He stared back at her, clearly bemused by her sudden outburst. “Tis the first time I’ve been unbraided for protecting a maid’s virtue.”
“Ohhh!”
His calm tone made her want to scream. Instead, she spun on her heel to resume her pacing, as though he did not exist. “To think I’ve remained chaste for this! To marry Newbury! He’s not a man! He’s beast!
A wild animal that should be put out of his misery!”
“Surely you exaggerate.”
She stopped to flash him a heated glare. “’Tis said he beat his first wife to death when she did not produce a son. Does that sound like a reasonable man?”
“You needn’t worry,” he said dispassionately. “Age has mellowed him. I understand his next two wives died peacefully, of natural causes.”
“And that’s supposed to put me at ease?” She shot him a scornful look,
then
turned her back on him. Why waste her breath? He was the last person who would care. Like Barak, money was the only thing that concerned him. She was nothing but a bag of silver to him.
‘Twas foolhardy to imagine his passionate kiss sprang from anything other than lust—that a kernel of affection for her dwelt in his broad chest.
He would not help her.
Well!
There was nothing left to do.
In order to comply with her parent’s wishes, she must relieve herself of her virtue with all haste—before Barak returned with the ransom.
***
Isabeau tossed and turned beneath the pelts. ‘Twas almost dawn and she had barely slept a wink. Even the comfort of sleeping in Fortin’s bed did not help. The sweet scent of apple-wood crackling in the hearth and the soft wolf pelts tickled her senses keeping her awake.
Since her encounter with Barak at the tournament the day before, ridding herself of her virtue plagued her every thought. She had even slept naked, to be ready if God sent a messenger to see the deed done.
‘Twould not be easy with Fortin as her keeper.
Still, surely it was possible.
Lovers met in secret all the time.
All she need
do,
was find one.
How hard could it be? According to Maddie, men could not resist the urge to copulate. The trouble was
,
Fortin’s men had made a point of avoiding her since Edric’s punishment. There would be none so bold as to take what Fortin had sworn to protect.
Mayhap Gwen could help her? There must be dozens of young men in the village. According to Biddy, there were four brothers in their family alone. Surely she could find one who was willing to accomplish the act—one who could be bribed.
Or mayhap some stranger passing through the village,
who
had not heard who she was or why she was there, would be willing to see the deed done.
The problem was, getting there. She was not allowed anywhere outside the courtyard on her own. In order to accomplish it, she would need Myrtle or Gwen’s assistance.
The groan of the bedchamber door opening brought her upright in the bed. Fortin strode into the room, the fresh scent of the wind carried with him on the damp waves of his black hair. Apparently he had come straight from the bathhouse. ‘Twas aggravating his blue eyes should look so bright, after a night spent reveling in the hall, when she had hardly slept a wink.
After a brief glance in the direction of the pallet where she usually slept, he made directly for the casket at the end of the bed. ‘Twas not until he threw open the lid that he noticed something amiss.
His gaze darted back to the empty pallet.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Good morn, my lord,” she offered, clutching the pelt tighter against her breasts.
His stance eased once he spied her snuggled amongst the pelts. “’Twas not enough to lay claim to my bedchamber, I see. You’ve now seen fit to take over my bed.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d mind, as you weren’t using it.”
His gaze narrowed over the lid of the casket. “That’s about to change.”
Her pulse quickened as their eyes met. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve decided to help you.”
“Help me?” Her belly did a little flip.
“You’re in need of a bedmate are you not?” He cocked one brow. “Or have you changed your mind?”
“Yea!
Nay, I mean…”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Make up your mind, my lady. Which is it to be?”
Her mouth went dry as she watched him pull the blue tunic he had worn to celebrate the tournament off over his head. The smell of ale and wood smoke stuck in her throat as she stared at his sleek bare chest. “What of the ransom?”
“The king’s gratitude will serve me longer than your uncle’s ransom ever could.”
Her heart tapped hard against her breast. Heat rose to her cheeks all the way from the tip of her toes. So he wished to prevent the alliance to gain favor with the king. Taking her virtue or preserving it, either way, he would secure wealth.
The loud thud of the casket lid closing made her jump. “Then why not let me go? ‘Twould serve your purpose just as well.”
He strode closer around the side of the bed dressed in black once again. “I’ve given my word to your cousin. The exchange must take place.”
Anger heated her blood. No matter which way you looked at it, he came out on top. His bold confidence was too much. “What makes you think I’ll choose you? You aren’t the only man who can see the deed done.”
“To the victor goes the spoils, and you, my sweet, are the spoils. Besides,” He flashed a brazen smile. “There’s no one else.” He turned on his heel and strode for the door.
When the door closed, Isabeau was still grinding her teeth.
His arrogance sorely chafed.
No one else indeed!
Why, plenty of men would be grateful for such a chance.
