Читать книгу Scoundrel Of Dunborough - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

Chapter Two

As Celeste and Gerrard walked through the village of Dunborough, she was very aware of the tall, broad-shouldered man striding so confidently beside her. He had always been a bold and merry fellow, ready with a smile, and laughter in his shining brown eyes. Now he looked more like the cold, stern Roland.

Given the passage of time since she had last seen either of them, change was to be expected. She had been twelve years old when she had left Dunborough, and Gerrard and Roland fifteen.

It was also surely to be expected that whispers of surprise and speculation would follow them like a breeze through bracken. No doubt many would wonder who she was and what she was doing there, especially with Gerrard. Some, perhaps, would recognize her, although it had been ten years since she’d been sent to Saint Agatha’s.

She cast her gaze toward the castle. The stronghold had grown more massive in the time that she’d been gone. Even when she lived there, Gerrard’s father had always been adding to it, building more walls and towers, raising the money from the tenants’ labors and merchants’ fees, as well as fines for almost any infraction, no matter how minor.

She tried not to think about Sir Blane or the old days as she walked past the stalls and shops of the village, the smithy with its gaggle of old men outside and the well with a similar group of matrons, all eyeing them with curiosity. A gaggle of children, laughing and giggling, chased an inflated pig’s bladder down a nearby alley. She turned away, ignoring the little pang of loss. The lack of children was a small price to pay for the peace and security of the religious life.

Gerrard was still silent as they reached the outer walls and proceeded through the thick, bossed gates, the grassy outer ward, the inner gate and then the inner ward, beneath the portcullis and through the final gate into the cobblestoned courtyard.

She said nothing, either, even when they reached the great hall.

It was just as huge and barren as she recalled, awe-inspiring in a bone-chilling way. It wasn’t only the size that made it so. There was a central hearth and stone pillars, but no ornamentation of any kind. No pennants, no tapestries, no paint, no carving. The floor was covered in rushes and she could smell the fleabane, but that was the only herb she could detect. There was no hint of rosemary or anything else to add a pleasant odor.

Hounds of various ages and sizes rushed up to Gerrard and he gave them each a pat before telling them to sit. They did, looking up at him like an adoring chorus about to burst into song.

He had been a favorite of the dogs when he was a boy, too, no doubt because he gave them ample attention of the sort he rarely received from anyone save Eua, a serving woman who had been his nurse, and who had praised and spoiled him.

Indeed, the hall was so little changed, Celeste half expected to see Sir Blane seated on the dais, with his cruel features and even crueler sneer while he berated his sons.

She removed her cloak as a maidservant appeared from the entrance to the kitchen. The woman was young and not unattractive, slender and with chestnut-brown hair, the sort of girl a parent would have kept far from the hall of Dunborough when Sir Blane and his eldest son, Broderick, were alive.

More surprising still, the maidservant merely nodded when Gerrard asked her to bring refreshments. She didn’t blush or smile at him as she took Celeste’s cloak.

Not that it mattered to her if Gerrard was carrying on with a servant. If he were, he would be no different from most men of his rank. As for the other things she’d heard about him, rumors were often exaggerations, if not outright lies.

And poor Esmerelda might have been mistaken about where she was to meet him, or if she was to meet him at all. Given her own youthful infatuation with the handsome, merry Gerrard, Celeste could easily imagine a girl misinterpreting his words or intentions.

“Now then, this is better, isn’t it?” he said with a familiar smile as they sat on finely carved chairs on the dais and the maidservant brought wine, bread and cheese. “Please, have some wine. It’s very good. I’m working my way through Father’s cellar.”

Celeste accepted the wine and took a grateful sip. It was indeed very good wine, which meant it was a hundred times better than anything she’d had at the convent. The mother superior kept all the best wine for herself or her favorites. The rest got much cheaper fare.

“It’s been a long time,” Gerrard said after he took a drink of wine, fixing his brown-eyed gaze upon her in a way that made her grateful for the nun’s habit she wore.

“I heard about your father and Broderick,” she said, knowing better than to offer him any sympathy for their demise.

Gerrard gave a little shrug with his right shoulder, as he used to do when they were children. “Then I suppose you know Roland is lord of Dunborough now.”

She was surprised at how calm he sounded. “Yes, I did hear that.”

“And that Roland is married?”

“Yes.”

She had been even more surprised by that news. Audrey had often said Roland would have to marry a statue to find a wife as cold and stern as he, and Celeste had not disagreed.

“He’s not here at the moment. He’s at his wife’s estate recovering from the wounds he got fighting Audrey’s killer.”

Gerrard didn’t sound overly concerned. Nevertheless, she remembered what he’d said at the house, about Audrey’s bodyguard nearly killing Roland. She’d been too overwhelmed by all that he had told her to inquire about Roland’s state then. “So he will recover?”

