Candle in the Window (8 page)

In Saura’s bedroom, she pressed him down on
her bed and laid a wet rag on his swollen face. “I thank you.
You’re a brave boy,” she said, hugging him tight.
“Mama would be proud of you, defending me like
that.”

“All of us brothers have to defend
you,” the young warrior answered stoutly, and then winced at
the vigor of his speech. “Rollo said so.”

“All of my half brothers are most
loyal,” she praised.

He stuck his tongue in his cheek and examined the
injury. “I don’t think that man loosened any
teeth.”

“Nay, but you’ll be bruised in the
morning.” She smoothed the cowlick waving in his short bangs.
“You can sleep here in my bed. It would be better if you
didn’t return to the hall tonight.”

“Aye, please!” He bounced up and down.
“This is better than the palliasse I share with
Kimball.”

Snatching the chance to question her brother, Saura
asked, “Clare, do you like it here? At Burke
Castle?”

“We’re not leaving, are we?” he
asked quickly.

“Nay, of course not.” Smiling, she
positioned her palm on his face. “You were too young to come
for fostering, and I wondered if you missed Lord Theobald. If you
missed your father.”

He gave it consideration. “Well, sometimes I
do miss him. I liked it when he taught me things and talked to me.
But most of the time, he just drank wine and yelled and threw up.
Lord Peter teaches me things and talks to me, too, but he only hits
me when I deserve it. I miss Blaise,” his voice quivered
wistfully.

“And the babies and Lady Blanche?”

“Well, the babies.”

Saura skimmed her fingers over his expression of
disgust and laughed. “As long as you are happy. Come in,
Kimball.”

The boy stuck his head in the door.
“Can’t I ever sneak up on you?” he
complained.

“Some people can sneak up on me,” she
answered reasonably. “But an eight-year-old boy with big feet
is not one of them.”

“How did you know my feet were big?”
Kimball stuck out a sandaled foot and examined it.

“All boys’ feet are big. Clare’s
sleeping in my bed tonight. Do you wish to join him?”

Kimball shouted and leaped up, and Saura moved
aside.

“Is the meal over?”

“Aye. Oh, how’s your face?”
Kimball climbed on the bed and callously pronounced,
“That’s not as bad as when you fell off the rafter in
the barn.”

“The barn?” Saura queried.

“Oops.” Kimball squirmed and Clare
whacked him.

“Does your grandfather know about
this?”

“’Twas his idea to tell you Clare was
thrown from his horse,” Kimball replied, glad to spread the
blame on broader shoulders.

Saura groaned, but couldn’t stop a chuckle.
The boys sighed in a harmonic whoosh and wrestled as she moved to
the door.

A sudden attack of conscience hit Clare.
“Where will you sleep this night?”

Pausing in the doorway, she said, “I
don’t know if I will. It seems to be developing into a long
evening.”

Hovering by the rail in the gallery, Saura listened
to the talk from the tables below and sighed. Her faith in Lord
Peter was misplaced. War was the business of the day, and war
dominated the conversation. He could not avoid the
subject, and she doubted he had tried. Battles,
warriors, knights, foot soldiers. Maneuvers, destriers, armor,
defence. Lord Peter, Raymond, Nicholas, Arthur and Charles argued
and agreed, suggested and refuted, with the vehemence of trained
men whose life and honor depended on their ability to fight, which
it did.

William said not a word. Only the clink of the
pitcher against his goblet indicated his presence.

She crept down the stairs and into her corner where
Bula slept. The ominous silence from her pupil weighed her spirits.
Maud fetched Saura’s hand loom and bent to listen to
whispered instructions. Bartley came, too, listened and nodded his
understanding. When the chevaliers rose and stretched, maid
servants appeared at their elbows immediately to escort them to
their rooms. A great deal of groaning ensued, genial groans of
weariness and satiety, and Raymond, Nicholas, Charles, and Arthur
followed the women to their beds.

Lord Peter followed, and stopped. “Coming,
William?”