Mayhap he thought her so proud she would only couple with a man of noble blood. If so, he underestimated her desperation. It made no difference to her who it was, so long as it kept her from Newbury’s grasp.
She sprang from the bed to pad to her coffer. If she were to succeed, she needed to look her best.
She pulled forth her favorite kirtle made of pale blue damask, trimmed with silver thread. ‘Twas a gift from her parents last Michaelmas. She had not worn it since Fortin returned her belongings for fear of ruining the garment, as the long trailing sleeves were not meant for menial tasks. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Once dressed, she sat on the bench by the hearth to plait her hair.
Myrtle entered the chamber as Isabeau stood, having completed the task. She carried
an
ewer of water for washing in one hand and clean towels in the other. “There be a fine mess in the hall, but naught can be done ‘til the lot of them clears out.”
“Tell Gwen I’ll be down directly to help.”
“I would if I could find her,” Myrtle bit out sharply.
“She’s not in the hall? But where could she be?” ‘Twas not like Gwen to shirk her duties. “Mayhap she’s ill.”
“Cuddled up in some corner with one of them mercenaries from the tourney more like.” Myrtle gave a loud huff of disapproval. “Hot-blooded and free with their coin they
be
. But ‘tis no excuse. If I had my way she’d be sent packing back to the village. ‘Tis likely his lordship will agree.”
“She must be about somewhere.” Isabeau hustled past Myrtle and out of the room to look for Gwen before Myrtle’s temper worsened. They had few enough hands as it was to keep Highburn running smoothly. She did not relish it returning to the filth and squalor of when she first came.
Isabeau traversed the corridor with all speed,
then
ascended the stairs in time to find Gwen coming through the hall entrance under the arm of a knight, his companion staggering behind them, still tipsy from their night of debauchery.
The two men were a sorry sight, rumpled and unshaven, stinking of sour ale. ‘Twas a wonder Gwen did not gag. Her companion’s cheek bore a fresh scar from the previous day’s melee. The other knight’s blonde hair was liberally streaked with dried blood from a graze on his head. ‘Twas safe to say he had sustained his wound at the festivities, since all of the combatants were carefully tended after the tourney.
“Good morn, my lady,” Gwen offered, looking abashed if not crumpled in her brown woolen kirtle as she disentangled herself from under the man’s meaty limb.
“Who’s this then?” The hazel eyes of the second knight grew bright as he ambled forward. He reached a hand toward Isabeau’s hair to stroke one of her braids.
“She’s the Lady Isabeau,” Gwen said, giving his hand a sound slap. “Keep your hands to yourself if you wish to keep ‘em.”
Isabeau grabbed Gwen by the arm to lead her away for a private word. “Where have you been? Myrtle is beside herself over your absence and the state of the hall. ‘Twould be wise if you made yourself useful with all haste. Positions in the Lord’s hall don’t grow on trees.”
Gwen eyes widened at the reminder, then, as her gaze swept the hall, taking in the catastrophe around her they grew wider still, her mouth turning down in dismay.
“Come, I’ll help you,” Isabeau offered. If the hall was put to rights before Fortin returned, Myrtle’s complaints would hold less weight.
“Many pardons, my lady.”
Gwen leaned closer to whisper against her ear, “But ‘twas an opportunity I could not refuse.” She opened her hand to reveal three silver coins.
Isabeau nodded, understanding the pressures of poverty Gwen faced. How could she condemn Gwen when she herself planned to shed her virtue in the name of
freedom.
It wasn’t until the hall was half cleared that it stuck her, the opportunity she had passed up. The combatants from the tournament would not know her or what she was doing there. They came to fight from furlongs away. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
But nay.
She shivered.
To lose her virtue to a sour-breathed far-dweller such as that was too nightmarish by half.
But what choice did
she
have, an unshaven oaf now or Newbury later?
For the deed to be done, she must thrust her pride aside.
***
Alec tossed Mercury’s reins to one of the grooms who came running across the moonlit courtyard from the stable. After many hours in the saddle and a day at Gilling’s Cross spent judging disputes and handing out fines, all he wished for was a nice soft bed.
“’Tis well I’m leaving for Lombardy,” Dominic said, dismounting beside him. “Or you’d see me bow-legged racing home for a tumble with that maid.”
“I wish to sleep in my own bed ‘tis all.”
Dominic stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the hall. “Ha! A man doesn’t bust his spleen for a bed, but the maid who waits in it.”
“She’s a prisoner not a mistress.”
“What a pity? When you’ve done naught but pamper the wench since she’s been here.” Dominic let forth an all knowing chuckle.
“’Tis hard to conceive.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Forgive me.” Dominic attempted to compose his features.
“‘Tis no time to jest.”
His lips gave a suspicious twitch. “Not often do your charms fail you.”