The Longing (32 page)

“Aye, ’twas gained at the same time his sword hand was injured, but he has learned to compensate for it and is nearly as formidable as once he was—perhaps more so since many are quick to believe it makes him less of an opponent.”

“He seems a good man.”

“He is.” He looked toward the fireplace. “Would you like to sit before the hearth?”

With him. She would, but because she wanted to, she should not. “’Tis growing late, and I am tired. Methinks I should return abovestairs.”

He pushed back his chair and stood. “I will take you.”

She had not considered that. Though she knew she need not fear for her virtue with Everard, she feared for her heart that might never recover if she continued to allow him so near it, for even the touch of his eyes was quick to bring it into play. But to be in close proximity with him…to be alone with him…to feel the touch of his hand…

Rising quickly lest he offer assistance, she said, “As you know, I have braved the passage by myself, but I thank you for the offer, Lord Wulfrith.”

“Nevertheless, I will take you.”

She considered the determined set of his jaw and sighed. “If you insist.” As she stepped away from her chair, raucous laughter arose from the hall. “It sounds as if they are enjoying themselves,” she said.

“Well earned. The days are long at Wulfen.”

She glanced at the curtains and, to her surprise, Everard asked, “Would you like to see?”

She blinked. “May I?”

He gestured for her to follow him across the rushes. At the curtains, he drew back the edge and she stepped in front of him to peer at the scene.

It was a busy one, made up of dozens and dozens of squires and pages and knights, some playing games at tables, others upon the floor, some talking and boasting and singing, others gathered before the great fireplace. The latter was where she found Judas—and, to her surprise, Sir Elias who held the attention of all where he stood with his back to the fire, a hand raised to quiet them.

Susanna looked up at Everard, whom she had known was much too close but seemed even more so when he lowered his gaze to hers. “What is Sir Elias doing?” she asked.

“Telling tales.” His breath fanned her face. “Since Sir Rowan, who usually entertains our young men with fearsome and fanciful tales of knighthood, has been occupied with watching over your chamber, your knight has filled the vacancy. And quite well, for he never wants for an audience.”

Susanna looked back at Sir Elias and watched as he wove words, some of which carried above the din, and gestured with such dramatic sweeps and thrusts that he reminded her of the jongleurs and minstrels who had often performed in the great hall of Judith’s family’s home. Many an evening, she had watched with rapt attention and, afterward, been inspired to compose her own poetry and stories.

“You did not know this about him?” Everard asked.

She met his gaze. “At Cheverel, Judas oft mentioned Sir Elias was capable of spinning a good tale, but I never witnessed it myself—did not know he was this good.”

“Perhaps he felt it safer that you and others did not know it about him.”

“Safer? That makes no sense. ’Tis a rare talent to possess, one of which he ought to be proud.”

“I agree, which is why it is curious that, in all his years of service to your brother, you were not made aware of this particular talent of his which, though he is passing proficient at arms, seems more a strength.”

That was curious, but easily explained away. “I would guess that though family duty bound him to become a knight, his heart lies elsewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Everard murmured.

Holding his gaze, Susanna became more aware of how near he stood. Nervous, she looked higher and noted, as she had done while dining, that the light blond hair that had once sprung from his head in abundance seemed of a darker shade. But perhaps that was because it was so short and, given the chance to lengthen, would be lightened by the sun. Did he intend to let it grow? If so, why now?

“Sweet woodruff,” he said low.

She caught her breath, just barely kept her hand from reaching to the pendant beneath her bodice that now held that which he had said better fit her than roses. Avoiding his eyes, she looked lower and saw his nostrils flared slightly as if he breathed her in. And that thought filled her face with heat.

Hurriedly, she stepped around him and, heading for the tapestry, said, “I am ready to return to my chamber.”

Everard did not know what had possessed him, but whatever it was, it was becoming something of a companion. And not necessarily an unwelcome one. What
was
unwelcome was his next thought that, perhaps, Abel might offer insight. Doubtless, he would try—in between peals of laughter.