“Not now.” The golden voice contained
no emotion.

“You didn’t say much
tonight.”

Saura ground her teeth at the father’s
oblivion to his son’s pain and his clumsy attempt to repair a
mistake he didn’t know he’d made.

“It didn’t bother you, did it, that we
discussed things you….” His voice trailed off.

“Nay, Father, I’m fine.” William
sounded weary, slurring his words slightly.

“We didn’t mean to.”

Maud rescued the moment. “Come on, ye old
fool,” she said. “I’ll put you to bed.”

“But—” Lord Peter sounded
amazed.

“Come on!” She jerked him by the elbow
and he stumbled
after her, heeding her wisp of
an explanation and giving over his protests.

Saura waited and listened. As she had instructed,
serfs cleared the tables and left the room, the slow shuffle of
their feet indicating their curiosity. She rose from her stool and
gestured, and the shuffle transformed into a stampede.

Satisfied that every man and woman would sleep
elsewhere this night, she stroked Bula’s ears for courage and
strolled to the table. Pulling out the bench beside her lord, she
asked mildly, “What are you doing?”

“Lady Saura! What a surprise,” he
mocked. “How amazing that you would be the one to keep me
company in my misery.”

She was silent. How she hated that cultured
modulation of French, that refined accent he affected to convey her
lesser status.

“What am I doing? Why, dear madame, dear nun,
I am drinking.”

“And stinking?”

Now he was silent, releasing at last a very small
laugh. “How clever you are. Almost clever enough to be a
man.”

Her hands clenched the edge of the table until her
knuckles cracked. “Cleverer than this man. Smart enough to
know getting stinking drunk will never bring a change for the
better.”

“Ah, but it will. For tonight, I am
happy.”

“Are you?”

“Indeed,” he said, too quickly.

“And in the morning?”

“I have a hard head. I never bring my dinner
up. I’ll feel fine in the morning.”

“But will you still be blind?”

His cup clanged on the table and ale splashed her
hand.
“God’s glove! Blind drunk
tonight, blind in the morning, what difference does it make?
I’m only half a man, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t fight, I can’t defend my
lands, I can’t order the education of my son in the knightly
arts, I can’t keep a squire, I can’t ride a real
man’s horse.”

“What’s done is done, and the egg
cracked cannot be mended. As you told them earlier, you can keep
accounts, you can sit in judgment.”

“I’m not a man, I’m just a
monk.”

The pity, the clogging pity, brought her to her
feet. The bench crashed behind her and her fist sent his ale mug
flying. Her normal serenity disappeared behind the wave of
disappointment and fury, and she roared in a voice that rivalled
his own. “You’re blind? So? You want to know what
trouble is? I’ll tell you what trouble is. Athele’s a
widow and her last son has died, and she carries sixty years.
She’s got no teeth and no way to support herself and pain
twists her joints, and half the village thinks she a witch because
she’s lonely and her mind wanders and she mutters to herself.
That’s trouble.” She paused, breathing hard. Somewhere
in the back of her mind, she was amazed at her temerity, her lack
of control, and her rage.

But she didn’t want to stop. The anger of all
her years roiled in her gut and demanded an outlet, and she
shouted, “You want to talk about trouble? Maybe Geoffrey the
Miller has an excuse for to pity himself. A band of reavers crept
into the mill and stole wheat and tied him to the side of the water
wheel. Dear God, they’ve had to amputate his legs. He’s
going to live, and he’s happy. He’s grateful, but
he’ll live with pain the rest of his life, every
day.”

Leaning her hands against his chair, she bent and
put her face to his. “But the great William is blind.
’Tis so sad, to
think a man has his health
and his teeth and his legs and his wits and is missing one tiny
component.”

Now he rose, slowly, like a gigantic tidal wave
gathering strength to crash over her indignation and douse it with
his resentment.

