A Bit of Heaven on Earth Page 6

  Even the king had graced their table on several occasions and complimented her on how well things ran on the estate. No greater compliment could be received than from one’s king.

  She couldn’t help but wonder just how Edward would treat her when Aldred died. That was the only sadness in her life, her husband’s deteriorating health. She couldn’t imagine life without him. He’d become friend, companion, and father to her.

  With no heirs, though, what would come of her? Worse than a convent, Elizabeth would be miserable if the king decided to marry her to a favored knight. To have a stranger tell her what to do, after so many years of being in control of her own destiny? Impossible.

  Yet that very real possibility loomed on the horizon.

  “My lady?”

  She turned as Nelia approached. “Yes?”

  “A rider approaches from Fondren.”

  She smoothed her hunter green cote-hardie. “’Twill be Lord Robert, more likely than not. He knows ‘tis near time that I visit my husband each day.” She thought for a moment. “Fetch some stewed plums from the kitchens. I would take a treat to my good lord.”

  She turned and made her way out to the inner bailey, spying Robert as he came through the courtyard.

  He saw her and gave a wave before he dismounted and handed his reins to a groom. Bounding up the steps, he took her hands in his and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

  “Radiant as always, Elizabeth. ‘Tis no wonder neighboring knights write poetry to you and the wandering minstrels sing songs praising your beauty and intelligence.” He gave her hands a squeeze and released them.

  “And aren’t you a neighboring knight? Why have you not joined my legion of admirers and written a love poem to me, my lord?”

  Robert laughed. “’Tis atrocious at spelling I am, Elizabeth. I never lost myself in books the way you do. Now give me a sword if you were in distress, and I would slay any dragon that you beseeched me to.”

  She smiled. “You are a rascal, Robert.” She cocked her head and studied him a moment. “’Tis a handsome one, though. I wish you would marry and give me a friend.”

  He shook his head. “Am I not loyal friend to you as is? Nay, Elizabeth, I’m not so inclined.” He grew quiet, and she knew he must be thinking of his lost betrothed. She’d died a week before their wedding took place, and after all these years Robert still deeply mourned her passing.

  “Then a mistress, mayhap? I’ve never had a woman as companion before. Only men.” She suspected that was why she wanted to succeed in a man’s world, for it was all she knew. She’d had no loving touch from a mother, so long dead that she had no remembrance of her.

  Robert sputtered, “You are outrageous, Elizabeth.”

  She smiled. “And you wouldn’t have me any other way, I suspect.” She linked an arm through his. “Shall we go to Aldred now?”

  “Yes. ‘Tis why I’ve come.” He frowned. “He sent a message earlier today for me to come see him.”

  His words puzzled her. “A message? I know of no message, Robert. Are you sure it came from Kentwood?”

  “Yes, I recognized the boy who delivered it, and ‘twas Aldred’s seal upon it, unbroken.” He gazed at her a long moment. “’Tis probably nothing. Let us go. Mayhap I spoke out of turn.”

  They climbed the stairs to the solar. Nothing happened at Kentwood that she did not know of. Why would Aldred wish to see Robert? He’d looked favorably upon Robert over the years. And Robert had told her how much he respected Aldred’s opinion. She wondered what was in the wind.

  Knocking softly upon the door, she motioned Robert inside. They crossed the room. Aldred lay in the bed, his eyes closed. His peaceful look helped calm her concerns.

  “My lord,” she said quietly and went to stand by the bed.

  Her husband opened his eyes and smiled when he recognized her. Elizabeth brushed the snow-white hair back off his forehead.

  “I’ve brought Robert to see you,” she told him. “We are here to visit you.”

  Robert stepped forward. “I trust you rested well today, my lord?”

  Aldred snorted. “As much as a man can when his bones creak with every bend, his eyesight is poorer, and he has trouble swallowing anything needing more than four bites of chewing. I have not enough teeth anymore to do the trick.”

  He looked at her with mock reproach. “My wife thinks to have my meat cut up into little pieces as if I don’t know what she’s up to.”

  She blushed. “But knowing you have caught onto my schemes, lord husband, you’ll find only small slivers of chicken in your blackmanger tonight. I’ve grown much more clever, I think.”

  Aldred laughed. He took her hand and rubbed his callused thumb in a small circle over it. “Tell Cook to chop it into the tiniest of bites. ‘Twill end the charade and allow me to swallow in comfort.”

  He held his hands up before him. “These used to grip the heaviest swords in the land. Now they can’t even hold a candle still.” He looked from her to Robert. “Don’t grow old,” he warned. “‘Tis a terrible waste. Nothing works as well as it once did.”

  “At least you still possess your sense of humor, my lord,” Robert pointed out. “A man withers and dies without it.”

  “Then I’ll laugh to the grave. Probably even when I’m in it. And at least I’m blessed to still have my good sense, too. There are plenty . . . ” Aldred’s voice trailed off. Silence hung heavily in the room.

