He made a slow fist, and a cold ache sank into the bones of his right arm. He held the fist before him and matched it with his left hand.
“My hands,” he said to the quiet chamber, clenching and unclenching his fingers, turning his hands before his face. “
My
hands.” Then he turned back to the bed, to August’s sword.
“
My
sword,” he corrected aloud.
He gritted his teeth, and cried out once while working to strap the weighty weapon to his side. His neck was damp with sweat when, for the first time in Oliver’s life, he was clothed as Lord Bellecote. He walked to his chamber door and quit the room.
He felt perhaps his fortune had changed for the better when he encountered not a single Foxe en route to the great hall. But that theory was brutally defeated when, stopping in the sheltering shadows of the stairwell, he saw none other than Cecily Foxe, laughing uproariously with her younger sister. John Grey and Piers Mallory flanked the two women and the quartet appeared quite cozy.
Oliver retreated. He would not make a greater fool of himself for Cecily Foxe than he already had. Unlike August, the younger Lord Bellecote knew when he was defeated.
The guards opened the doors for him and Oliver stepped into the cold, irritatingly cheery sunlight, the wind biting through his thin shirtsleeves and tousling his hair. He had been cradling his right arm out of habit, but now he lowered it slowly to his side, wincing at the sharp bursts of pain the motion caused.
He took a deep breath.
She didn’t want him. She didn’t need him. And she most certainly did not love him.
The doors behind him burst open and someone stumbled into him, rocking him on his feet. Oliver turned at the strangled apology and saw a whirl of gray skirts, a knot of silky, dark hair.
It was Cecily.
He watched her stagger along the side of the keep wall and fall to her knees in the yellowed weeds, and Oliver’s jaw clenched. Her head dropped and he heard the terrible retching. His feet were moving before he could think better of it.
She was standing at the chamber window, contemplating the wisdom of leaving her rooms or not, when she saw the flash of white sleeve close to the wall below. She stepped closer to the window, the cantilevered alcove giving her a ready view of the happenings on the ground. Her brows drew together.
It was Oliver, looking so very much like August from that vantage point—he even had his brother’s sword strapped to him now. He was crouching down next to a puddle of woman on the ground. Cecily.
What were they about?
He helped her to her feet, and when it seemed she would have pulled away from him—her face downcast, her head turned aside—he pulled her closer, stepped into her. He seemed to be speaking to her, imploring her to look at him. But she would not. She only shook her head, bringing her fingers to press against her mouth. She nodded briefly, and then shook her head again.
Suddenly, Cecily wrenched her arm free and then turned, walking swiftly around the side of the keep wall toward the doors and disappearing.
Oliver stood alone for several moments, his dark hair a plaything for the breeze. His arm was no longer in its sling. He could have been August then, and she caught her breath as tears came to her eyes. She sniffed and brushed angrily at her cheek. Oliver turned then and she stepped back from the alcove, farther into the shadows of her room.
But he did not glance up. Instead he began to walk across the bailey, toward the chapel. Oliver paused for a moment, and then disappeared into the domed doorway. She saw a glimpse of the heavy wooden door swinging tardily, following after him.
She thought of the finger of crystal, the vivid, frustrating, seemingly meaningless dreams it had induced.
She thought of Cecily’s betrothal to the vicar.
Then she thought of the Foxe Ring.
Chapter 19
Oliver departed Fallstowe on the seventh day after Cecily had returned from Hallowshire, his man from Bellemont arriving with an entourage of mounted soldiers and several horses for his lordship. Cecily stood some distance away in the bailey with John Grey, watching as Father Perry bid Oliver a quiet farewell.
Sybilla was absent, but Joan Barleg stood to the side of the great double doors, her eyes red and swollen, her arms across her midsection, her hands gripping her elbows. Oliver thus far had not afforded the obviously brokenhearted woman so much as a glance when he swung onto his horse and adjusted the reins in favor of his weaker arm.
John Grey leaned his head near Cecily’s ear. “You must feel relieved to soon have this behind you.”
Cecily turned her face to him, looked into his eyes, wanting forever more to be naught but honest with this good man.
