The Longing (47 page)

What had caused the noise? she wondered, refusing to allow her imagination to believe it had anything to do with her brother’s death. A rat, perhaps, or a breeze stirring the rushes about the chapel.

As she drew near, the sound became that of scratching and quick, shallow breathing.

Heart leaping, Graeye halted and peered into the shadows. “Who goes?” she demanded, hating that her voice should shake so.

Silence, then a deep groan. An instant later, a large figure bounded out of the darkness and skidded to a halt before her.

Mouth wide with the scream she had nearly loosed, she stared at the great, mangy dog. “Oh, Groan!”

Tongue lolling, the dog wagged its tail so vigorously that its backside jerked side to side.

Graeye sank to her knees and slid an arm around the animal. “You are naughty for frightening me,” she scolded and turned her face away when he tried to lick it.

As she stroked his head, she remembered how frightened she had been of the beast when he had introduced himself during her first meal at Medland. She had rarely been around dogs, and certainly never one of such grand proportions, and had shrieked when he had laid his slavering chin upon her lap. That had gained her nothing but humiliation, for the dog had not moved, and her father’s men had roared with laughter.

She had succeeded in dislodging him by tossing food to him, but always he returned to her and Edward had advised that if she beat him rather than feed him, he would not bother her. Such callous words had replaced her fright with a need to protect him.

Since that day, Groan—as she had named him due to his penchant for making that horrible sound—had attached himself to her side. And he had more than once proved valuable.

Recalling the night, a sennight after she had returned to Medland, when Sir William had cornered her as she readied to bed down in the hall, she shuddered. The vile man had taunted her with cruel words, and his hands had bruised her as they made themselves familiar with her cringing body. Though he was to be her husband, and she had known it was unlikely she could prevent the ravishment he intended, she had fought him. It had not deterred him. In fact, he had seemed to enjoy her resistance. Even as he had torn her bliaut and laid hands to her flesh, he had threatened that if she bore him a child with the same mark she carried, he would kill it himself.

That had frightened her more than the inevitable violation of her body. She had been about to scream when Groan had appeared. Snapping and snarling, he had circled William, bunching his body as he readied to attack.

The man who had thought nothing of exerting his greater strength over a frightened woman had retreated, leaving Graeye to offer profuse thanks to her unlikely champion.

Conveniently forgetting her resolve to face the memories that had been birthed within the chapel, Graeye straightened. “Come,” she said. “I will find you a nice morsel.”

The dog looked over his shoulder, back at her, then bounded to the chapel door and resumed his scratching and sniffing.

Graeye pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Sooner or later, she would have to go inside and brave her fears. She supposed it might as well be now.

“Shall we see what interests you, Groan?” she said and stepped forward. When she pushed the door open, Groan rushed in ahead of her.

It was not like that first night when a profusion of candlelight had greeted Graeye. Today, the chapel was dim, its only source of light that which shone from the small window that had been opened to air out the room.

Crossing herself, Graeye stepped inside. Instantly, her gaze was drawn to the high table that stood against the far wall. Her brother had been laid out on it that first night, his ravaged, decomposing corpse emitting a horrible stench. She could still smell it. And found herself reliving when Edward had brought her here. She had been unable to cross the threshold for the smell that assailed her, and so he had thrust her inside.

“I would have you see Philip with your own eyes,” he had said, “that you might know the brutality of his murder.” He had pulled her forward and swept aside the covering to reveal the festering wounds and Philip’s awful death mask.

“See the marks on his hands and chest?” He had run his fingers over the stiffened corpse. “These he survived. ’Twas the arrow that killed him.”

Battling nausea, Graeye asked, “Arrow?” She saw no evidence of such a wound.

“Took it in the back!” Edward’s face turned a horrid crimson as he stared into his son’s sightless eyes.

Anxious to withdraw, Graeye touched his sleeve. “Let us speak elsewhere. This is not the place—”

“That accursed Balmaine witch and her brother did this to him!”

