To the Lady Born (3 page)

“God help her,” she whispered. “My poor little lamb.”

Weston looked at the woman; she seemed more saddened than shocked, as if not particularly surprised.  She didn’t give him much of an argument on what he had suggested regarding the lady’s behavior. His analytical mind began to kick in.

“What do you know about this?” he asked her.

She looked at him, shocked. “I… I would know nothing, m’lord.”

He didn’t believe her for a minute; now she had his full attention. “My name is Sir Weston de Royans,” he told her. “I am the new commander of Hedingham. In order for me to command effectively, I must know the truth of what has gone on before my arrival. Do you understand so far?”

Esma looked terrified. “Aye, m’lord.”

“How long have you served de Vere?”

“Since before the lady was born, m’lord.”

“How old is she?”

“Nineteen years, m’lord.”

“Then you know everything that goes on at this place.”

She nodded timidly, as if he was trying to trick her with his statement. “My sister and I assist the lady in her chatelaine duties.”

“Then you will tell me why she threw herself into that lake.”

Esma was torn; she eyed the now-sniffling lady in the tub, watching as her sister forced Amalie to sip at the warmed wine. She didn’t want to divulge too much to this knight she did not know, but on the other hand, perhaps in doing so he would understand the fragility of Lady Amalie and treat her accordingly. The man had saved Amalie from a watery grave; perhaps that meant he was better than the last man that had held his position. Esma could only pray.

She moved closer to Weston, wringing her hands nervously.  When she spoke, her tone was so soft he could barely hear her.

“I can only tell you what I know, m’lord,” she whispered. “The last of Bolingbroke’s commanders was a brutal man with no great love for the de Vere’s. He was personally offended by the earl’s flight to Ireland to escape Bolingbroke’s wrath and took his frustrations out on Lady Amalie.”

Weston was studying the woman intently, seeing the pain ripple across her face as she spoke.

“What did he do?” he asked.

That brought tears to the old woman’s eyes and she began wiping at her nose, dragging mucus across her cheek.

“He… he beat her severely one night,” she whispered. “He broke her wrist and nearly killed her. After that, one of his men hid Amalie so the commander could not hurt her again. He also sent word to Bolingbroke of the man’s actions. Until the commander was recalled by Bolingbroke, we spent weeks hiding Lady Amalie in caverns, holes and tunnels so the commander could not find her. She was living like an animal for weeks.”

Weston’s gaze moved to the beautiful creature in the tub, now calmly sipping her warmed wine. His gaze moved over her delicate features, the silken blond hair; knowing his predecessor as he did, he could only imagine what the man did to her. As he thought on that, disgust and fury such as he had never known began to surge through his big body. 

With the heat of the fire upon him, he actually began to sweat from both the physical heat and the emotion he was feeling. The actions of unchivalrous knights always set his blood to boiling, fiends who hid behind their vows to mask vile actions. Men like that gave decent knights a bad name.

“That still does not explain why she threw herself into the lake,” he said quietly. “My predecessor has been gone for weeks. Surely she feels safe now.”

Esma looked at Weston with some surprise, wiping at her nose.

“Why should she?” she snapped softly, realizing too late who she was speaking to and demurring accordingly. “When we received word that Bolingbroke was sending a new commander to oversee Hedingham, you can imagine her fear. Perhaps… perhaps she is afraid you will do to her what the other one did.”

It made perfect sense. He began to suspect why she had submerged herself in the lake and began to feel a good deal of sorrow as well as some revulsion.  He downed the rest of his wine in one swallow and thrust the cup back at Esma.

“Go,” he commanded softly. “Take your sister and go.”

Startled, Esma began to feel the same desperation she had felt when the previous commander had made the same request of her once. That was the worst day of her life. She was starting to think she had been too bold in speaking the truth to him; she did not know the man or anything about him. Perhaps she had offended him.

“Please, m’lord,” she began to beg, tears in her eyes. “She cannot… you cannot… please do not hurt her. She cannot…”

Weston waved her off. “I will not harm her in any way,” he was moving towards the tub. “You and your sister will go.”

Esma was weeping softly as she scooted to the tub and pulled her sister to her feet. The old serving women clutched at each other, whispering between themselves as Esma pulled her sister to the door.  It was apparent that the older woman did not want to leave but Esma forced her through the door. When the women vacated and Weston shut the door behind them, he returned his attention to the tub near the hearth.

His dark blue gaze fell on the back of a blond head, now drying in the heat of the room.  Amalie hadn’t moved a muscle; she sat in the big copper tub, still dressed in her thin linen surcoat, staring at the surface of the water.

Weston made his way to her, hesitantly, wondering what he was going to say. He was coming to realize that everything they had suspected about Sorrell was the truth and this woman was at the heart of it. Sorrell hadn’t killed the de Vere relative as rumored but, as Weston gazed at the face of the pale woman, he’d probably come close.  Before he could speak, her soft voice filled the air.

“Did you fish me out of the pond?” she asked.

He was struck by the tone of her voice - smooth, silky and honey-like. In spite of the serious circumstances, he found it exceedingly delightful.

“Aye,” he said quietly. “My name is Weston de Royans. I am the new garrison commander for Hedingham.”

Amalie continued to stare at the surface of the tub, her green eyes, usually so beautiful and full of life, now dull with sorrow.

“You should not have done that,” she murmured. “I will only do it again.”

Weston’s brow furrowed and he crouched beside the tub; he could only see her delicate profile as she stared at the water. She wouldn’t look at him and he could feel her shrinking from his gaze. Not that he blamed her given her past experience with Bolingbroke men.

“Why?” he finally asked, baffled.