“Yes,” she lied, and gave him a weak smile.
Wanting something and having it were two very different things, Cecily now knew.
He returned her smile as Father Perry backed away from Oliver’s mount, bestowing a blessing in the air before him. Then the priest was striding past Cecily and John, a happy smile on his narrow face.
“It is days such as this that give me more cause than usual to praise God,” the man spouted, raising both hands in the air. “Hallelujah! It is a wondrous day for confession!” Both Cecily and John laughed at the man’s triumphant-sounding whoop as he disappeared into his chapel.
Cecily could not discern why, when surrounded by men the likes of Father Perry and John Grey, her heart would still be reaching toward the only scoundrel in Fallstowe’s midst. The man atop horseback, who was dancing his mount in a circle, its muzzle now pointing toward her.
Cecily raised her face until her eyes met Oliver Bellecote’s, but her pensive words were meant only for John Grey’s ears.
“It
is
a good day for confession, John.”
Cecily felt his eyes on her, sensed his surprise, as she slid her arm from his grasp and turned, walking swiftly toward the chapel.
It seemed a lifetime ago when she had stood at those wooden doors, pausing to gaze over her shoulder toward the Foxe Ring.
This time though, Cecily did not look back.
Oliver watched Cecily’s retreat with an ache in his chest. She would not even bid him farewell. His every instinct clawed at him to dismount and follow her, force her to face him. But his instincts, trained on the wrong desires for so many years, had done naught but fail him thus far. Oliver knew that if he ever had the fortune to lay eyes upon Cecily after leaving Fallstowe’s bailey, she would be John Grey’s wife. He’d had his chance to win her, and he had been judged unworthy. Perhaps, he thought, rightly so.
He looked at the not-a-vicar for a moment, and the blond man looked back mildly, with no obvious trace of resentment on his face. Cecily was likely right—John Grey was a better man than he. The idea of it, of Oliver’s failures, burned and twisted in his guts.
But he could overcome his past. He would.
And so, Oliver raised his right hand, even though it felt as though it had been nailed to his ribs. “I wish you well, Grey.”
John Grey stood very still for a moment, and then began walking toward him. Oliver opened his mouth as the man drew near, but John Grey turned his eyes to Fallstowe and walked directly past Oliver’s horse.
“May God forgive you,” John Grey muttered as if it was all he could allow through his clenched teeth. He disappeared through Fallstowe’s doors.
“He already has!” Oliver shouted at the thick wooden doors. His frustration was threatening to explode. “So ... so you can go to hell, Vicar!”
Oliver winced as, at his side, Argo snickered. Not a good start.
He caught sight of Joan, standing against the keep wall, her face a clear mask of misery. He would fare much better with this attempt.
“Joan,” he called.
She pushed her shoulders away from the stones and approached him, her arms locked together across her stomach. She had very recently been crying.
At his horse’s side, she stopped, looked up at him. “So now you would call me to you like a dog?” She huffed. “Well, I came, didn’t I? What do you want, Oliver?”
“Joan,” Oliver began again, “I’m sorry for how things turned out.”
She raised her eyebrows apathetically.
“Truly. And I must confess to you before I go, so that I do not leave you with either false hope or ideas that are out of line with what has actually gone on during our time at Fallstowe.”
Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she looked slightly more interested.
“I told you upon my arrival here that I had no intention of marrying you, and that was the truth. Even when it seemed that I had made a proposal to you—”
“Seemed?” she asked shrilly. “You asked me to marry you!”
Oliver winced. “Actually, I asked you if you
would
marry me, a question to which I was already informed of the answer. I had no intention of ever going through with it. I only did it at Lady Sybilla’s request.”
Joan blanched. “What? Why? That makes no sense.”
“All she would tell me is that she has some suspicions about August’s death, and that she thinks you know something that you aren’t telling.”
“What?” Joan whispered. “She ... she thinks I killed August? Oliver, do you think that? Is that why—?”
“No, I don’t think you killed August. You were awakened in my bed the morning he was found. But discovering whatever Sybilla thinks you know is why she’s been so unnaturally cozy to you the past weeks. Sybilla’s reputation isn’t false; she is a cold woman. And a dangerous woman, so take care with her. I owe her no loyalty now that August is gone. Telling you was the least I could do after having played a part in deceiving you so.”