Graeye’s head snapped back. Balmaine? Was that not the family under which Philip had completed his knighthood training, the same whose properties bordered those of Medland?

“I do not understand, Father. The Balmaines are responsible for this?”

He looked up from the body, the hate upon his face so tangible it gripped a cold hand about her heart. “Gilbert Balmaine challenged your brother to a duel, and when Philip bettered him, his wicked sister put an arrow through his back.”

Graeye gasped. Though her familial ties were strained by the long years of absence, she was appalled to learn such an injustice had been done her brother.

“Why?” she whispered.

Edward gripped her upper arm. “’Twas the Balmaine woman’s revenge upon Philip for breaking his betrothal to her.”

Graeye had not known of her brother’s betrothal. Despair over the lost years gripped her. Perhaps things would have been different had her mother lived and Graeye had been allowed to grow up at Medland.

“Why would Philip break the betrothal?” she asked, and flinched when Edward’s fingers bit into her flesh.

“She was a harlot—gave herself to another man only days before she was to wed Philip. He could not wed her after such a betrayal.”

Graeye clenched her hands. What evil lurked in a woman’s heart that made her seek such means of revenge? “When did he die?”

“Over a fortnight past.”

She glanced at his corpse. “Why has he lain in state so long?”

“He was returned to me nine days past over the back of his horse,” Edward said, the corners of his mouth collecting spittle.

“Whence?”

“One of the northern shires—Chesne.”

“The north? But what was he—?”

“Be silent!” Edward gave her a shake. “The Balmaine is my enemy—ours! Do not forget what you have seen here, for we will have our revenge.”

“Nay, we must forgive, Father. ’Tis not for us to judge. That is God’s place.”

“Do not preach at me!” He drew his arm back as if to strike her.

Graeye stared at the hand poised above her, shrank from him.

Abruptly, he released her. “I will have my revenge,” he barked. “And you, Daughter, will pass the night here and pray Philip’s soul into heaven.”

She shook her head. It was too much he asked. If there was not yet disease in this chamber, there would soon be. She pulled free, spun around, and ran for the door.

Graeye dragged herself back to the present. She did not need to relive any more of that night to exorcise her memories. There was not much else to them other than endless hours of prayer. Locked in the chapel, she had knelt before the altar and prayed for her brother’s soul and her own deliverance until dawn when a servant had let her out. Since then, she had not come near this place.

Groan’s bark brought her head around. “What have you found?” she asked.

Crouching low, he pushed his paws beneath the kneeler and swatted at something that gave a high-pitched cry.

“Is it a bird?” No sooner did she ask it than a bird flew out from beneath the kneeler and swept across the chapel. Groan chased after it, but it was too fast.

It was a young falcon, Graeye saw as she rushed to close the door so it would not escape into the rest of the castle. Had it slipped free of the mews?

It took patience and effort, but between Graeye and Groan chasing it about, the falcon finally found the small window and its freedom. Gripping the sill, Graeye watched the bird arc and dip its wings in the broad expanse of sky.

How would it feel to have wings? To fly free and—

She chastised herself for such foolish yearnings. There was nothing she had wanted as badly as to come home to Medland and assume her place as lady of the castle. In spite of the obstacles encountered these past weeks, and that she was to wed a man she loathed, she had never known greater fulfillment.

With the abbey forever behind her, her future was assured. That, no one could take from her.

CHAPTER THREE

There was to be no more discussion of Graeye’s marriage to William Rotwyld. Simply, there was to be no wedding.

An air of import surrounded King Henry’s knight as he strode into the hall five days later, his armed retinue following close behind and spreading out to position themselves about the room. Clothed in chain mail, they wore no smiles nor congenial air that might mistake them for visitors simply passing through.

Realizing something serious was afoot, Edward ordered all, except his steward and William, from the hall in order to receive the king’s missive in private.

Graeye did not have long to learn what news had been brought to her father, for his explosion was heard throughout the donjon. She hurried into the hall and stumbled when she saw the half-dozen knights clamoring to hold her red-faced, bellowing sire from the messenger.

