Once more, the woman cupped her hands atop the table. “Have you other questions?”
“The horse you arrived upon is not the same that delivered me here. I would know where mine is.”
She startled as if disturbed he had watched her from the window, then said, “’Tis not here, and as ye manage to get ’round despite yer injury, likely you know that.”
“I explored the lodge this morn and, discovering the stable by way of the kitchen, had only to peer out to confirm ’tis empty but for firewood. So?”
“Not only is it best yer mount remain out of sight, but I feared ye might harm yourself were you to leave ere recovered enough to ride. Thus, I gave the horse into the keepin’ of those I trust.”
“The woman and young man of the day past.”
Neither confirming nor denying it, she said, “Other questions?”
“Where is my boot?”
“Being of no further use, I disposed of it.”
“Of no further use? Albeit cut—”
“Aye, by the dagger thrown at ye. As it adhered to yer foot—glue made of blood—the only way to remove it to stop your bleedin’ was to cut it away. But I did leave yer chausses mostly intact.”
Mostly, indeed, though he would have preferred she suffer blushing discomfort and remove them entirely rather than slice off the foot. “Understood,” he said.
“We are done here?” She started to rise.
“When will my horse be returned?”
She hesitated, straightened the rest of the way. “Depends as much on how long the king’s men search Wulfenshire as how quickly ye heal.”
Then she believed he was in her power. Unfortunately, he was. For now. Struggling with resentment, he said, “Is it possible to obtain a replacement boot?”
“I will find one.” She gestured at the pack. “See what I have brought. If anything is lacking, when next I deliver food and drink, I shall seek to supply whatever ye ask.”
He pulled it toward him and tossed back the flap. Simple viands, a skin of drink, and bandages and salve. Since there were no grooming essentials, such as a brush for his teeth, she must have seen those items in the pack holding his mantle and the undertunic out of which she had cut bandages.
Sinjin looked up. “I thank you. At this time, all I require is flint and tinder to keep a warming fire when ’tis colder than blankets are able to deflect.”
“I assumed the young man provided those,” she said.
“Doubtless, an oversight.”
“I will get them.”
“Also, another pair of chausses, if possible.”
She inclined her head, hesitantly said, “Can ye tend your injury yerself?”
“I would not refuse aid were it offered, but I foresee no difficulty.”
“Then I shall leave ye.”
“A walking stick would be of use as well.”
She considered him out of those dark holes. “Anything else?”
“Aye, though I do not believe you could deliver either.”
“Tell me!” It was said with offense as if he challenged her.
And he did, though that which he would ask was only a path to what was more easily obtainable.
Raising his hands, he drew taut the links between his wrists that hindered movement. “As there is no possibility of securing the key to unfasten these, an ax is needed, as well as someone who possesses much strength and accuracy of swing. And discretion.”
Her laughter was clipped, but it had the sound of music. “Methinks I could gain an ax, but I know none capable of severing the chain without takin’ one or both your hands, and then there is the matter of holding close yer presence here.”
He lowered his hands. “As thought, unobtainable. Hence, have I any hope of shedding these manacles, more you will have to trust me.”
“More?”
“Enough to draw very near.”
“I do not understand.”
“Were you to provide two pins, such as those with which ladies secure their hair, and were my hands not closely bound, I could solve the mystery of the mechanisms inside the manacles. But with little space between my wrists, your aid is needed to work the pins.”
After a long silence, she said, “’Twill not be easy obtainin’ them since such gone missing could be noticed, but perhaps given time.”
Time that further ensured her control over him? he questioned. Injured such that he could barely walk, deprived of his horse, manacled, and with the king’s men yet upon Wulfenshire—were that so—it seemed he had no choice but to remain until she determined he had healed sufficiently and the way to freedom was clear.
Tamping down resentment by reminding himself of gratitude owed her, he fixed his tongue lest he speak what could make it more difficult for him to determine when to leave.
“Aye, given time,” she said with finality, “then we shall see how far I can trust ye. Now I must go lest I be more remiss in my duties.” She moved toward the kitchen.
“On the morrow, then,” he called.
“If I am able.”
Once the door closed behind her, Sinjin pushed up out of the chair and stepped to the window.
When she came around the side, the hood was over her head. Though she had to know he watched, she kept her masked face in profile and, skirt skimming the ground, continued to where she had secured a horse of little note.
