Everlasting (26 page)

 
“A son would be nice,” Vachel murmured with a lopsided grin. “In truth, it wouldn’t matter what we had as long as the babe is perfect in every way.” Clasping his wife’s hand within his, he brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss and then smiled at her with all the devotion his warmly glowing eyes could convey. “My dear, you must know how much I treasure you, so you must take care of yourself. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything were to happen to you or to the babe. As I’m not getting any younger, your announcement has come as a complete shock to me, for it was the last thing I was expecting.”

 
Elspeth laughed in girlish delight and peered at him with shining eyes. “I was a bit taken aback myself when I learned I was with child. I thought I was past that time.”

 
Vachel caressed her cheek as he grinned at her. “I shall have to watch over you very carefully in the coming months.”

 
“I’ll do whatever I can to keep her from exerting herself,” Abrielle assured him, her radiant smile evidencing her own joy. “Now that there’ll be another child in the family, this will give me an opportunity to fret over my mother for a change. She has been doing enough of that, watching over me all these years.”

 
“Please! I must protest!” Elspeth laughingly declared, holding both hands up as if that would put a halt to their ambitious intentions. “I
can assure you that I’m not an invalid and that I am quite capable of taking care of myself. After all, I’ve been through this before.”

 
“Aye, that you have, my love, but if you’ll kindly consider the fact that you were much younger then, perhaps you would allow us to coddle you through the next five or six months,” Vachel urged, and then smiled. “Believe me, my dear, if you’re not getting any older, I certainly am, and I need to know that you’ll be there to watch after me when I’m a doddering old man.”

 
Elspeth patted his arm. “Do not fret yourself, husband. I’ll be there beside you when that time comes…if it ever does.”

 
Vachel raised his silver goblet in tribute to his beautiful wife. “To our growing family, my dear. May we enjoy peace and contentment throughout all the years of our lives. And as we age, may we also become wiser and take time to enjoy the simple blessings we’ve been given. I doubt I would have experienced such happiness had I not been blessed with you as my own sweet and noble lady.”

 
“And may you both live to be at least a hundred!” Abrielle eagerly added, and, in more prayerful thoughts, begged that such a request might be granted. Vachel’s fear had instilled within her some of the same feelings of anxiety. She didn’t know what she would do if she were to lose her mother. Elspeth had always been such an important person in her life, more so than her father, whom she had dearly loved, but had never really understood, especially when he had allowed himself to be drawn into a deadly confrontation for the sake of his pride. If anything of a tragic nature happened to her mother, she had no doubt the pain and void she would feel would be infinitely greater. Indeed, they thought so much alike that it would be the same as losing a part of herself.

 
THAT SAME AFTERNOON, Abrielle entered the kitchen to determine what vittles remained after the majority of the guests had taken
sustenance and departed. Though she had put the steward in charge of feeding the serfs, she wanted to make certain that enough was being done. In her mind, she could still see that frail toddler trying to learn to walk when so weak from hunger.

 
Shortly after viewing the food that remained from the meal, Abrielle realized that there were more than enough provisions to appease the hunger of the pitiful group living across the stream. In that quest, she bade several servants working in the kitchen to put whatever food had been left into crocks, kettles, and baskets and load the containers into a wheelbarrow that she had bidden a slender youth to bring around to the outer door. From there, the cart could be easily wheeled across the bridge to the area where the serfs were housed.

 
However, upon hearing her instructions, an old grouch of a woman with long, streaming black hair and strange eyes sauntered forward, giving every evidence of being overstuffed with herself and fully in charge of the kitchen. The other servants hurriedly retreated. The woman sniffed as she flicked her beady eyes over the food that had already been loaded. Then, peering aside at her mistress, she tugged broodingly on her hairy chin.

 
“Ever since I came here ta cook for him, Squire de Marlé made it a rule that I could take whate’er food was left and feed it ta m’ swine,” the hag stated with something approaching a derisive smirk. “He ne’er once told me I had ta share any portion of it with them lazy beggars across the brook.”

 
Considering the amount of food that had been left, Abrielle could only imagine the enormous waste if a sizable portion of it was diverted to feed the swine rather than to relieve the hunger of the serfs. Flicking a brief glance over the rotund cook, she could imagine where some of it would go…no doubt down the woman’s gullet. Arching a brow, she questioned, “Good woman, what is your name?”

 
“Mordea,” she replied, and then proceeded to spit a stream of vile-looking juices into a nearby pail.

 
Abrielle promptly turned her face aside, seeking to control her sudden nausea. Upon recovering her aplomb, she asked, “As far as doling out such food, are you saying that Squire de Marlé never made any exceptions?”

 
“’Twas always his rule from the first,” the cook stated arrogantly. “I oversee the cookin’, and whate’er’s left is mine ta take afore e’en his own swine got theirs.”

 
“Just how much do you intend to take?” Abrielle asked curiously.

 
Sweeping an arm about, the woman smirked. “All of it.”

 
From the wary glances several of the kitchen staff were casting toward the elder, it was evident she was not one to be trifled with. This very moment the cook would learn that it didn’t matter what assurances Desmond may have given her, circumstances had definitely changed.