Everard retrieved a torch from a nearby sconce and crossed to where Susanna awaited him alongside the tapestry. He went ahead of her, unlatched the hidden door, and held it for her to pass through. As she did so, he said, “We go right this time.”

She halted over the threshold, turned. “For what reason?”

“Your chamber lies in that direction.”

Her brow rumpled. “You know it does not. ’Tis up the steps to the left.”

“No more.” He stepped forward, and she had to retreat to make room for him in the passageway.

As he secured the door, she said, “I do not understand, Lord Wulfrith.”

By the light of the torch, he considered her troubled face, wished it did not bother him to be so formally addressed. “Trust me, Susanna,” he said and turned and strode to the right, the main corridor by which all other rooms in the donjon were accessed.

There was silence behind him, but then he heard her slippers upon the stone floor. He passed by the first stairway to the left and paused at the second.

“As these steps can be treacherous in places,” he said, “I would ask that you hold to me.”

She lowered her gaze to the hand he proffered and, hesitantly, slid her fingers over his.

Everard closed his hand around hers. Silently acknowledging how well he liked the fit, he drew her up the steps. Though usually quick to ascend the passageway, he moved at a slower pace to allow her to lift her skirts clear. Still, it was not much more than a minute and a few turnings of the stairs before they reached the uppermost landing and there was no longer a need—or was it an excuse?—to hold to her.

He released her hand, fixed the torch in a wall sconce, and worked the catch. Before he pulled the door inward, he said, “Let us hope the priest is not at prayer.”

Her frown showing he had once more baffled her, he opened the door. As there was no need for a tapestry on the other side, the passageway entrance being disguised as one of two side walls of an alcove, Everard swept his gaze around a room softly lit by candles and listened.

“There is no one within,” he said and entered ahead of her.

When she stepped alongside him, he reached back and pulled the door closed.

“’Tis a chapel,” she whispered, gazing at the altar.

“As my brother told, we do have one. You may avail yourself of it if you wish.”

Her gaze swung to his. “I would like that. Very much.”

He inclined his head. “I am sorry it has been so long denied you.” As, he surmised from what she had told in not revealing the true cause of her surprise at finding a priest at Wulfen, it had been denied her at Cheverel.

“I thank you.” The lovely curve of her mouth warranted too much contemplation.

“And now your chamber.” He crossed to the doors. Once again confirming there was no one on the other side, he led her from the chapel into the torchlit corridor, to the right past two doors, and onto the winding stairs at the far end.

At the first landing, he halted before a single door and nodded at the stairs that continued upward. “Access to the roof. I but ask that you continue to be discreet.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He pushed the door open and, pleased to find several candles had been lit and coals burned in the brazier as instructed, stood aside. “It was my sister’s chamber three years past, and now ’tis yours for the remainder of your stay.”

“Why was she here, a place women are not allowed?”

“Just as you required protection, so did Gaenor while my family determined if the man whom King Henry had ordered her to wed was worthy of her. Until then, we hid her here.”

“Did he prove worthy?”

“Aye, Baron Lavonne is a good husband and father. ’Tis he whom Abel serves.”

She smiled, peered into the chamber, then entered and crossed to the center of the room.

“It is much the same size as the other and similarly appointed,” Everard said from where he stood just inside the doorway. “In addition to providing access to the chapel, come the morn you will see your view is much changed, that you will be able to see what goes in the inner bailey and, to a lesser extent, the outer bailey and training field beyond the walls. Too, Judas will be able to visit you here, though ’tis best for his training that he do so only occasionally.”

He waited for her to respond, certain she would, but she remained silent and unmoving with her back to him.

“As for Sir Rowan,” he continued, “since I still cannot allow you to move freely about the castle, he will keep watch outside your chamber should you require anything and, if you wish to visit the chapel, serve as your escort. Regardless, I trust your stay will be more comfortable.”