She lifted her face to look at him and Weston felt the physical impact as their eyes met. It was as if her great green eyes swallowed him up, holding him in a trance that he was unable to free himself from. All he could do was stare at her.

“Because I must,” she said simply. 

He was even more baffled, trying to figure out why she was so determined to harm herself. He should have, at the very least, been disgusted with her weakness. Given what Esma told him, however, and what he knew of Sorrell, he couldn’t bring himself to lose respect for the woman. In fact, he felt strongly compelled to ease her mind.

“My lady,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “I understand that you have not been treated kindly since your brother fled to Ireland and I will say now that it is a cowardly man who would leave his sister to the clemency of the enemy, but you must understand that I will not behave as my predecessor did. I have no intention of laying a hand on you.  Under my command, you will be treated with respect. This I swear.”

Amalie stared at him, emotions undulating behind the veil of the green eyes. It was almost as if she could not understand what he was telling her.  But the glassy expression began to fade, the one so dull with sorrow, and he could see her lovely features twist with emotion. The great green eyes filled with tears again, spattering like raindrops against her porcelain cheeks.

“Please,” she sobbed softly. “Please take your sword… please… will you not do me this one small mercy and end my torment?”

He stared at her, horrified by the suggestion. “I will not,” he replied, standing to his considerably height. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

Her weeping grew stronger and she suddenly stood from the warm tub, water sloshing out onto the floor. Stumbling from the tub, she ended up on her knees at Weston’s feet. She grabbed his leg, her forehead against his knee.

“Please,” she begged him, weeping. “You are a knight. You are sworn to obedience. You must do as I ask.”

He looked down upon her blond head, appalled and distressed by the request.

“I will not help you kill yourself,” he reached down and grasped her arms. “Get up, now. You are simply overwrought. You need to rest.”

He easily lifted her to her feet; she was weak, sobbing and wet, so for lack of a better action, he pulled her over to the fire to warm her up and dry her out. But she struggled against him, slugging at his hands, trying to push him away. Afraid she might try to throw herself in the fire, he tried to stay between her and the open flame.

When her behavior should have disgusted him, all he could feel was great concern. Whatever Sorrell did had seriously damaged the woman and his animosity towards the man increased. 

As Amalie struggled and he continued to keep himself between her and the fire, he’d finally had enough. He couldn’t stand here and scuffle with her all night. In a bold move, he put his enormous hands on both cheeks and forced her to look at him.

“My lady,” Weston’s tone was sincere, firm. “I understand you are afraid and I understand that in times past, you were treated with great disregard. But you must understand that this is no longer the case. I am here now and things will be different. You must not despair.”

Amalie found herself gazing into a powerfully handsome face and eyes that were hard yet kind. It was an odd combination, one that, for a moment, stilled her raging despondency. Her tears inexplicably began to fade as their gazes locked.  For the first time, they were able to get their first real look at each other without all of the snow, terror and chaos.

“Disregard?” she repeated, suddenly sounding very lucid. “Disregard would have been preferable. He used his fists on me as one would on an enemy. He cracked bones in my wrist. He hit me so hard in the face that my eye swelled shut. He did… unspeakable things. Is this what you call disregard, Sir Weston? For, quite clearly, it was more than that.”

It was the first coherent statement he’d heard from her, one that had his disgust surging and his heart strangely twisting. She was well spoken and seemingly intelligent.

Weston had been a fully sworn knight at twenty years old and had seen many things in the thirteen years since. But what he was feeling as he gazed into the pale, beautiful face was something beyond compassion. He wasn’t sure what it was yet but he knew it was different.  Something in that pathetic little face moved him.

“Then I apologize for my misstatement,” he said in a low voice. “Now that you have explained things, I do not consider what happened to you mere disregard. But I assure you that it will never happen again.”

She held his gaze a moment longer before pulling away, firmly; he had no choice but to drop his hands from her face as she moved towards the fire again. 

He bolted forward when she held her hands out against the flames to warm them, afraid she was going to try to jump into it. He still didn’t trust her. Amalie saw the swift movement from the corner of her eye and it startled her. When she looked at him, he had his big arm between her torso and the fireplace. When their gazes met, he lifted a dark blond brow.

“Burning is a horrible death, my lady,” he told her. “It is not swift or merciful. I would not recommend it.”

She just looked at him, holding his gaze a moment, before looking away. “Then what would you recommend from a professional standpoint, of course?”

He couldn’t tell if there was humor in that statement but one might have interpreted it that way. There was a funny little lilt to her tone. But he would not be lulled into a false sense of security with her manner, no matter how calm she seemed to be at the moment.

“I would not recommend anything for your purposes,” he said. “The church frowns upon the taking of one’s life no matter what the circumstances.”

“What does the church know of my pain?”

“God knows of it; what God knows, the church knows. You must have faith.”

As upset as she was, the knight’s manner and words were making some impact. In spite of everything, he was settling her and she had no idea why; perhaps it was the fact that he had saved her from drowning herself. Or maybe it was because she saw something in his eyes that insured honesty. Whatever it was, she could feel herself calming. But it did not erase her sense of hopelessness at her situation.

“Have faith in what?” she asked, her voice soft and hoarse. “I am a prisoner in my own home. When you leave, who is to stay that the next commander will not resume where the other one left off? You cannot insure my safety for always.”

He eyed her, the gentle slope of her torso as it descended into rounded buttocks, now outlined with the damp and clinging material.  He’d never seen finer.

“I can swear to you, on my oath as a knight, that you will be safe from harm as long as I have breath in my body,” he told her flatly. “No female under my protection will ever be mistreated, I swear it.”