“You’re a nun. You believe resignation
and industry will cure all ills, but nothing can bring my sight
back. Nothing can give me the view of good English foot soldiers
marching into a battle. Nothing can return the satisfaction of
laying siege to an enemy and dispossessing him of his castle.
Nothing can bring me the pleasure of a tempered sword in my hand
and a mêlée before me.” Rising from a reasonable
rumble, his voice gathered strength as he spoke and he snatched at
her, snagging her wrist. “I am a lord. I do the things you
praise me for, because ’tis the work I am required to do. But
I am also required to fight, to defend my villeins and their crops,
to defend my castles, to destroy thieves, and maintain justice. And
that’s my pleasure, my reward.” He shook her wrist.
“Do you understand, little nun?”

Bula whined in the corner, unable to decide how to
react to such a scene between his master and his mistress.

“Aye.”

“You
are
a nun,
aren’t you?” he sneered. “That display of unholy
temper should have been beaten out of you at the convent. What
order of nuns are you?”

“I…it doesn’t matter.”

“Are you ashamed of them? At what age were
you dedicated to our Savior?”

“Early.”

“Was your father unable to supply the dowry
for a husband?”

“Nay. I mean, aye.”

He cocked his head. “You don’t sound
very positive about
this. You don’t know
what order you belong to, when you were dedicated, or if
you’re a nun by virtue or material needs. And uncertainty
drips from your voice.” He shook her again. “Are you
sure, are you sure you’re a bride of Christ?”

“Aye.”

“Swear.”

“My lord!”

“Swear by your mother’s immortal soul
you’re a nun.”

Wrestling her arm away from him, she said, “I
am not a nun.”

“Not?”

She didn’t know what to make of the tone of
his voice.

“Not?” he questioned again.

She would warrant it was relief.

“Swear.” He reached for her again, but
she slid away. “Swear by your mother’s immortal soul
you are
not
a nun.”

“By God, William—”

“Swear!” he insisted, and the odd note
of his voice swelled with panic.

“I swear,” she said. “By all that
I hold holy.”

“Not a nun. Well.” He collapsed back
into his chair and it rocked dangerously back on two legs and then
settled with a thump.

Hugging her elbows, Saura waited for his reaction.
The guffaw started deep in his chest, growing and amplifying
through the rafters until it was a full belly laugh. Her concern
changed to indignation, then to animosity. “What’s so
funny?”

“Are there any other little deceptions you
have perpetrated on me?” he wheezed.

She put her hands on her waist, and blurted,
“Hundreds of them.”

That sent him into fresh paroxysms of mirth.
“Get you to bed, Saura.”

“Are you going to drink some more?” she
asked.

“Nay, no more drinking for me. I just
remembered the other thing that makes me a man. Now, get you to bed
before ’tis too late.”

Stiffly, she moved to the winding stairway and
stopped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“The boys are sleeping in my bed,” she
mumbled. “I’m going to sleep on one of the
benches.”

“Ah.” He considered. “Take my bed
in the solar. I’ll lie out here with the rest of the
servants. Where is everyone?”

“I told them to sleep in the barn.”

He laughed again. “Get you to bed.”

In a dark corner of the gallery, the silent
eavesdropper watched as William picked up his cane and took the
stairs down to the bailey. He noted the strength William gained
from Saura, the affection and mutual respect between them, and in
his twisted mind Saura joined William as a target to be
eliminated.

“June is the month of love. The
month when the very air acts as a love philtre, filling my lungs
and heating my loins.” Exalting in the afternoon breeze that
tossed his blond hair across his forehead, William, with a flick of
the reins, urged his mount to a trot.

“Father!” Kimball protested, bound to
his father by a leading rein and jostled as his horse danced
sideways along the woodland path. “You’re going to run
over me.”

“Move that pony along, then,” his
father replied sharply, tapping his son’s mare with the oak
cane he held. Undeterred by Kimball’s smothered protest, he
returned to his musing in a mellow voice. “In June, lambs
suckle and life bursts forth with new vigor. Smell the flowers!
Smell the new growth! Even the grass transforms itself into a
carpet for lovers, offering itself gladly to be bruised by an
embrace.”