He saw her swallow, her eyes bulging; even her lips were pale. “Thank you, Oliver. But perhaps ... might I call on Bellemont? Perhaps we could still—”
Oliver shook his head and cut off her words before she could go any further. “No, Joan. Our time—as friends and other wise—is over. I bid you no ill-will, but I would rather we not see each other again.”
She swallowed again and Oliver could see her tremble.
“I
am
sorry, Joan,” he repeated.
Her eyes narrowed. She suddenly spat up at Oliver, and he recoiled from the base attack.
“You will never take August’s place,” she hissed viciously. “I hope the king strips you of Bellemont and leaves you penniless in the gutter, you filthy, drunken pig!” She spun on her heel to retreat to the keep.
“Joan,” Oliver called, shocked at the woman’s virulent reaction.
She stopped in front of the doors the guards held for her, turned, and raised her chin.
“He was a better lover than you, as well.”
Then Joan was gone and Oliver was left in Fallstowe’s bailey, surrounded only by his uneasy entourage. No Sybilla, Graves; no John Grey. No Cecily. Not even the roughest squire of Fallstowe remained to see him through the gates. Only the new knowledge that Joan Barleg had slept with his brother. Had slept with him and then compared them both.
Oliver’s face burned. His jaw clenched.
He cleared his throat, and didn’t look at Argo as he kicked the sides of his mount. He felt like galloping the whole of the way back to Bellemont.
Perhaps he would.
Demo version limitation
Chapter 21
It was several hours before Cecily could bring herself to seek out John Grey. The confrontation with her sisters in Sybilla’s room that morning had taken its toll on Cecily, and she retreated to her own chamber to find some courage and give her stomach a chance to calm its roiling. Vomiting on the man while she broke off their betrothal would only add insult to injury.
And she thought again of her decision to take herself and her unborn child to the abbey before contacting Oliver. Was it truly the right thing to do? Was Alys’s outrage at Cecily keeping the pregnancy a secret for any length of time justified? Sybilla herself seemed to agree that the man needed to be told, but if Cecily was honest with herself, she knew the reason she would keep the secret was out of selfish fear.
She loved Oliver Bellecote. She loved him more deeply and more passionately than she could have ever imagined her heart capable. Even now, his absence from Fallstowe’s walls was palpable to her in the way one keeps lifting an empty chalice to their lips, thirsting and wishing for wine and only sensing in the last moment that the cup had been emptied.
She loved him. And she was fairly certain that, should he find out she carried his child, he would insist on marrying her. He would use every low trick to convince her to do so. But then Cecily would never know if his affections and loyalty to her were true. And when he strayed from her bed, as surely he would, how much more heartbroken would she be? Cecily closed her eyes against those painful imaginings.
She would send word for him to come to her at Hallowshire. If he did so, only for her, because he wanted her, perhaps there was hope for them. But if he ignored her message, if he had already forsaken the memory of her in favor of his next conquest ...
An abbey was no good place to raise a child, of course, but there was no reason why she should stay there after the baby was born. Cecily had already thought that once the child was old enough to travel, she would demand Sybilla take a tiny portion of Fallstowe’s wealth and secure her and the baby a home abroad. In France, perhaps even Bordeaux, where there were likely still distant relatives to their mother. In France, there would be little chance of ever again laying eyes upon Oliver Bellecote.
Or John Grey.
Cecily paused in the stairwell leading to the great hall, her eyes easily finding the lone figure of the vicar sitting at one of the common tables, his back to her. His golden hair, shining and straight, was the brightest thing in the cavernous room. Like a beacon of light, drawing her to him. Cecily thought the analogy fitting. And she felt shame at sending that goodness away.
She took a deep breath and stepped off the bottom step and into the hall.
He turned his head at the small whispering sounds of her slippers on the stones, and immediately stood, his face lit with a smile so gentle that it crushed Cecily’s heart.
“I’d wondered if I would have need to send Graves to wake you before supper.”