  “Ah, my boy, forgive me,” Aldred apologized. “I forget how your father is.”

  “He has his good days and bad, I suppose,” their guest said lightly.

  A knock at the door was followed by Nelia entering. Elizabeth broke the tension in the room. “Ah, here are some stewed plums for you, my lord. I thought ‘twould be just the thing.”

  Her husband grimaced.

  “Unless you’d prefer stewed pears or apples?” Nelia asked.

  Elizabeth waved her away. “No, Nelia, that is all.” The servant backed from the room as she took Aldred’s hand. “’Twas a pain again, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “A bad one,” he admitted. She knew how very bad it must have been to admit so in front of their visitor.

  “Then I must be off,” Robert said. “You are in good hands with Elizabeth to nurse you. May I call again on the morrow?”

  “No!”

  She was astonished at not only the volume but intensity in her husband’s voice. She shot a quick glance at Robert.

  “Stay,” Aldred said, his breathing become more rapid.

  “Of course.” Robert returned to the bedside. “How might I assist you, my lord?”

  Aldred glanced up at Elizabeth. “’Tis a private matter, my dear. I must see Robert alone.”

  Elizabeth was speechless. Aldred had never kept a single secret from her. What could he possibly want from Robert that she couldn’t know about?

  “There’s nothing that I can’t do—or won’t do—for you, Husband,” she stated.

  He smiled soothingly at her. “I know that, Wife. I will call if I have need of you. Now go and rest. You work far too hard.”

  She walked stiffly to the door, upset at the dismissal. She opened it and slipped out into the corridor.

  What mysterious secret would Aldred share with Robert? And why?

  CHAPTER 7

  England, 1359

  Gavin kept his eyes on the sun as the first of it dipped below the horizon. Sunset had once been a favorite time of day for him. It meant an end to training exercises or battles in progress. Time for food and frolic. He could not remember how many countless women he’d pleasured himself with over the years. All those nights from long ago blurred as if they were one.

  Nowadays, he treasured the sunrise instead. It was a sign that he was still alive and ready to ta
ke on a new day. The three months since his escape from the French hellhole had been harsh ones, first as he made his way to the coast and then selling the horse for passage on a ship barely a step above his prison cell. Yet not a day dawned that he didn’t relish the life Father Janus had given back to him. He assumed the old priest died in the squalid cell even as Gavin escaped, allowing him to be reborn.

  Northern England’s landscape unfolded before him. Spring would bloom soon, but for now the last vestiges of winter hung over the land. Gavin inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh smell of the clean, cold air and the look of trees that were on the verge of regaining their leaves.

  He squatted down and touched the soil beneath him, brushing his fingers along it reverently. English soil, which he would never take for granted again.

  Homer voiced his displeasure, and he righted himself. He reached under the tattered cloak and stroked the growing kitten, resting in a sack he’d fashioned to hang from his neck. Homer nipped at his fingers playfully before snuggling close to him. The faint rumble of a purr began. Gavin wondered if it would take so little to appease him.

  As twilight unfolded, feelings of apprehension filled him. Within a few miles, he would arrive at Ashgrove. He longed to see his parents, yet his stomach knotted with thoughts of that first meeting. Would he simply fall into his mother’s arms as she wept with joy? Or would he push her aside and confront his father angrily? He’d had weeks to find an answer and had yet to do so.

  Once again he thought that mayhap thieves apprehended the messenger in route and took the gold from him. Had the original courier been killed? Or had the man fled with the ransom? None of these explained the sealed note, though. Soon he would look into his father’s eyes.

  And find his answer.

  Gavin arrived at the small village on Ashgrove lands. Already past dark, little activity occurred. Only a few scattered men were here and there, bringing in animals for the night.

  One man passed close enough and looked at him oddly, probably due to his unkempt appearance. The scraggly beard and knotted hair, along with clothes that were nearly rags, would frighten off anyone. Gavin hoped he would be recognized despite his disheveled appearance once he arrived home. He imagined trying to convince a new gatekeeper that he was the son of Ashgrove’s lord. The thought caused him to chuckle.

  As he approached the castle, excitement replaced trepidation. His heart beat rapidly. Butterflies swarmed his stomach. He could barely swallow, so dry was his mouth. Homer seemed to sense his emotions and began to purr loudly, seeking to give him comfort.

  At the gates, Gavin signaled to the men on duty and shouted at them, “’Tis I, Lord Gavin, come home from the wars in France. Open up.”

  Nothing happened. Surely the watchmen had heard him?

  He tried again, raising his voice in case it had been lost in the wind. “I say, open these gates. ‘Tis Lord Gavin. I know you surely recognize my voice if not my face.”

  He watched as the two guards conferred. One disappeared. Gavin saw him seconds later when the gates opened slightly. He rushed over as the man stepped outside to greet him. The guard’s eyes were wary, but he spoke to him all the same.

