Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
From that day forward, Sir Austyn was rarely seen in any other surcoat but the crimson one with the delicate chain of ivy emblazoned so boldly upon its shoulders. To Winnie’s chagrin, he refused to let her mend the torn seam, preferring to expose the tunic beneath rather than risk offending his bride.
His extravagant praise of Holly’s handiwork was so convincing that within a week, a majority of his tunics, his surcoats, and even his stockings, sported frivolous chains of daisies, plump bouquets of posies, and tiny pink butterflies flitting from hem to cuff. He finally begged Carey to help him hide the surcoat he wore in battle, fearing his industrious wife might embroider a meadow of hollyhocks on its padded chest while he slept.
Faced with the daunting challenge of becoming mistress of her husband’s castle, Holly came to the humbling realization that she had been trained to be a bride, not a wife. She could sing a complicated round of “Sumer is Icumen In” in perfect pitch and dance a sprightly carol with nary a stumble, yet she was helpless to master the intricacies of baking a loaf of bread over the kitchen fire. Her flaming puddings fizzled. Her mulled wine soured. Her cream curdled.
Winifred took to keeping a bucket of well water by the hearth to extinguish the daily blazes ignited by her efforts. Emrys trailed behind her in the garden, digging up the hemlock and nightshade she inadvertently planted among the neat rows of sage and thyme.
Rather than reproving her for her incompetence, Austyn greeted all of her domestic tragedies with profound interest and a fond tweak of her nose.
After soaking several pairs of her husband’s hose in a vat of boiling water, shrinking them to the size of sausage casings, she earned a disbelieving bark of laughter from Carey upon informing him with a yearning sigh, “Your master must truly be a saint. He has no temper to speak of, does he?”
It was Winifred, desperate for a reprieve, who finally shoved a wooden bucket and a handful of rags into Holly’s eager hands. Delighted to find something she could excel at, Holly devoted those first golden days of summer to restoring Caer Gavenmore to its former grandeur. She polished the brass torch holders until they gleamed, tore the cobwebs from every corner, and swept the flagstones clean.
’Twas a full fortnight before she screwed up the courage to attack the shadowy landing at the foot of the stairs winding up to the haunted tower. Her task brightened considerably after she broke out the rotted shutters that had sealed the gloom for nearly fifty years, flooding the landing with sunlight and sweetening the stale air with summer’s breath. She batted her way through a dervish of dust motes, then dropped to her knees to scrub the wooden planking, thinking how her papa would chuckle if he could see his “wittle angel” now.
Her days were no longer filled with trivial amusements and desultory boredom, but with hard work and satisfying results. Instead of tossing restlessly in her bed at night, plagued by nameless yearning, she slept deeply, dreaming of the day when she would coax her husband to surrender his heart. She no longer felt like a canary trapped in a gilded cage, but like a graceful curlew gliding high over the river Wye at sunset, free to pursue its dreams.
Austyn was warming to her as slowly but undeniably as the black Welsh soil was warming to the summer sun. His boyish grins had grown more frequent, his silences less brooding. And even more promising, she’d not seen him slip his hand into his tunic to finger that elusive token of his lady’s love for nearly a sennight.
Charming a man without twirling a spiral curl around a crimson fingernail or puckering her rouged lips in an inviting moue had proved an even greater challenge than molding beeswax candles that did not go limp at the first kiss of flame. Yet Holly had embraced the challenge, savoring each tiny victory—each fleeting glimpse of the dimple that softened the rugged angle of her husband’s jaw—as a herald of a more lasting triumph.
She sank back on her haunches to rub a trickle of sweat from her brow. Exertion had warmed her, only making the icy prickle at her nape more pronounced. She swiveled to peer at the yawning mouth of the stairwell. No amount of sunshine could banish the miasma of despondency that seemed to come rippling down the narrow stairs like a pool of tears.
Holly rose to her feet, sternly reminding herself that her disquiet was only a childish fancy. She’d already banished one of the legendary ghosts of Caer Gavenmore, proving the eerie rattling in the south corridor to be nothing more than the mischievous bobbing of an iron candelabra designed to be raised and lowered on chains for ease of lighting. She crept toward the stairwell, refusing to be cowed by a growing sense of unease.
Resting her foot gingerly on the first step, she peered upward into the shadows, knowing a door must be hidden just beyond the curve of the wall. Her spine tingled as a faint scraping sound reached her—like the desperate scrabbling of fingernails on wood.
“Mice,” she muttered.
She climbed another step, brushing aside a veil of cobwebs. A musty breath of air, as fragile as a woman’s sigh, struck her face, making her flinch.
“Naught but a stray draft,” she pronounced, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering.
As her foot came down upon the third step, a low-pitched dirge swelled around her, rising to a lamentation so keen it sliced Holly’s tender heart to the quick. Clapping her hands over her ears to block out its sorrowful warning of broken promises and shattered hopes, she fled, kicking over the bucket as she went.
Austyn was in the solar, poring over a parchment scroll yellowed by age and neglect, when Holly went flying past the doorway, her face so pale she might have been one of the Gavenmore haunts. He rose from his chair, then forced himself back down.