“Hurray, hurray, the end of June, all the
folk rut outside soon,” Clare quoted.

“Clare!” Saura sounded shocked and
distracted. “Where did you learn that verse?”

“Lord Peter taught me,” the boy replied
tranquilly, holding his sister’s leading rein.

“Do you know what it means?”

“Aye. It means the servants will go out in
the barn instead of keeping me awake at night.”

William exploded with laughter. “Hurray,
hurray,” he said.

Saura sighed.

“Come,” he encouraged. “Plebeian
joinings have no impact on us today. Revel in fresh perceptions of
the English summer afternoon. Breathe deep the scents of flower and
herb. Feel the motion of the horse between your thighs. Listen to
the birds mating in the trees!”

“William!”

“Pretend the boys aren’t with
us.”

“My imagination isn’t that good,”
Saura replied repressively.

He considered and asked, “Kimball, where are
we?”

Kimball cast an experienced eye around him.
“On the south corner of the property, close upon Fyngre
Brook.”

“That’s what I thought,” William
said with satisfaction. “Why don’t you settle Saura and
me by the water and you lads can race your horses on the meadow
east of here.”

“Aye, sir!” they chorused, moving the
horses briskly down the forest trail.

“We’ve ridden a long way today,
madame,” William explained to Saura. “I’d like to
stretch my legs in the wild. It’s been too long since I stood
in the stillness of the woods.”

Saura said nothing. In sooth, she didn’t know
what to say. The foolish idea appealed to her with a deep tug of
yearning. These spring days, riding with William and the boys, had
ignited in her a desire for a normal life. The pragmatic
woman she had been before she came to Burke Castle was
vanquished by the surge of craving. No longer could she resign
herself to a barren life, stripped of husband and children. Dreams
floated in her mind: dreams of William and his healing passion,
dreams of their babies gathered around her skirts, dreams of a long
life, igniting candles in their darkness until the light of their
love cast a beckoning glow to all.

“Fair friend and sweet, what say you?”
William asked in dulcet tones.

Shaking off the remnants of her impossible fantasy,
she replied, “I, too, long to dip my feet into the cool water
of an English brook. Lead on, my youths.”

“You’ll have to leave your horses
here,” Kimball instructed. “The path is too tangled and
narrow for them.”

With the help of the boys, William and Saura were
installed on a tall tumble of boulders beside the stream and left
alone.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” William
rested his spine against the sun-warmed rock. “This is one of
my favorite spots. In my mind, I can still see the great oak trees,
spreading their branches abroad. The brook kicks the pebbles with
its current. The willow dips its branches for a drink. And
’tis green, green as only England in the springtime can
be.” Sitting up on his elbow, he queried, “Am I right?
Is that how it looks today?”

“Aye,” she sighed with pleasure.
“That’s how it looks today. How lucky you are to have a
place such as this to see in your mind.”

He considered her remark seriously. “Aye, I
suppose I am.”

“And I’m lucky to have you to sing me
the song of its beauty.”

“Madame, I’m known to compose the best
vers
after a banquet. The ladies swoon
at my eloquent style.”

Chuckling, Saura agreed, “And at your
modesty.”

“That, too.” He lay back again.
“Shed your shoes as you desired and wade.”

She unlaced her sandals and wondered; should
she?

As if he read her thoughts, he stimulated her
longing. “This brook runs clean and the rocks at the bottom
are round and tender to the unprotected sole.”

“As you wish, my lord!” she said,
sliding down the rocks and into the water. Its pristine depths
reached only her ankles and delighted her toes. “Oh,
William.” She sighed. “This is all you said, and
more.”

“Trust me, Saura, I’ll never misguide
you.”