Still she did not speak.

“You like it better, do you not, Susanna?”

“I do,” she whispered.

Everard knew he should stay where he was, but he crossed the fresh rushes and stepped in front of her. “What is wrong?”

She lifted her face.

Tears in her eyes would not have surprised him, but the wonder he saw there did—so bright she seemed years younger.

“Forgive me,” she said. “So many prayers have been answered that I am afraid to believe this is real. And ashamed to admit that if it is not—if it is all but a dream—I would rather not awaken lest I find you refuse to aid Judas…have set us outside your walls…still think ill of me….”

As he had done on the night past, Everard longed to pull her into his arms, but he had already tested himself too far by drawing so near when she had looked out upon the great hall, then in clasping her hand in his when he had drawn her up through the hidden passageway. What was this tightness in his chest? What was this want that made his hands ache with emptiness? Atonement, as she believed? Desire? More than desire?

Until he understood and made peace with what he felt for her, it was best—especially for Susanna whom he would not have hurt again—to observe the proprieties as much as possible.

“I assure you, it is real,” he said. “The wrongs that can be righted have been and, God willing, will continue to be.”

As she stared at him, her upper body swayed toward him as if she might step nearer. But then she eased back, and when movement at her sides drew his gaze, he saw she had also turned her hands into fists.

“I shall leave you now,” he said.

“Aye, it is late. I need to make ready for—” She frowned. “Is my pack here?”

He looked around but, as he did so, realized it would not be found here. Though he had instructed Squire Werner to transfer her personal belongings to this chamber, there had been no time during the supper hour to do so and little time since for, with Abel’s departure, the meal and conversation had ended abruptly.

“’Tis not, but I shall collect it for you.”

Susanna opened her mouth to tell him it was not necessary, but closed it at the realization her protest would sound childish and might reveal its roots—that being in his company made her emotions teeter toward those befitting a girl eleven years younger, one who would not mind being
simply
anything to him as long as she was something.

“I thank you, Lord Wulfrith.”

He turned away.

When she heard the last of his footsteps, she surveyed the chamber that had been Lady Gaenor’s. It was nearly the same as the one in which she had spent the past—

How many weeks was it? Three? It seemed longer, each day having made its every hour and minute felt, even the dust of its seconds.

Would the days until the queen’s summons arrived pass more quickly now that her circumstances had changed? Now that she wanted more than ever to be near Everard though such longing frightened her for the pain it could leave in its wake?

She tossed her circlet and veil on the bed and lowered into the chair alongside a small table upon which she hoped the chess set would soon reappear. If it did not, she would not complain, for she now had access to the chapel. Indeed, this night she would avail herself of the Lord’s house to thank Him for so generously answering her prayers for Judas. And though she did not often spend prayers upon herself, she would thank Him for the change in her own circumstances. More, as Everard had encouraged, she would ask for forgiveness so she might be freed from guilt, as she would pray he was freed from his.

Dear Everard…

She closed a hand around the pendant beneath her bodice and saw again his face when it had seemed he breathed her in. “Stop it,” she whispered. “You will only make all the days and nights after Wulfen longer.”

Leaning back in the chair, she slid her gaze from the bedside table to the bed with its two mattresses that made it sit higher than the one she had passed so many nights upon, to the side table that was barren in the absence of writing instruments. Hopefully, Everard would also deliver those—

She gasped, leapt to her feet, and if ever it could be said she was capable of flight, it would have been at that moment. Still, it might be too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

He trespassed. He knew it. And yet, when he had slid the sheaf into her pack atop the other items he had placed inside and had once more glimpsed the sweeps and curves she had inked into several pieces of parchment, he had not heeded the voice that forbade him to read them. That which had recorded what he had guessed to be Sir Rowan’s comings and goings was gone—likely by way of the brazier—but there were others in the form of verses.