She came to stand at the end of the long table, her fingers knotted together at her waist. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was ... I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You’re not ill again, are you?” His fine brow drew downward and he seemed to take stock of her appearance. “You do look a bit pale.”
“No. No, I’m not ill.” If only it were that simple! She indicated the spot on the bench next to him. “May I?”
“Please,” he said, reaching for her elbow and seeing her settled before taking his seat once more. “You are troubled by something, then, I know it. I do hope that you’re to share it with me now.”
Cecily swallowed, nodded. “Indeed.”
He reached for her hand, and although Cecily wanted to shirk away, pulling her hand out of his warm grasp, she did not. Instead, she looked down at their joined fingers and for a moment, wondered again at the wisdom of what she was about to do. Was she completely mad?
Yes,
she said to herself.
I am completely, madly in love with a man. And that man is not the one who sits at my side.
The idea gave her courage enough to look into his eyes at last.
“John,” she said. “John, I bless the day you came into my life.”
His gentle smile was back. “Well, that is very kind of you to say, Cecily. I thank you for such a deep compliment.”
She shook her head. “No, don’t thank me. Don’t thank me, for you know not what I am about to say.”
His smile faded a bit. “Oh? Say it then, so that I will know.”
“I can’t marry you, John.”
He did not shout his surprise. Embarrassed anger did not redden his face. His forehead only crinkled a bit, as if he were mildly perplexed by what she’d said. Perhaps she had posed some sort of riddle to him.
“Why?”
Cecily licked her lips, swallowed again. “Because I’m pregnant.”
John Grey’s face went slack and he turned his face away from her toward the front of the hall. “Oh,” he breathed. He pulled his hand away from Cecily’s, and Cecily squeezed her eyes shut when he placed that hand over his mouth and chin, his elbow resting on the table. “What he said was true, then—you did make love. I thought perhaps Lord Bellecote was only—” He broke off and paused for a moment. “You let me believe it had not gone so far.”
“I did.” Her skin felt like ice now that his warmth was gone. He didn’t speak again, and so Cecily offered, “I’m sorry, John. I’m so ashamed. I’m not worthy of y—”
He turned his face back to her suddenly and his words cut her off. “I don’t care.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t care that you are pregnant,” he clarified, and although his expression still bore the heavy traces of a deep shock, his words were strong, his tone sincere. “I may not be as rich as some men—most men, actually—but I will give all I have to care for you and that babe. He or she will be like my own, and there need never be any mention of it. We’ll marry more quickly than we had intended, and ... well, babies are born early on in marriages quite often.”
Cecily was stunned. “I ... I can’t let you do that, John. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“How would it not be fair?” he asked. “I want you to be my wife. That you would be bringing an extra, small person—a person made from your own flesh—into our lives, is no reason for me to discard you.”
Cecily’s throat choked with emotion. “It would be forever between us. You would resent me in time, perhaps the child, as well.”
“You truly believe that of me?” he asked, the hurt clear on his face.
Cecily drew in a stuttering breath as she remembered John in the village, holding the newborn babe, and her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Of course not. That was simply a lie I was telling myself.”
“It’s because you love him, isn’t it?”
A tear escaped one eye and raced down her cheek. She nodded. “And it is also because I suspect that, deep in your heart, you were using our betrothal as an escape from your vows.”
John turned sideways on the bench suddenly and grasped both of her shoulders. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care for you! That I would not put my whole heart into being a good husband to you, a good father to our children! You are smarter than this, Cecily! Oliver Bellecote obviously cares nothing for you—he abandoned you and the babe when he left Fallstowe!”
Oh, God,
Cecily whispered to herself,
please give me the strength to see this whole thing through.
“John, Lord Bellecote is ... unaware of my condition at this time.”
He continued to hold on to her shoulders for a moment, staring into her eyes as if he was having difficulty understanding her words.
“You don’t want me, a man who is willing to marry you and would love your child, and yet the man you love, you deceive?” he asked carefully.
She opened her mouth to deny it, but she had no rebuttal for the way he’d worded the accusation.
“I don’t deserve you, John, and you most certainly deserve a woman more noble of character than I. I am saving us all greater heartbreak.”
