The Longing (39 page)

Safe, then.

The lady gestured to a basin on a nearby table. “While we await the delivery of your pack, you are welcome to freshen yourself.”

Susanna stepped past her, removed her mantle, and splashed handfuls of perfumed water over her face and neck. As she patted a towel across her damp skin, a gasp sounded from the window where Lady Annyn and her son peered downward.

“’Tis said
I
am bold,” the baron’s wife exclaimed.

In a moment, Lady Isobel was beside her daughter-in-law. She shook her head and looked across her shoulder. “Though I had thought you might rest ere supper, Lady Susanna, methinks you ought to accompany us to the garden.”

“Now?”

“Aye, Queen Eleanor is there with her children. Unfortunately, in our absence, Lady Richenda and her daughter have happened upon her.”

Susanna thought it likely the “happening” was intentional. Still, she said, “I would not wish to interrupt the queen’s time with her children.”

“It is already done.” Lady Isobel stepped toward her. “Now we must ensure you are also known to our queen.”

Susanna smoothed her wrinkled skirts. “Am I presentable?”

“You are.” Everard’s mother turned. “Come.”

They had to pass through the hall to reach the garden, but though Susanna was certain she once more fell beneath Sir Talbot’s regard, she fastened her eyes ahead as she walked between Baron Wulfrith’s mother and Lady Annyn whose son had once more tucked his head beneath her chin and whose lids were trying very hard to lower.

Upon reaching the door that accessed the garden, Lady Isobel paused. “Prepare yourself, for Queen Eleanor is most formidable.”

Not wanting Everard’s mother to think her fearful or unversed in such behavior, Susanna said, “As is Lady Richenda.”

Lady Isobel arched an eyebrow. “I believe you are right, but methinks you shall soon discover the difference between earned formidability and that claimed by grasping hands.”

Susanna blinked.

“Be not troubled,” Lady Isobel said as she opened the door. “You are among friends.”

That she should be so quickly favored by Everard’s family caused Susanna’s throat to tighten. Then she was walking a path between trees, hedges, and clusters and sprays of flowers, the sound of children’s laughter ahead, the figures of more than a dozen visible around the immense garden.

Nearly all present were noblewomen, as told by their fine garments. And there were three knights whom Susanna guessed were the queen’s guard. But where was the woman who had earned the right to be called formidable? And where was the one who had not?

As the path curved to the right, they halted when four children hurtled from one side of it to the other—a girl and boy aged five or so, followed by a younger girl and boy nearer three years of age.

“Issie! Jonas!” Lady Annyn called.

The older, dark-haired girl halted and, as she spun around, caught the arm of the younger of the boys as he made to run past her. He was also dark of hair, and his large grey-green eyes snapped at the girl who had put an end to his fun.

“Artur’s older sister and brother,” Lady Isobel said. “The other two were the queen’s children.”

Looking up at Lady Annyn who had stepped off the path onto the grass, the girl said, “We are playing nicely as you said we should, Mother.”

“Are you, Issie?”

Something sparkled in the eyes of Lady Isobel’s namesake, and there was something of a smile about her mouth—not unlike the one with which her father had recently regarded Susanna. “Oh, aye. Though Lord Henry wanted to challenge me with sticks to see if he could best me this time”—she leaned forward as if to impart a secret—“which he cannot, you know, I told him that I am to behave the lady.”

“I am pleased, Issie.”

The girl sighed. “’Tis not as much fun, but Lord Henry and I are allowing Jonas and Lady Matilda to chase us and, I promise, we are not trying very hard to escape—just enough so they cannot catch us.”

“I can catch you!” the boy exclaimed.

“Of course you can, Jonas.” Lady Annyn ruffled his hair, then reached to her daughter and hooked a tress out of her eyes and behind an ear. “You think so too, do you not, Issie?”

The girl glanced at her brother, shrugged. “He is a boy, but ’tis possible.”

It was hard not to laugh, especially knowing Lady Annyn’s past, but Susanna contained her mirth.

“Are not my grandchildren beautiful?” Lady Isobel said near her ear.

“They are, my lady.” It was true, for their mother was present in their faces, and there was evidence of their handsome father in the boy’s visage.