  “’Tis good to see you alive, my lord.”

  He laughed and slapped the man on the back. “’Tis even better to be home. I know ‘tis late, but please send a runner to awaken my mother. I would see her first and then speak with my father.”

  He started to walk toward the gate, but the guard stepped back, blocking his entrance. “You . . . you don’t know?” The man began muttering and then turned quick as lightning, slipping through the gate.

  Gavin reacted immediately and raced the few steps as the opening began to vanish. “What’s gotten into you, man? You can’t keep me from my own home.”

  He pushed with all his remaining strength and forced the gate open. The guard pulled his sword and made an effort to stop him, but Gavin quickly grabbed the man’s wrist and wrenched the blade from his hands.

  “Out of my way!” he roared. He would go to his father instead. This mess must be sorted out at once.

  He crossed through the outer and inner baileys. No one followed him. All was quiet. He ran up the stairs, his heart hammering, unanswered questions filling his head. Silence blanketed the castle. He passed the Great Hall and saw a few servants bedded down by the fire, their bodies still in sleep. He finally passed one servant on the stairs. His face held what could only be described as a look of shock the moment he recognized Gavin. The man turned and raced back up the stairs and down the hallway. He assumed the servant went to awaken Berwyn.

  He steeled himself for whatever showdown lay ahead. For a reason he didn’t understand, he placed the sword against the wall when he reached the solar’s door. He decided against knocking and threw open the door.

  Firelight bathed the room in a golden glow. His father stood in a robe, his back to the fire, his own sword drawn. The curtains were pulled from the bed. Gavin saw a young woman peering out. Berwyn’s women seemed to get younger each time. Gavin felt sorry for this girl and for his mother. He understood, though. Men had their needs. Gillian was very spiritual. He doubted his parents’ relationship had remained physical for very long, especially since he lacked siblings.

  He held his hands out, palms up. “I come unarmed, Father.” He took a step forward and watched Berwyn raise his sword, its tip pointed at Gavin’s heart.

  “What the Devil gives?” he demanded, his temper rising. “I almost died at the hands of those French bastards. Why did you not help me? Why do you stand there as if I am your sworn enemy? What’s wrong, Father?”

  “Leave at once,” Berwyn said, his eyes full of hate. “You are no longer welcome at Ashgrove.”

  Gavin’s throat grew tight. What could he have done to earn such treatment? “Why, Father? Why?”

  Berwyn spat upon the ground. “Do not address me as such. You are not my son. Ashgrove will never belong to you.”

  Gavin’s head spun. He heard the girl laugh harshly. He looked from her to his father. Confusion reigned.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell him, my lord,” purred the girl. When no reply came, Gavin heard her voice grow hard. “Tell him.”

  Berwyn went and stood by the bed. The girl snaked out a hand and linked it possessively through his arm. Gavin saw a jeweled ring on her hand, one he could not be mistaken about.

  “No.” His denial came out a hoarse whisper.

  “The babe that grows inside Clarine will be the son that inherits Ashgrove,” Berwyn told him. “My wife is young and will give me plenty of sons.”

  Words froze on Gavin’s tongue. He sputtered, “But . . . but Mother—”

  “That whore is dead,” Berwyn bellowed. “Dead. And forgotten. As dead as you are to me. Now leave. You are trespassing.”

  Anger surged through him. “I will not leave. I demand you explain yourself, Father. My mother was not a whore. Not like the countless women who have shared your bed these many years.”

  Berwyn’s mouth snarled as he hissed, “You are a bastard! Can you not understand? You are not of my blood. I loathe the very sight of you, for you remind me of that deceitful bitch and her deception. Get out. Get out!”

  Not of Berwyn’s blood?

  That meant his mother had lain with another man, before or soon after her marriage. Was this why she lost herself in prayer, day after day, trying to atone for such a powerful sin?

  Gavin stumbled from the room, tripping over the sword left in the hallway. He ignored Homer’s attempts at growling. He stooped and slipped the sword into his hand. This was real, a sword in his hand, a fight to be won. Not the lies that spilled from his father’s lips. He hurried down the stairs, passing several servants now who’d been awakened by their argument. He saw pity in their eyes as they stared at him before they
turned away wordlessly.

  As he reached the bottom, he saw Eben, who’d put him on his first horse and taught him to ride. The stout servant locked strong fingers around Gavin’s arm.

  “Come with me,” he whispered.

  He pulled Gavin through the castle’s halls till they reached outside. Gavin sucked in the sweet night air, hoping it would clear his head. Eben urged him on, and within minutes he found himself inside the stables of Ashgrove.

  He collapsed upon a pile of straw, his breathing harsh. Eben lit a lantern and pulled up a stool next to him. Under his cloak, Homer wiggled in protest. Gavin reached in and pulled the kitten from his sack. Homer scurried off into the darkness.