“Yes. I’m garrison commander in charge of Dunborough until he returns.”

Being the temporary lord was better than nothing, she supposed, although she nevertheless found it hard to believe that Gerrard could be so apparently accepting of his lower status.

“Things are better between us now,” he added.

Much better, it seemed. “So Roland won’t be angry if you drink all the best wine.”

Gerrard laughed softly. As much as she’d remembered, she had forgotten the sound of his laughter and the way it seemed to brighten everything around him.

“It would take years to do that,” he assured her, “even if I drank as much as I used to.”

She had heard that he drank to excess, among other sins, so that was not a surprise. The surprise was that he was willing to admit it.

“Enough of what’s happened here in Dunborough,” he said. “I have some questions of my own to ask.”

The last thing she wanted was to be interrogated by Gerrard. It would be worse than facing the mother superior at her most irate.

Celeste got to her feet. “If you don’t mind, Gerrard, I’m quite tired and would like to rest.”

A flash of irritation crossed his leanly handsome features and she waited for a protest.

Instead, he rose and called to the maidservant who had brought the refreshments. “Lizabet, show Sister Celeste to Roland’s chamber.”

He turned back to regard her with those brilliant dark brown eyes. “Or are you Sister Something Else?”

She kept her composure and silently prayed for forgiveness for the lie she was about to tell, along with her other recent sins. “I am Sister Augustine now.”

“Until later, then, Sister.”

“Yes, until later,” she agreed as she turned to follow the maidservant to the stairs leading to the family chambers.

Despite her answer, though, she had already decided she would not be joining Gerrard in the hall later, or at any time. When she was with him, the past crowded in on her, the memories fresh and vivid, both the good ones and the bad.

Lizabet passed the first door. “That was Sir Blane’s,” she said, her voice hushed as if she thought someone would overhear.

“And that was Broderick’s, the late lord’s eldest son,” she continued as they passed another. “I suppose you heard what happened to him? Killed by a woman! Sir Roland’s wife’s cousin. I can hardly imagine it.”

“A woman?” Celeste repeated, unable to hide her surprise.

Gerrard’s older brother had been a big man and a bully, fierce and cruel. To think that any woman had been able to—”

“Aye, it’s true. He was about to kill the man Lady Mavis’s cousin loved, and Lady Thomasina killed Broderick instead.”

Sister Sylvester once said that a loved one in trouble could give a person great and unforeseen strength. It seemed that she was right. “From what I remember of Broderick, I find it difficult to be sorry, however he met his end.”

Lizabet slid Celeste a questioning glance. “You know the family?”

“In a way. I’m Audrey D’Orleau’s sister.”

The young woman came to a startled halt. “I—I’m sorry, Sister!” she stammered.

She didn’t wait for Celeste to respond, but quickly continued on their way.

“This chamber is Gerrard’s when he sleeps here,” she said, hurrying past another door, “and this is Sir Roland’s.” Lizabet opened the last door in the corridor and stood aside to let Celeste enter.

The room was a far cry from the way she’d imagined any chamber of Roland’s. She’d been expecting bare walls and few amenities, something Spartan in keeping with his cold, stern demeanor. Instead, there were tapestries on the wall, linen shutters as well as wooden ones on the window to keep out the cold, a dressing table and two brightly painted wooden chests for clothing. Against the far wall was the biggest bed Celeste had ever seen, made up with thick blankets and a silken coverlet. The bed curtains were a bright blue damask and there was even a carpet on the floor.

She immediately conjured a vision of a couple in that luxurious bed, a well-built man with shoulder-length hair making love to some faceless naked woman with long, curling brown tresses.

But what price did a woman pay for such luxury?

“Aye, it’s big,” Lizabet said with a smile when she saw where Celeste was looking. “Lady Mavis—Sir Roland’s wife, that is—she asked for a new one the day she got here. Could have heard a cow cough a mile away when she said his bed wasn’t big enough.”

The maidservant blushed and lowered her eyes. “Sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“It’s all right,” Celeste assured her, turning away to hide her own embarrassed blushes.

“Anything you need, Sister? Other than some warm water to wash?”

“No, that will be enough. Thank you.”

“Then I’ll be back soon with the water and some fresh linen,” Lizabet said, leaving the room.

Celeste immediately removed her cap, veil and constricting wimple. She was relieved to be rid of them and glad to be alone, away from curious people and their stares and whispers, as well as Gerrard and the memories he brought back.

She unpinned her braid and ran her fingers through the thick, waving brown curls. As she did, she wondered what Gerrard would think if he could see her hair. More than once the mother superior had threatened to cut it off. More than once Celeste had avoided that.