The deep note of meaning in his voice worried her.
Whatever demon had plunged William into depression that night was
expelled and Saura flattered herself her common sense had turned
the tide. Still, in her mind the vaguest inkling of doubt curled
and writhed. It almost seemed as if his renewed spirit was linked
to her admission of subterfuge. As if he rejoiced to extricate her
from the masquerade of nun and awaited with anticipation her final
unmasking. It almost seemed as if she had lost control of their
relationship during the conversation a week ago, as if he were now
the teacher and she the pupil.

Wading cautiously, one foot in front of the other
in tiny increments, Saura explored. She slipped in a hole, stubbed
her toes on a stone, and yipped.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Did you see a snake?”

She froze. “A snake?”

“Snakes abound in this pleasing land. Many a
time I fished this stream and found hooked to my line a mammoth
snake, as big around as—”

“In the water?” She screamed and leaped
straight into the
air, disoriented by horror but
sure she would somehow reach shore.

“Well, aye, but there are snakes littering
the ground.”

She screamed again, louder this time, floundering
on the slick pebbles, and William could no longer maintain his
gravity. He roared with laughter; he rocked from side to side in an
excess of mirth. “No snakes,” he gasped.
“There’re no snakes, but I’d give the
devil’s hooves to see your face.”

“Do you tease me again?” she cried.

“No snakes.” He cackled and rubbed his
face on his cloak.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“You braying ass.” She waded closer to
the sound of his amusement. “You dare to make merry of me?
You cretin.”

“Whoa, my lady!” William sat up.
“I’ve done no different than you’ve done to
me.”

“What do you mean?”

“A nun? You told me you were a nun.
And,” he waved an encompassing hand, “hundreds of other
deceptions, you said?”

She didn’t answer, for she didn’t know
what reply to make.

“Is it as bad as I suspect?” he
questioned gently.

“Oh, much worse.” Wretched, she
wondered: confess the truth or continue the lie? And how much to
tell? A coward to the end, she thought, grimacing. When she
explained this subterfuge, she wanted to be somewhere safe, not
alone in the forest and easily abandoned. And, preferably, with
someone who would stop him if he decided to hand out a salutary
tap. With Lord Peter, perhaps, who would admit to his part in the
sham. That decision made, Saura mumbled, in what she hoped was a
natural tone, “Oh, I’ve wet the ends of my
sleeves.”

William hesitated and then accepted her change of
subject
with a voice drooping with
disappointment. “You do have trouble keeping your clothes
dry, don’t you?”

Knotting her skirt at her waist, she agreed,
“Aye, I—” and stopped, flummoxed by his
observation. “What do you mean?”

“Shh.” He cut her off firmly.

“Why so?”

“Quiet!” he insisted.

Cocking an ear to the woodland around, Saura heard
what he suspected. “William, there are horses and men all
around us,” she whispered.

“Aye. Come here.” Groping, he located
his stout cane and vacated his boulder, tentatively splashing into
the brook not far from her. She slid close to his side and he
jerked his head up. “Get up on the boulders and stay out of
the way.” He waited until she had obeyed and asked,
“What do you see?”

Dumbfounded, she repeated, “See?”

“How many men? How close?”

“Oh, William,” she began sadly, but the
crunch of branches beneath many stomping feet interrupted her.

“We’ve got them, Bronnie,” a man
said in the uncouth English tongue. “Just like his lordship
ordered.”

“Are ye sure these are t’ uns,
Mort?” another questioned.

“Aye, a couple of ducks in th’ water
waitin’ t’ be bagged,” the first replied.

“Th’ big un’s blind, ye
say?” the second asked. “I’d hate t’ tackle
that un any other way.”

“But th’ wench I’d tackle
anytime,” the first voice leered.

“What did they say?” Saura asked
frantically, not understanding the rapid, accented English and not
liking the tone.

William moved close, his back against the solid
rock, and flexed his fists around his cane. “They said they
desired a wetting.”

Cowering on the boulders, Saura wished the boys
were there to help and hoped they were safe away, all at the same
time.

“Stop chatting, you scum, and take
them,” a new voice ordered in English and then switched to
Norman French. “Lord William? You’re surrounded by
twelve men. Come out of the water and surrender.”