As if accustomed to riding, she mounted with ease—or better said grace. Then without a glance back, she rode from sight.
Fortunately, as she had located Sir Orton’s dagger near this place, he had a solid idea of where he was in relation to Stern Castle since he had not traveled far before succumbing to lightness of head for losing that which had partially plugged the hole in him.
Hence, he knew the direction to travel when he departed here, and it would be of further benefit to learn where Wulfen lay in relation to its sister castle to ensure he went wide around that place of warriors.
Sinjin turned back and eyed the pack. Belly grumbling, he returned to the chair. Thinking it strange he felt more alone than upon awakening, he hoped the masked one reappeared on the morrow. Not that she would bear the gift of hairpins, he was fairly certain. Not yet.
“You control my destiny only so long,” he murmured. “Like it or nay, soon I will quit this place and return to the North.”
Though this time I shall be more cautious as to whom I show myself, he silently added. Even family are not to be entirely trusted no matter how welcoming their smiles and words.
Pained by betrayal he had not expected, he reached for bread, cheese, and an apple from which he would cut away the peel in one narrow unbroken ribbon, a habit passed to him by his mother’s brother who told his sire passed it to him.
The amusement would while away little time until the woman’s return, but it was some small something.
Haunted.
More than on the day past when she dragged Sir Sinjin into what had been a distant abyss for nearly four years, haunted was what she had felt when she saw him rise from where once her sickbed had sat. Fearful of looking closely there, she had rendered herself vulnerable.
Were the knight without honor as was possible despite being kindly regarded by Séverine, Ondine might now have other terrible memories to keep company with those of her survival amid the dying.
Belly churning, face heated despite removal of the mask, she reined in distant from the lodge. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the horse’s neck and breathed long and slow.
Stomach loath to settle, she was glad she had barely broken her fast this morn. Hoping to keep bile from burning her throat, she swallowed, straightened in the saddle, and wiped her perspiring brow.
Most of this ill feeling was due to what the hunting lodge had become when the Great Mortality settled in Wulfenshire, but it was worse for loss of the mask she was certain permitted Sir Sinjin to see enough to know she was disfigured far more than he whose beard hid a scar on a most handsome face.
Though she had lied in claiming pox was the reason for the covering, she had two good reasons, the first being it was hard to speak of the pestilence, and harder yet at the lodge where imaginings were so real as to be felt—as if death truly lingered there and, listening in on their exchange, made plans to resume the game played with her. And this time take what was left behind of Ondine Wulfrith.
The second reason for her lie was the possibility Sir Sinjin had heard the baron’s sister was a rare survivor of the pestilence—or might later learn of it and realize the veiled one who appeared to be in mourning was the masked one who was more than in mourning. That she did not want, and not only because revelation could harm her family were it learned she aided a prisoner of the Crown.
“Because…” she whispered. She was attracted to the knight as not allowed one who had no hope of him feeling the same. Once that likelihood had been great, but no longer for she whose face caused children to startle—and some to throw a hand up as if to shield them from what was now far from flawless.
“No husband, no children,” she said, then again as if Hector were here assuring her that she who remained lovely of face and heart could have both.
With much incentive, she had coldly tossed back the first time he spoke it, angrily the next and last time. He could secure a willing groom, but vows would be spoken not because the one who gave her his name and the gift of children wanted her—because of the honor and advantage of wedding into her family.
Ondine made a sound of disgust. Sir Sinjin believed he was trapped. He was since he wished to be elsewhere, but it was temporary. Permanent was a man wed to a woman he did not want and that woman wed to a man she could not want knowing she was but a means to an end. Too, though she might gain children to love, it was unfair they suffer thoughtless things said of their mother.
“No husband, no children,” she repeated. “Better only one heart broken for what it cannot have.”
And does not deserve, her conscience reminded her of the sin for which she had not fully repented, the fearful and selfish of her ignoring the departed Roslyn’s promptings to confess it to Hector so he might be more at peace.
“Ye are a pitiful one,” she scorned—and nearly laughed over altered speech outside of the knight’s presence.
As she had known she would speak with him this day, Ermine having been certain he would come right of mind after sleeping away her medicinal, Ondine had determined to affect the speech of a commoner since her own voice and words were distinctive enough he might identify her though they had conversed little at Stern.