It wasn’t that she cherished the long locks so much. Her hair had been a sort of battleground, and every time she kept her curls, she felt the mother superior had lost a battle, although the war wouldn’t be won until she was allowed to take her final vows.

Sighing, Celeste looked down at her hands and thought of all the times she’d tried, usually without success, to braid her sister’s shining hair.

These were the same hands that Audrey had held tight when their father raged at their unhappy mother, proof that marriage was no sanctuary. The same hands that had scrubbed and cleaned and been clasped in prayer when Celeste displeased the mother superior at the convent, which was almost every day.

The same hands that she hoped would be carrying a cask of gold and jewels when she returned to Saint Agatha’s, if what her father had said was true and he had hidden treasure in the house. She would present the cask to the bishop and tell him it was for the church on the condition that the mother superior be sent to a convent as far away from Saint Agatha’s as possible. Then life at Saint Agatha’s would be perfect. She would be safe and at peace, out of the world that had so much conflict and misery.

First, though, Celeste had to find her father’s hidden hoard, and soon, in case the mother superior came looking for her.

Not that she regretted running away. She’d had no choice about that, for the mother superior never should have forbidden her to come back after her sister had died. Celeste was only sorry she’d stolen Sister Sylvester’s habit, even though that, too, had been necessary, for safety on the road. As for claiming to be a nun, that was for safety, too.

Especially when she saw the look in Gerrard of Dunborough’s eyes. She didn’t want to be the object of any man’s lust.

And certainly not his.

* * *

Norbert regarded his son with scornful disbelief as they stood in his shop, surrounded by candles of various sizes.

“Your eyesight must be going, boy,” the well-dressed chandler sneered. “Gerrard and a nun? I’d as soon believe you could make a decent wick.”

“I saw her myself,” Lewis insisted, his tall, thin frame slightly hunched as if to protect himself from a blow. “They were coming from Audrey D’Orleau’s house. Maybe she’s her sister come to look for the treasure.”

Norbert gave his pockmarked son a sour look. “There’s no treasure in that house and you’re a fool if you think so. And if that is Audrey’s sister, she’s probably come to sell the house and all the furnishings and maybe her sister’s clothes, too. After all, a nun won’t have any use for them.”

Norbert stroked his beardless chin. “Put up the shutters. It’s nearly time to close up for the day, anyway.”

Lewis stared at him, dumbfounded, and wasn’t fast enough to avoid the slap that stung his cheek.

“What are you gawking at, boy?” his father demanded.

“You’ve never closed the shop early before.”

“I am today.” His father licked his palm and smoothed down what remained of his hair, then straightened the leather belt around his narrow waist and long, dark green tunic. “I’m going to the castle to find out if that woman is Audrey’s sister, and if she is, to offer my condolences.”

“But you said Audrey was no better than a whore who got what she deserved.”

Scowling, his father raised his arm and Lewis immediately moved out of reach. “Don’t you dare repeat anything I said about Audrey D’Orleau to anybody,” Norbert warned, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”

“I won’t say a word,” his son promised. “I wonder what Ewald will do when he hears about her.”

Norbert’s eyes widened. If he hadn’t considered that, Lewis thought, his father was the fool, not him.

“It would be like that lout to try to see her first,” Norbert muttered, although he was clearly preparing to do the same thing.

“She might be tired after her journey and unwilling to talk about business so soon after she’s arrived,” Lewis suggested.

Norbert frowned. “You may be right—for once,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “Ewald probably won’t be so thoughtful. On the other hand, if that is Audrey’s sister, I wouldn’t want him to get the house for a pittance. What does a woman, let alone a nun, know about the value of things? Now get those shutters up. I’m going to the castle.”

* * *

“Aye, a nun and the prettiest one I ever saw,” Lizabet said as she got a ewer for hot water in the kitchen. “And she says she’s Audrey D’Orleau’s sister!”

Baskets of beans and peas, lentils and leeks, were on low shelves nearby. On higher shelves were the spices, some very expensive indeed, for Sir Blane had liked fine food, at least for himself. Doors led into the larder and the buttery, another to the hall, and there were stairs for the servants to the family chambers.

“Audrey D’Orleau’s sister?” Florian, the cook, cried, looking up from the pastry he was rolling on the large, flour-covered table. He was of middle height, not exactly fat but not slim, either, and could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. Tom, the skinny, freckled spit boy, likewise took his attention from the chickens he was turning over the fire in the enormous hearth.

Peg stopped shelling peas into the wooden bowl she had in her lap and rested her forearms on the rim of the bowl, regarding her companions gravely. She was a little older and a little plumper than Lizabet, and a little prettier, too. “Audrey D’Orleau’s sister, eh? That would be Celeste. My ma told me she used to follow Audrey about like a puppy, and Gerrard, too, back in the day. Once, when the girls were at the castle—their father was doing some kind of business with old Sir Blane—Gerrard, rascal that he was, cut off Celeste’s hair almost to her scalp. Something about a game, I think. Anyway, she had a devil of a fit—knocked him down and broke his collarbone. She got sent to Saint Agatha’s after.”