He was getting as addled as his father, he thought, tempted to trail after his young bride like one of his own hounds besotted by a leg of mutton. He scowled at the mildewed plans for the completion of an outer curtain wall. His bride’s unflagging exuberance must be wearing off on him. Not a stone had been lifted toward finishing Caer Gavenmore since that cold, rainy autumn of 1304, yet here he sat, daring to dream of castles in the clouds.
His restless gaze drifted to the door. Perhaps he’d do well to follow Holly and see what nonsense she was about today. He’d been reviewing the accounts with Emrys only yesterday morning when a shrill cacophony that sounded as if every demon in Christendom had been summoned down upon their heads had sent them all careening toward the south corridor. They had arrived to find Holly riding up and down on a rusted candelabra, squealing with glee at each dizzying ascent to the rafters.
Austyn had plucked her down the moment she came into arm’s reach, choking his heart from his throat to deliver a stern lecture on the dangers of such reckless behavior. Her nose tilted at an unrepentant angle, she had vowed to take more care before offering the gentle suggestion that she might not have had to exorcise the ghost of his great-great-great grandfather’s bride had the malicious old rogue not burned her at the stake.
Snapping the scroll shut, Austyn rose to his feet. He was not a man given to stealth, but it wasn’t as if he were following Holly just to study the beguiling habit she had of tucking her little pink tongue between her teeth when she was concentrating on some arduous task. Or to puzzle over the hint of gloss the morning sunlight evoked in her drab hair, as shimmering and elusive as a raven’s wing.
Suppose she took a notion to ride the bucket down the castle well? Or curl up for a nap in the bowl of the catapult? Reassuring himself that a husbandly concern for his wife’s well-being could hardly constitute spying, Austyn slipped from the solar, looking both ways before following in the path of Holly’s rapid footsteps.
Some instinctive yearning for refuge drove Holly to the castle chapel. She dropped to her knees before the dusty altar and folded her trembling hands, offering up a wordless prayer for the restless soul of Austyn’s grandmother. Apparently, the poor woman’s plunge from the north tower window had failed to restore the freedom her vindictive husband had denied her.
Holly started violently as a hand came down upon her shoulder. “Praying for the soul of your pagan husband, my child?”
“Good Lord, Nate,” she swore, scrambling to her feet to find the priest lurking behind her. “You frightened the devil out of me. What are you doing here?”
All it took was an acerbic roll of his eyes to make her realize the idiocy of her question. “I should have known you didn’t come to seek me out. Why I’d almost suspect you’ve been avoiding me.”
With his lean, wiry body blocking her retreat, all Holly could do was incline her head to avoid his eyes. “Please don’t lecture me. I’ve no need of any more guilt to burden my soul.”
“I’ve seen little enough evidence of a troubled conscience in the past fortnight. On the contrary, your behavior has been quite…shameless.”
Holly lifted her head, unable to hide her hurt at the injustice of his accusation. Her retort died as the beams of sunlight slanting through the lancet windows revealed his haggard condition. His robes were rumpled, the hair around his tonsure disheveled. Shadows dwelt beneath his dark eyes.
She reached instinctively for his arm, distressed anew by the sharp angles of his bones beneath the nubby wool. “Have you been ill, Nathanael? You look terrible.”
“Ah, but you don’t, do you, child?” His benevolent smile chilled her. “Your lashes are growing. Your hair is beginning to curl. Your very teeth grow brighter with each besotted smile you bestow upon your lord.” His gaze flicked to her bodice, lingering just long enough to make her face heat. “’Twill be only a matter of time, I suppose, before even your tender young breasts begin to bud.”
Holly withdrew her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous. My new duties have consumed my attention. I haven’t had time to darken my teeth or crop my lashes or…or—”
“‘Thou shalt not bear false witness!’” Nathanael thundered. “So cease your lying before you’ve more than just your unholy lust for a Welsh pagan to repent!”
Holly’s first instinct to quail beneath his attack was supplanted by a stronger urge to lash out, to hurt him as he was hurting her. “What would you know of lust, Brother? Or of love for that matter? Of the tender devotion that can bind a woman to a man? A wife to her husband?” Holly had never meant to reveal so much, but the truth spilled over like a brimming teardrop, leaving her heart exposed and raw.
“Ah, ’tis worse than I feared. You fancy yourself in love with the churl when all you really desire is to feel his greedy hands pawing your naked flesh. To submit to the indignities of his animal lust!”
Holly’s hand shot out, wiping the sneer from Nathanael’s face with a single open-palmed blow. The color bled from his cheeks, leaving only the brand of her handprint. His eyes clouded with dazed hurt. His hands hung limp at his sides. The crumbling of his pious armor made him appear not only vulnerable but terribly young.
“Oh, Nathanael,” Holly whispered, besieged by pity and remorse. She lifted a hand to his cheek as if the caress of her fingertips could somehow erase the damage they’d done. “Please forgive me. I’m so terribly sorry.”
Neither one of them saw the man who slipped from the back of the chapel like an angel banished from the presence of God.