At least twice she had slipped back into herself, and though there had been no great adjustment of his expression, she feared he had noted the discrepancy. And could only hope he believed her refined speech was the false of one who served the noble, which would make more sense than a lady moving about the demesne unchaperoned.
That thought a reminder of her mid-morning outing with Skyward that would see her accompanied to the wood, Ondine retrieved the reins and patted the horse’s neck. “Time to return you to Ermine, sweet lady. When I seek your back again on the morrow, another treat I shall bring.”
It tossed its head, then started for home.
Chapter 8
Hector. He and those accompanying him had reined in at a good distance in consideration of Ondine’s work with Skyward in a clearing nearer the lodge than ever she went—as likely her brother knew.
“The fool you make of me, impulse,” she scorned and drew in the owl who had attempted one flight this half hour and made it only as far as a low hanging branch and back. Having merely walked her leather cuff since, as if relieved by the interruption, he closed himself up and settled against her chest.
“Forgive the intrusion,” her brother called and, the ruby of the Wulfrith dagger on his belt glinting, urged his mount forward. “Had I not caught a flash of silver among the trees, I would have stayed the course.”
To Stern, this visit coming so close on the heels of his last she was certain Sir Sinjin’s escape was responsible. And here she was nearly pointing the way to one whose freedom she sought to secure the same as Skyward’s.
Setting her shoulders, she turned to fully face Hector, his squire, their youngest brother, Rémy, and her escort whose chain mail had proven her undoing.
“I decided to try the trees here.” She hoped the quaver within did not infect her voice. “As they are of greater age—tall, dense, many branched—I thought Skyward would be more confident of gaining a perch.” Did that sound believable? “But either they intimidate or ’tis a bad day.”
“It is good you exercise him here,” Hector said, and she knew he referred more to her than the owl he tolerated for this sister who knew it was wrong to make use of his guilt, but yielded when she needed something he did not believe necessary. And she must return Skyward to the wild—and his family if he had one or the chance to make one.
“I had hoped it a good thing,” she said as the squire and man-at-arms halted while her brothers, attired in woolen mantles over doublets, continued forward, “but methinks best we stay with the known until he can sustain flight for longer periods of time.”
Feeling the intensity of Hector’s gaze, she shifted her regard to Rémy whose training at Wulfen permitted infrequent visits home and even less the nearer he drew to knighthood.
When they halted their horses, she secured her hold on the owl and stepped to her little brother who was little only by two years and older than Fira by the same.
She could not say the three youngest siblings were closest for sharing a mother different from Hector, Warin, and Dangereuse, for they had been well loved as if delivered of the same noble lady whose passing allowed their sire to wed the woman he had been denied in honoring a betrothal made by his parents.
After his period of mourning had passed, the former Baron of Wulfen had claimed the bride he long wanted, though to many she was no more acceptable than when first he was denied her. However, she had been dearly loved by her husband, children, and stepchildren, and eventually most naysayers had accepted her. Still, there had been no end to whispers that the marriage was cursed, and it was not uncommon when ill befell a Wulfrith for it to be attributed to Ondine’s mother. And the ills numbered many.
The Great Mortality that claimed their sire whose heart never fully recovered from being widowed a second time.
The loss of Hector’s wives, one after another.
The death of Warin’s wife.
The death of Dangereuse’s husband and traumatization of their young son.
The disfigurement of Ondine.
The speech difficulty of Rémy, whose broken starts and agonizing stops mostly overcome by the age of ten had returned with the loss of family and rise of anger toward Hector for bringing death home. And it had been more severe, at times twisting his tongue so tight that self-disgust and the need to control fists given to bloodying those who criticized his stammering made him go silent.
Improved relations with Hector these two years had straightened out much of his speech, but during times of great stress, that affliction ceased lurking, forcing him to carefully negotiate his words. Since he had been nearly free of stammers in the short time he trained under their brother, Warin, it was more imperative that sibling return from France as expected well before now.
As for ill befalling the sixth sibling that might be blamed on their mother, since Fira’s greatest struggle was with eyesight easily overcome with spectacles, thus far the superstitious had little fodder to further the belief the second marriage was cursed. God willing, it would remain so.
“Ondine?” Rémy leaned down and set a hand on her shoulder. “What is wr-wrong?”