“Must have been some fit,” Lizabet said. “And if she was a hoyden, well, all I can say is the convent’s calmed her down. I can’t imagine the nun up in Sir Roland’s chamber raisin’ her voice, let alone attacking someone.”

“If she’s Audrey’s sister,” Florian pointed out, wiping his forehead with a floury hand, “why didn’t she come here sooner? It’s been weeks since her sister died. Sir Roland sent word after, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Peg said. “He sent a priest and Arnhelm went with him as escort.” She lowered her voice as if about to reveal something shocking. “Arnhelm told me the mother superior at Saint Agatha’s was the most hard, mean-spirited harridan he’d ever met. When he said why he’d come, she looked at him as if he’d come to sell a loaf of bread, and stale at that.” Peg shook her head and leaned back. “Made Sir Roland look soft, Arnhelm said.”

“God have mercy!” Florian murmured, aghast, while Lizabet’s eyes filled with tears.

“A sister murdered, and to have to hear it from a woman like that!” she exclaimed.

“Aye,” Peg agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the mother superior’s fault Celeste took so long to get here. Probably had to say prayers for days.”

“Tom!” Florian cried. “The chickens!”

The spit boy hurried back to his duty, the chickens only slightly charred.

“We had all best get back to work,” the cook added.

Peg returned to shelling the peas and, with a heart full of sympathy, Lizabet took the hot water back to Sir Roland’s chamber.

* * *

Celeste realized something had changed the moment Lizabet returned. She was like a candle that had been snuffed, and Celeste could guess why.

She didn’t want to talk about Audrey, but she had other questions, ones she hoped Lizabet could answer. “I grew up in Dunborough, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. Are you from here, too?” she asked as Lizabet poured warm water from the ewer into the basin on the washstand.

“Aye. My father’s a woodcutter. I came to work in the castle after Sir Blane and Broderick died. Peg and me both. My father wouldn’t let us come before that because of them, although we could have used the wages.”

“Yet he had no such reservations about Sir Roland and Gerrard?”

Lizabet shook her head. “Not once Sir Roland was named the lord. My father was sure he’d see that the servants were safe. And ever since Sir Roland got wounded, Gerrard’s been like a new man. It’s as if he’s seen the error of his ways. O’course, it could be Sir Roland’s wife helped him see that. She wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from Gerrard, that’s for certain.”

“Were you here when Sir Roland came home with his bride?”

“Indeed I was, Sister. We were all that surprised, I must say! Rumor was Sir Roland was going to DeLac to end any talk of an alliance with the lord there, and then he comes home with the man’s daughter as his bride. Verdan—he come with her from DeLac, one of the escort—he said they was all surprised Lady Mavis agreed to the match and didn’t run off. Spirited, she is, Sister. And beautiful, so maybe no wonder Sir Roland wanted her.”

“I remember Sir Roland as a boy, and he didn’t seem the sort of fellow to make a very pleasant husband. If it was a contracted marriage, perhaps his wife felt she had no choice. Indeed, I can find it in my heart to pity her.”

Lizabet’s eyes widened. “Oh, there’s no need for that, Sister! It might have been arranged at the start, but it was a love match, too, for all that. She looks at him like he’s the most wonderful man in the world and he looks at her like she’s an angel come to earth. She’s expecting already.”

That might not be a surprise to Lizabet, but it seemed miraculous to Celeste.

“Verdan says...” Lizabet flushed and looked at her toes. “I’m sorry, Sister, I forgot you were a nun.”

“Can’t you pretend I’m not? And it’s not as if I haven’t heard things in the convent from the other women. Some of them are widows.”

The maidservant looked around furtively, as if about to divulge a state secret. “Verdan says they go at it like rabbits, even in the woods one time where anybody might have seen them.”

Now it was Celeste’s turn to blush, and blush she did as she envisioned not Roland, but Gerrard, making love with a woman in the woods to assuage their carnal desires. Yet when desire died, what was left?

Celeste decided she’d asked enough questions. “I’m rather tired, Lizabet, and fear I’ll be very poor company tonight. I’d rather take my meal here. Please convey my regrets to Gerrard.”

Lizabet bit her lip and her brows contracted.

“If you’d rather not tell Gerrard—”

“No, no, it’s no trouble, Sister,” Lizabet replied, although her attitude implied otherwise.

Celeste gave the nervous maidservant a reassuring smile. “I shall tell him myself. Is he still in the hall?”

“I think he’s in the outer ward with some of the men, Sister.”

“Then I shall go to him there.”