 
“Squire de Marlé is no longer among the living, and I am mistress of this keep now. Therefore I shall be setting down my own rules for the serfs to follow, the first of which shall be that no single person has the right to establish any regulations that I haven’t personally authorized, or claim anything that I haven’t permitted them to take.” Gesturing to the other kitchen staff, she indicated the food in question. “Now, if you would, please be good enough to do as I’ve instructed.”

 
“Naw ye don’t!” the hag railed, flying at her young mistress with wrinkled fingers curled into claws. “’Tis mine! All mine!”

 
If she had never had an occasion to see a witch in flight, Abrielle was certain she was seeing one now. Although she easily sidestepped the termagant, she felt her hackles rise as she likened the elder to some demonic fiend whose hatred of others had driven her into a frenzy. Obviously the other servants thought so, too, for they stared after the clumsily stumbling woman with mouths agape.

 
Though the shrew’s arms flailed wildly about in an attempt to halt her forward momentum, the farther she progressed across the kitchen, the lower her head descended. A moment later, she was scrubbing the stone floor with her nose and the side of her face.

 
“What is going on in here?” Thurstan barked upon stalking into the oversize room.

 
Blood was now gushing profusely from the woman’s nose and mouth, prompting him to snatch a towel from a nearby table and press it tightly against the nose that had been scraped raw and even now bore a dark purplish hue.

 
“Who did this to you, Mordea?”

 
Raising a flabby arm, the cook pointed toward Abrielle accusingly. “’Twas that haughty bitch. She laid me low, that she did.”

 
Thurstan glanced around with a thunderous scowl and found himself gazing into the pointed stare of the keep’s new mistress. “My lady, I—”

 
“Never mind what you may have to say about this matter,” Abrielle interrupted. “I want that woman gone from here ere the hour is out.”

 
Thurstan spared Mordea a scowl before he looked back to Abrielle.

 
“My lady, the squire brought her here shortly after acquiring the keep. She is the best cook we have on the premises.”

 
Abrielle was wont to challenge that particular statement. “Nevertheless, I want her gone. I will not be attacked by a hireling in my own keep.” She flung out an arm to indicate the nearest door. “You’ve been given orders. Now comply with my command and send Mordea on her way.”

 
“But she’s an old woman,” Thurstan protested. “How will she manage if you cast her out?”

 
“No doubt by forcing her dictates upon others as she has obviously been doing for some time here in this kitchen, and tried to do with me this very afternoon. I will not allow her to continue to vex and torment those who are susceptible to her edicts one day longer than necessary. Perhaps she can beg mercy from the people she’s been deliberately neglecting.”

 
In a sharp manner of dismissal, Abrielle turned to face the other
servants, bidding them to carry out her earlier directive by loading the cart and taking the food across the bridge for the other serfs. They seemed eager to comply and were wont to nudge one another and grin as they gathered up the fare. It was not unlikely that Mordea had made their labors in the kitchen one very long and grievous ordeal.

 
Upon glancing over her shoulder, Abrielle was surprised to find Thurstan helping Mordea from the kitchen. As Abrielle overheard the crone chiding him, she realized Mordea knew more about him than any of the other servants who had recently been living under his authority, and she was struck with suspicion.

 
“If me poor mother were alive, she wouldna have stood for this foul abuse. She’d have struck that chit down with nary a thought ta the cost. Ta be sure, she’d’ve bloodied this whole keep from end ta end so they’d long remember her.”

 
“Shh,” Thurstan urged impatiently.

 
“Whot, ye don’t want that bitch knowin’ how ye’re almost kin to me?”

 
Thurstan met Abrielle’s shocked gaze.

 
“Mordea, do not—”

 
“Aye, Desmond de Marlé be me own brother,” the old woman wailed. “But for different mothers, ye, too, could have been me nephew, Thurstan de Marlé, so don’t ye be thinkin’ ye’re mightier than me.”

 
When they had left the kitchen, Abrielle felt a chill, knowing that the sister of Desmond, a man suspected of so many murders, had been feeding them. She went out into the autumn sunshine, trying to wipe away the feeling of so much evil.

CHAPTER 12

 
Some moments later, upon joining the kitchen staff that she had sent across the creek to deliver the food to the serfs’ compound, Abrielle suffered something of a shock when she found Raven there also.

 
He was standing with a group of men, all the way to the far side of the large room, and yet, as if drawn by some power far greater than her will, her gaze instantly honed in on him among all others. She ought be accustomed to it by now, but still her heart clenched and quickened at the sight of his broad shoulders and proud bearing. For once, his full attention appeared riveted elsewhere, and in spite of how pleasing he was to look upon, Abrielle found herself curious to see what, besides her, he found so entertaining.

 
She followed his gaze to where Cedric, the laird, held a toddler upon his knee as he told a fanciful story of a hungry fox chasing after a rabbit and being tricked at every turn. Other children surrounded him on all sides and the elder’s clever wit easily evoked delighted giggles from his young audience. They were clearly enthralled with the voices of his various characters, for which he seemed to have a rare
talent. It soon became obvious to Abrielle that the witty laird took as much pleasure in the children and their responses as they relished the storyteller and his humorous tales. Much to everyone’s delight, the rabbit escaped the fox, and the latter had to content himself catching a stringy old rat for sustenance.