Shot through with fear, she searched out William and saw he stood beside the steward, his expression reflecting the other man’s. Shock, disbelief, outrage.

She moved forward and halted before the messenger. “What has happened, Sir Knight?”

His gaze swept her faded bliaut before settling on her face framed by its concealing wimple. “Who are you?”

She dipped a curtsy. “I am Lady Graeye.”

His eyes narrowed. “Sir Royce Saliere, here by order of the king. You are a relation?”

Graeye glanced at her father. “I am the baron’s daughter.”

Surprise transformed his dour face, but he quickly recovered. “No longer baron.” He gave what seemed a token shrug of regret. “By King Henry’s decree, all Charwyck lands are declared forfeit and returned to the sovereignty of the crown.”

Edward roared louder, raising his voice against God as he struggled to free himself.

Feeling as if she had been delivered a mighty blow, Graeye shook her head. It could not be true. The king would not take from the Charwycks that which had been awarded the family nearly a century past. This had to be some kind of trickery by which another sought to wrest her father’s lands from him now that he was without an heir.

“Methinks you lie,” she said.

Sir Royce’s eyebrows arched. “Lie?”

“King Henry would do no such a thing. My father is a loyal subject. He—”

“Can you read?” Sir Royce’s tone was patronizing.

“Of course,” she said and took the document he thrust at her. Immediately, her gaze fell upon the broken wax seal. Though she had never seen the royal signet, she did not doubt this had, indeed, come from the king. Heart sinking, she unrolled the parchment and read the first lines. And could go no further.

“Why?” she croaked, reaching for something to hold to but finding emptiness. If the Charwyck lands were lost, what was to become of her father, an old man no longer capable of lifting a sword to earn his living? And what of her? She would not be needed to produce a male heir—of no value since William would not wed her without benefit of the immense dowry she would have brought to their union.

“For offenses committed by your brother, Philip Charwyck,” Sir Royce said as he pried the document from her fingers.

Graeye swayed but remained on her feet. “I do not understand,” she said. “Of what offenses do you speak?” She stole a glance at her father who had quieted.

“Murder, pillaging…”

Remembering her brother’s disposition, the accusations should not have surprised her, but they did. “Surely you are mistaken.” Desperation raised her voice unnaturally high. “’Twas my brother who was murdered. Why do you not seek out the perpetrator of that crime?”

The man raised his eyes heavenward as if seeking guidance from God. “As I have told your father, Philip Charwyck was not murdered. His death is a result of his own deceit.”

“What did—?”

Sir Royce held up a hand. “I can tell no more.”

“You would take all that belongs to the Charwycks and refuse to say what, exactly, my brother is accused of having done?”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Your fate rests with Baron Balmaine of Penforke. ’Tis his family the crime was committed against, and King Henry has given the care of these properties to him.”

Graeye barely had time to register this last shocking news before her father erupted again and renewed his struggles. “Curse the Balmaines! With my own sword, I will gut the miscreant and his sister!”

Sir Royce grunted, signaled for his men to remove Edward.

Graeye rushed toward her father. “Nay!” she cried, following the knights as they half dragged, half carried Edward across the hall. Her efforts to halt their progress were to no avail, for she was thrust aside each time she stepped into their path. Neither William, nor the steward, were of any help. As if great pillars of earth, they remained unmoving.

She hurried back to Sir Royce. “Where are they taking my father?” She touched his sleeve. “Surely he has committed no offense.”

“He must needs be held whilst he is a danger to others.” He looked at her hand upon his arm.

She dropped it but continued to stare into his unmoving face. “He has been dealt a great blow. Not only has the king taken everything he owns, but he has given it into the hands of my father’s avowed enemy.”

The man considered her, then ran a weary hand through his cropped, silvery hair. “Lady Graeye, I do not fault your father for his anger. ’Tis simply a measure of safety I take to ensure Medland passes into Baron Balmaine’s hands without contest.”

“He will be coming soon?”