“Go on, then,” Lady Annyn said, and daughter and son disappeared in the direction of the royal children.

Lady Isobel resumed their course and, when they came around a great, square hedge, Susanna’s heart beat so fast she felt it in her neck and wrists.

Though the backs of the two ladies who stood in the grass off the path were turned to her and veils covered their hair, the height and width of the one on the right told that here was Lady Richenda. And seated on a bench before Lady Blanche and her mother was a regal, resplendently-clothed woman who could be none other than King Henry’s queen. Despite an age approaching two score and an expression more tolerant than pleased, she was stunningly attractive.

Lady Isobel halted, and Susanna and Lady Annyn did the same. One did not approach a queen without invitation.

“You would like to hold him, Your Majesty?” It was Lady Richenda, and when Lady Blanche took an uncertain step forward, Susanna realized that the infant, Alan de Balliol, was being offered.

As the queen held up a staying hand that sparkled with a great number of rings, her gaze shifted to the space between the two women and eyebrows arched as she beheld the three who awaited her summons. 

“I thank you, Lady Richenda,” she said, “but methinks there is one more deserving of such joy.” Her eyes settled on Susanna. “The babe’s aunt, Lady Susanna de Balliol, am I right?”

With great gasps, Lady Richenda and Lady Blanche turned.

“Aye, Your Majesty.” Susanna curtsied. When she looked up, the queen’s hand that had stayed Lady Blanche motioned her forward.

She had taken only two steps when Lady Richenda cried, “Oh, my dear Susanna!” and bustled forward.

Susanna halted and, a moment later, was face to face with the woman she disliked most in all the world.

She startled when Lady Richenda reached up and gripped her face between her hands. “We were worried about you, child.”

Grateful for the folds of her skirts that hid her fists, Susanna said, “Your worry was for naught, Lady Richenda. As you can see, I am quite well. As is my nephew, Judas.”

The woman’s gaze wavered, and her smile tightened. “Good tidings, indeed, Lady Susanna.” She withdrew her hands, lowered to her heels, and stepped aside.

Susanna resumed her advance, and Lady Richenda joined her. A moment later, she halted alongside her sister-in-law.

Lady Blanche, cradling her son who was trying to fit a wet fist in his mouth, glanced up. In that brief moment, misery and weariness were evident upon a face that seemed nearly as gaunt as Susanna’s had been when first she had arrived at Wulfen Castle.

In spite of all, Susanna ached for this woman whose mother had made of her a puppet, who might have become a friend and companion had Lady Richenda not come to Cheverel.

“Lady Blanche,” Queen Eleanor said, “do you not think your sister-in-law would like to hold her nephew after so long an absence from Cheverel?”

Susanna heard Lady Richenda’s swift intake of breath.

“Of course,” her daughter said and turned to Susanna.

The passing of the babe was an awkward thing, but once he filled the curve of Susanna’s arm and his eyes stared wide at her, she was swept with memories of Judas in swaddling cloths. “Oh,” she sighed, “he is lovely.” She stroked the back of his wet hand, and he grasped her finger and pulled the knuckle to his mouth.

“Now, it would seem, you have two nephews,” the queen mused.

Susanna was surprised by how intently Eleanor watched her. “So I do.” The speaking of it giving rise to guilt, she determinedly turned it aside. It was not this babe’s fault that Lady Richenda sought to deny his older brother his birthright. Though Judas had, for years, occupied the whole of Susanna’s heart, there was room for another.

Especially if that other displaces the ache that will be left by Everard.

“Ah, Lady Susanna,” Lady Richenda said for all to hear, “this is a sad, terrible business that brings us here, is it not? But I am certain our good queen will set everything to rights.”

“Lady Richenda,” Queen Eleanor said sharply, “as told, I am at my leisure and we shall not talk of these things. They will save for the morrow.”

Lady Richenda mewled. “Apologies, Your Majesty, I forget myself.”

“Do not do so again.”

Susanna held her brother’s second-born son several minutes until he began to fuss and Lady Richenda informed her daughter it was time to feed him.

Lady Blanche stepped near and, as she eased the babe into her arms, murmured, “I have missed you terribly.” There was desperation in her voice that roused sympathy. It had been impossible to be close with her since Lady Richenda’s arrival at Cheverel, but it must have been of some comfort to have another woman beneath the roof.

