The Longing (46 page)

“You are to depart immediately,” Hermana said. “I will have your possessions packed and sent on later.”

“I must change,” Graeye whispered.

“There is to be no delay,” the woman snapped. “You are to leave now so you might complete the journey ere nightfall.”

Graeye had no intention of arguing. Atremble with excitement, she lifted the skirts of her bridal habit clear of her feet and walked quickly to the knight who had delivered the message. 

The man was much older than he had appeared from a distance. In fact, he looked well past two score years, every telling groove in his hard face stark against his chalky complexion.

“Lady Graeye,” he said, “I am Sir William Rotwyld, Lord of Sulle, vassal to Baron Edward Charwyck.” His eyes shone with a coldness she feared to fathom.

Inclining her head, she clasped her hands before her. “Sir William.”

“Come.” He grasped her elbow. “Your father awaits you at Medland.”

Stealing a look behind, Graeye swept her gaze past Hermana and settled it on the abbess. This time there was no doubt that the woman smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

Medland, England

Autumn, 1156

A broom in one hand, a dirty rag in the other, Graeye took a rest from her labors to cast a critical eye over the hall. Through her efforts this past month, the castle had seen many changes inside and out, but none were as obvious as those found here.

Gone was the sparse, putrid straw that had covered the floor and upon which she had slipped on her first day at Medland. In its place were fresh rushes that smelled of sweet herbs. Immense networks of cobwebs and thick layers of dust had been swept away. Dirty, tattered window coverings had been replaced with oiled linen that held back the night’s icy draught and let day’s light spill beams throughout. Trestle tables and benches that had threatened to collapse beneath a man’s weight had been repaired, though they did not look much better for all the effort. Even the threadbare tapestries had been salvaged by days of cleaning and needlework.

Still, no matter how hard she worked, the donjon would never be grand, Graeye conceded with a wistful sigh. But at least it was now habitable. And it was the castle folk she had to thank for that. Determined as she had been to set Medland right, she could not have accomplished most of it without their help.

It had taken persistence and a considerable show of interest in the reasons behind the sorry state of the demesne before the people set aside their superstitions over the mark she bore and revealed what had transpired these past years.

Four years earlier, her father had relinquished the responsibility of overseeing Medland to Philip, and it had been a poor decision. Unconcerned for the welfare of his people, the young lord had squandered time and money.

By the second year, his neglect had led to diminished stores of food for the castle inhabitants. Hence, he had appropriated livestock and grain from the villagers to meet the demand within the walled fortress. That had weakened the once prosperous people and resulted in winter famine.

Philip had been a cruel master, too, doling out harsh punishment for minor offenses and using his authority to gain the beds of castle servants and village women. There were even whispered rumors that his cruelty had extended to the taking of lives when he was displeased—that his late wife had met her end in such a fashion.

Graeye had chosen not to delve too deeply into that last matter. Instead, she set to righting the wrongs, and it was that which brought the castle folk and villagers to her side. It had taken courage she had not knowns she possessed, but she had opened the stores of grain her father hoarded and distributed a goodly portion among the people. Though Baron Charwyck and his men had grumbled over her actions, none had directly opposed her.

When she had toured the village and fields outside the castle walls, she was relieved to discover the villagers’ crops were in better shape than their lord’s, though she kept this to herself for fear her father might again lay claim to the harvest.

Through her efforts, the harvesting of the lord’s sparse crops and the plowing and sowing of the fallow fields were set in motion, though not without a great deal of prodding. Still, she knew that even if the fields yielded late crops, it was unlikely there would be enough to last through the long winter that the brisk autumn winds promised. Though the changes she had wrought were considerable, there was still much to do.

With that reminder, Graeye drew the back of a hand over her warm, moist face. She was tempted to remove the stifling wimple but squelched the impulse. Several times during the past week, she had contemplated discarding it altogether, but she was not ready to expose herself to greater curiosity than that which she had endured thus far.