“You don’t believe that.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do.”
John released her then and his face went colder than she could have ever imagined possible. His light, his gentle smile was gone.
“Then you are a hypocrite and a fool.”
She lifted her face to watch him as he stood abruptly. “Perhaps. I am very sorry, all the same.”
“At least now no one shall mistake you for a saint, for surely you are one no more.” It was as close to a sneer as Cecily could imagine John Grey capable.
“I never was a saint, John,” she whispered.
One of his slender eyebrows flickered upward. “Obviously. How thoughtless of me to forget that you never solicited such wearisome feelings of respect and admiration from those around you. How dare they revere you so?”
Cecily frowned. “Everyone expected me to be perfect, all the time! I was never allowed any mistakes!”
“You’ve made up for it though, haven’t you? You should keep your confessor quite busy in the future. I do hope he doesn’t end up falling in love with you, too—perhaps once you’ve grown weary of playing the infamous woman and need to be rescued from your life again.”
Cecily’s breath caught in her throat. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do mean it.” He looked down at her, his nostrils flaring, his lips set in a hard line. “Everyone is entitled to mistakes, Cecily. Everyone. It’s only unseemly when you deliberately misstep at another’s expense.”
“John, you don’t understand. I—”
“I understand perfectly,”
he interrupted. “For as much as you claim to be unlike your sisters, you are a grand combination of both: the recklessness of the younger with the sense of entitlement of the elder. You don’t care who you crush as long as you get what you want.”
Cecily gasped. “That’s not true!”
“I will pray for you, Lady Cecily. As well as for your poor, bastard child.” He gave a short bow and began walking away.
Cecily felt as though he had struck her. She stood, a wave of nervous dizziness washing over her. “John, please, wait!”
He did not slow, and in fact, Cecily thought she heard his footfalls pounding up the steps in a run as he disappeared into the corridor leading away from the hall.
She stood alone in that grand stone room, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Tears slipped from her eyes like withered petals in a cold wind. He was right, of course. Everything he’d said was true. But there was no other recourse to her at this point than to carry on.
In a moment, she had composed herself and quit the hall, her head held high.
She needed to pack.
Sybilla knew it was him when the pounding shook her chamber door. He did not pause in his insistence to be admitted long enough for her to bid him enter, and so she crossed the floor and opened the door herself. He swept past her in a rush of air, and she caught the scent of him—incense and hay, beeswax and sunshine.
She closed the door quietly and then turned to face him, her back pressed against the wood, her hands stacked behind her.
“I’m sorry, John,” she said quietly.
He stabbed a finger toward her, and she saw that his eyes glistened behind his rage. “This is your fault!”
She dropped her head in an incomplete nod. “I know. I’ve never before been so completely right and so completely wrong in the same instance.”
“It was in being completely right that you were wrong!” he shouted inanely, and then scrubbed his hands through his hair. “
Dammit!
When you told me of her, I thought you must certainly be exaggerating—surely there could be no woman who would suit me so. No woman so beautiful in spirit and in appearance. No woman so charitable and yet struggling with the same questions I held up to myself! But you were
right!
”
“I’m sorry,” Sybilla repeated quietly. “I knew that you would be perfect for each other. I knew it”—she brought a fist to her chest—“in my own heart. That’s why I encouraged you to come to Fallstowe when the bishop introduced us and told me he was sending you to Hallowshire for your discernment. I wanted Cecily to be with someone who would truly understand her, appreciate her.”
“I find that I don’t understand her, though! How perfect for her could I be if she will not accept me even when I promise to honor both her and her child?”
“I can only assume that my sister no longer desires perfect. I wanted her to be safe. I had no idea that she and Oliver—”
“I knew!”
John Grey shouted, his fury not abating in the least. Indeed, it seemed to grow with every word from his mouth.
Sybilla frowned. “What do you mean, you knew?”
“I knew something inappropriate had happened between Cecily and that scoundrel upon the second instance of our meeting. She confessed to me, although she did not reveal the very extent of their affair! I knew she was in danger of falling in love with him when I urged her back to Hallowshire with me!”