Susanna smiled, and Lady Blanche turned away.

Lady Richenda did not—until Queen Eleanor said, “You have my leave to accompany your daughter, Lady Richenda.”

The woman jumped just shy of actually coming off her feet. “I thank you, Your Majesty.” She hurried away.

When she was gone, Queen Eleanor said, “A babe looks good in your arms, Lady Susanna, and yet you are not wed and have never been, I am told.”

It was discomfiting to know inquiries had been made of her. “’Tis true, Your Majesty.”

“A broken betrothal?”

Susanna flushed. “Aye, Your Majesty.”

“By whom?”

Though thankful it had not been asked of her in Lady Richenda’s presence, it was no easy thing to be asked it with Lady Isobel and Lady Annyn attending to every word. “The decision was my brother’s.”

“And his reason?”

“He wished me to remain at Cheverel and serve as companion to his wife, Judas’s mother.”

“Did you wish it as well?”

Susanna felt tears at the backs of her eyes, and it angered her that she should be nearly moved to them. For fear the queen would see that anger, she lowered her gaze.

“Hardly how a loving brother behaves toward a loving sister,” Eleanor said.

It was obvious she did more than guess. She knew things Susanna would have believed too far beneath the notice of one of royal personage.

She once more braved the woman’s gaze. “In the end, it proved a blessing, Your Majesty, for it allowed me to give my motherless nephew the care he required.”

“An honorable sacrifice. But tell me, in all these years, have you never loved?”

Susanna felt her eyes go wide. “Your Majesty, I do not mean any disrespect, but I do not see the relevance of—”

“You
have
loved. Now the question is, were you loved in return?”

That anger again, and not only directed at the queen but at herself.

Fortunately, she was saved from answering when Eleanor’s gaze went to a place beyond Susanna and she called, “Come forward, Sir Durand.”

The knight strode past Susanna and bent to the queen’s ear. She listened, said, “I will meet with them,” and offered her hand to the man.

He drew her to her feet.

Immediately, two ladies appeared and were instructed by their queen to deliver Lord Henry and Lady Matilda to the solar. As they hastened away, Queen Eleanor said to Susanna. “And so to business. Good day.”

Susanna curtsied again. Then, relieved she had been saved from angering the queen, she watched the woman cross the grass with the knight following close behind. As Eleanor stepped onto the path, a curious thing happened. Lady Isobel narrowed her lids at Sir Durand and her mouth turned grim.

Wondering what the man had done to earn her displeasure, Susanna stepped forward and caught Lady Isobel’s muttered, “She calls him her gallant monk!” Everard’s mother shook her head and started back toward the donjon.

As Lady Annyn shifted a softly snoring Artur on her shoulder, she said low, “Would that I could explain that, but ’tis a confidence closely held by the family—an old hurt that, though the scab gets smaller with each passing year, it yet pains when torn away.”

“You need not fear I will pry,” Susanna said.

“I do not. Now, to rest, hmm?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Eleanor was amused. At least, she appeared to be.

“Elias de Morville.” She ran her gaze down the knight and back up, her lips curving a bit more as she considered his face. “Otto’s lost pup.” She nodded. “And heir.”

Everard shifted his gaze from the queen who had granted them a private audience in the solar, to Sir Elias whose solemn expression transformed into one bent with confusion.

“Your Majesty,” the man said, “I fear you are misinformed. I am not my father’s heir. I am second—”

“Now you are first.” She shifted in the great chair positioned with its back to the hearth. “I regret it falls to me to deliver grievous tidings, but your brother died from an injury received in tournament…” She frowned. “…three summers past.”

Sir Elias took a step back as if to find his balance. “I did not know.”

“How could you?” She reached a hand toward the lady to her left, and her fingers were fit with a goblet whose stem was wound around with colorful ribbons. “You did, after all, reject your noble blood and flee France to play the troubadour here in England, thereby abandoning your family and allowing them to believe you dead by foul means.” She raised an eyebrow.

“It was wrong of me. My only defense is that of having been young and foolish.”

“Indeed. And when you determined to be young and foolish no more, to take up the life of a knight—one unearned—why did you not seek your father’s forgiveness and blessing?”