“Lady Graeye,” a man’s voice called.

She propped her broom against the wall and turned to face the one who crossed the hall toward her. It was the young knight who had caught her notice at the abbey—Sir Michael Trevier. During her first days at Medland, he had been instrumental in helping her gain acceptance among the people and implementing changes. He had been all smiles for her then, always at hand to assist in whatever task she undertook. But that was in the past.

A fortnight earlier, he had issued a challenge to the knight her father had chosen to be her husband. Sir Michael had wanted her for himself and had been prepared to do battle to win her hand. However, Edward Charwyck had remained adamant that Sir William Rotwyld, the messenger who had retrieved her from the abbey, was to be her husband.

Angered, Sir Michael had hurled insults at William, pointing out that his great age might prevent him from fathering the heir Edward badly wanted.

Although Graeye would have far preferred marriage to the kind young knight than the repulsive man of Edward’s choosing, in order to avoid bloodshed, she had declared that she was content to wed William.

Though she had been successful in preventing the two men from taking up swords, Sir Michael was no longer her champion. He had no smiles for her, nor warm words to ease her misgivings. He had become conspicuously scarce, practically a stranger. She missed him.

“There is a merchant at the postern gate who says he has cloth for you,” he said when he halted before her.

“Cloth?” Graeye frowned, trying to remember when and for what purpose, she had ordered it. “Ah, for the tables.” She gestured toward their bare, unsightly tops. “Do you not think coverings will brighten the entire hall?”

Mouth set in a grim line, he turned away. “I will send the man to you,” he tossed over his shoulder.

Once more pained by his indifference, she hurried after him and caught his arm. “Sir Michael, do you not understand why—?”

“Perfectly, my lady.” His gaze was stony.

“Nay, I do not think you do. Will you not let me explain?”

He shrugged her hand off. “A lowly knight such as myself deserves no explanation.”

So he thought she had rejected him because of his rank. “You are wrong. I—”

“Pardon me, but I have other tasks to attend to.” He bowed stiffly and walked away.

Graeye watched him go. Though she could not say she loved him, he was every bit the brother she had once imagined having. Perhaps love would have grown from that, but she supposed she would never know.

“He is the one you want, is he not?”

She spun around to face Edward. “F-father,” she stammered.

His lips twisted into a knowing smile.

Trying to gauge his mood, she took in the sour smell of alcohol that ladened his breath, the sound of his shallow, labored breathing, and the gray, sagging features set with reddened eyes. It was a common sight, for he was more often drunk than sober, but she had yet to become accustomed to such a state.

His mood was harmless, she decided. Blessedly, with each passing day, he became more genial, but it had not been like that when she had first arrived at Medland. Then he had been half-mad with grief over Philip’s death, had called her the devil’s daughter, had—

She did not want to think on that first night, for it chilled her to relive the memory. Fortunately, now he mostly named her
Daughter of Eve
whenever he was displeased. Not that she liked being blamed for the sins of man alongside Eve, but it was better than the alternative.

“The cloth has arrived,” she said, hoping he would not pursue the matter of Sir Michael. “By tomorrow eve, the tables will all be covered.”

He glowered, then slurred, “William will make you a good husband. That pup Michael knows nothing of responsibility or loyalty. And, I assure you, he knows little of breeding.”

Graeye blushed and averted her gaze. “Aye, Father.”

“But still you want the young one, eh?”

She shook her head. “I have said I am content with Sir William.”

“Content!” he spat. “Yet you would choose Sir Michael if I allowed it. Do not lie to me.”

Reminding herself of the vow she had made weeks earlier not to cower, she lifted her chin. “It is true Sir Michael is young and handsome, and he is soft of heart, but—”

“He is a weakling, that is what he is. He has no property and very little coin.”

Though Graeye knew it was unwise to defend the knight, she said, “He is still young, and what would William have if you had not given it to him?”

Surprisingly, Edward did not anger. “True,” he mused, “but he earned it. That, Sir Michael has yet to do. If ever.”