“I counted no more than seven men,”
William replied smoothly.

No one said a word, and then Bronnie protested,
“Ye told us he was blind!”

“We are eight men,” the leader
snapped.

“So he can’t count,” Bronnie
whimpered.

“Devil burn you! He’s blind, for
God’s sake, can’t you tell? He’s listening, not
seeing. Now get them, gently. The lord wants to render his own
tender care of them.”

“Duck down, little lass,” William
rumbled, bracing himself for the onslaught.

Feet splashed into the stream and Bronnie whined,
“Wait! I haven’t got me shoes off, yet.” A whack
and a shuffle, and Bronnie stumbled into the water with a groan.
“Awright, awright, but I ruined me new shoes.”

The cane in William’s hand began a low,
threatening whistle as it swung in rhythmic figure eights. “I
got him,” one man crowed, leaping at the blind lord.

A resounding thwack, a howl of pain, and Bronnie
said, “His jaw’s broken.”

William laughed, a jubilant thunder of joy.

Another rushed him and Saura heard the breath leave
the attacker’s body as the tip of the rod drove into his
stomach. “Come, knaves, come, knaves,” William called,
as if they were cats to be lured to him. He parried the charge of
one more man with the broad of his oak shaft.

The churls murmured with dismay, backing away until
their commander roared, “Take him!”

“A fine leader you are,” William said
with contempt. “Afraid to get me yourself?”

The men’s breathing labored with harsh, angry
rigor.

“All right!” The commander splashed
into the water, ordering, “I’ll grab the stick,
you—all of you—tackle him.”

A plan destined for failure and success. Men piled
up in the stream beneath William’s punishing weapon, until,
with a mighty splash, William went down. Terrified, Saura heard the
cries of the attackers, enthusiastic as the Promethean warrior
weakened beneath their blows. She clutched the huge boulder
supporting her and discovered a smooth, round stone loose beneath
her fingers. It was a good size, heavy enough to require both hands
to lift it, yet small enough to fit between her palms. Bronnie
shouted, “I’ll bring th’ woman!” and before
clear intention formed in her mind, she turned and smacked his
skull.

The lucky blow toppled Bronnie into the midst of
the battle below and ended it as his disgruntled compatriots turned
on him. Flushed with triumph, Saura leaned out and knocked a few
more bobbing heads before the rock was torn from her hands and
discarded. “Damn it!” the leader swore as he dragged
her into the water.

“This was supposed t’ be an easy
task,” one of the churls complained, and Bronnie groaned,
“Why did ye think his lordship ordered eight sturdy men
t’ capture un blind man an’ his woman?”

This bit of logic from one so muddleheaded silenced
the grievances. William and Saura were prodded from the brook and
forced, one after the other, onto a broad-backed horse. “Tie
his wrists together around her waist,” the leader ordered,
his voice shaking with fury. “He’ll not jump and bring
her down, too. And hurry, we’ve tarried
too long on Burke land.”

“Should we tie th’ woman,
too?”

“Nay,” the leader replied scornfully.
“Can’t you see what she suffers? She’s
harmless.”

“Huh!” Bronnie snorted. “Me head
can’t agree.”

Unaware of her part in the fight, William queried,
“What did you do to our friend Bronnie?”

“Smashed him with a rock.”

William laughed softly. “That’s my
warrior queen. One day I’ll teach you to defend yourself as
if you were a knight.” He grunted as they tightened the ropes
around his hands and looped them around her waist.

“Are you hurt?”

“A few cuts,” he answered with disdain.
“My pride suffered the most damage.”

“Not many knights could stave off eight
men,” she pointed out.

“I could, before.” His voice sounded
flat and uncompromising, and she believed him.

Their horse on a leading rein jerked to a walk and
then a trot. “Can’t you hurry that nag?” the
leader snarled.

One of his men replied, “Not with Lord
William on it. Not with him and the woman.”