“Methinks he will.”

“Not with my daughter. Nay, I want an heir, and soon. Your union with William will ensure that.”

“How can you be certain?”

He grinned. “William made seven boys on his first two wives—not a single girl child.” He let that sink in, then added, “It is a son you will bear come spring.”

Then it was not the knight’s possessions, nor his years of loyalty that had decided Edward. It was his ability to produce sons. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of the man making an heir on her.

Edward turned and surveyed the hall. “You have done well, Daughter.”

He had changed topics so abruptly that it took her several moments to understand he referred to the improvements made to the hall. Relieved, she abandoned all thoughts of her future as William Rotwyld’s wife.

“I thank you,” she said. All the hard work was worth it for just those few words of praise. Had he also noticed the improved foodstuffs that graced his table, or had drinking numbed his sense of taste?

“Methinks I shall have to reward you.”

“’Tis not necessary,” she said.

“Of course it is not necessary! If it was, I would not do it.”

Realizing he teetered on the edge of a black mood, Graeye merely nodded.

Edward grumbled beneath his breath, studied the floor, smacked his lips. “A new wardrobe! Aye, it would not be fitting for a Charwyck to go to her wedding dressed as you are.” Sneering, he slid his gaze down the faded bliaut she wore.

Graeye smoothed the material. Having no clothing other than what she had worn as a novice at the abbey, she had taken possession of the garments that had belonged to her mother. Though aged, they fit well, for she was nearly the same size as Lady Alienor had been, only a bit shorter.

“I would like that,” she said, imagining the beautiful fabrics she might choose.

“It will be done.” Edward swung away and stumbled in his attempt to negotiate the level floor, sending the rushes beneath his feet flying. Somehow, he managed to remain upright.

Graeye hurried forward and caught his arm. “You are tired,” she said, hoping he would not thrust her away as he often did when she touched him, averse as he was to being near her—as if he truly believed the devil resided in her.

He looked down at her hand but did not push her away. “Aye, I am tired.”

She urged him toward the stairs. “I will help you to your chamber.”

The wooden steps creaked alarmingly beneath their feet, soft in some places, brittle in others, reminding Graeye that she needed to set some men the task of replacing them.

Up a second flight of stairs they went, down a narrow corridor, and into the lord’s chamber where Graeye tossed the covers back from the bed. “I will send a servant to awaken you when supper is ready,” she said as her father collapsed on the mattress.

“Supper,” he griped. “Nay, send me a wench and ale. That will suffice.”

Making no comment, Graeye pulled the covers over him. He asked for the same thing each evening, and each time she sent a manservant to deliver him to the hall. It was bold, but thus far he had allowed it.

As she straightened, Edward caught hold of her hand. “A grandson,” he muttered. “’Tis all I ask of you.”

Pity surged through her as she gazed into his desperate, pleading eyes. He was vulnerable, pained, heartbroken. Here was a man of whom she was no longer frightened—the one who should have been her father these past eleven years. Perhaps it was not too late.

Graeye knew she should not entertain such thoughts. After all, had she not been Edward’s only chance for a male heir, he would never have sent for her. Knowing this should have been enough to banish her false hope, but she could not help herself.

She bent, kissed his weathered cheek, and whispered, “A grandson you will have. This I vow.” When she lifted her head, she saw that his eyes shone with gratitude amid brimming tears.

“I thank you,” he said, his fingers gripping hers tightly. Moments later, he fell asleep.

Graeye withdrew from his chamber and quietly closed the door. She had taken but a single step toward the stairs when a sound caught her attention. Chills pricking her skin, she slowly turned to face the small chapel situated at the end of the corridor. As no torches were lit beyond Edward’s chamber, she squinted to see past the shadows, but they were too deep and dark.

Though she longed to return to her chores belowstairs, she knew she must eventually face the memories that had haunted her dreams since that first night at Medland. Thus, she squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath, and walked forward.