Chapter Five #3
“She’s not afraid to speak her mind,” he said.
“You’ve seen that. The lass will tell you what she thinks because I’ve seen her do it.
But when she tells you to leave… just ignore her.
Don’t fight with her. It just hurts her feelings when she’s only thinking of you.
At least, she’s trying to. Truthfully, Lord Dyce and her father kept the lass so isolated, she has difficulty communicating sometimes because Lord Dyce always did it for her.
This is the first time she’s had a voice all her own, with no interference from him. ”
He made sense and Ronan appreciated his candor. “How long have you known Lady de Brito?”
Bibby’s grin broke through, revealing missing teeth. “I used to serve her father,” he said. “I was part of her dowry.”
“Then you’ve known her all her life.”
“All her life, indeed.”
Ronan eyed the old soldier, thinking that perhaps he had been too harsh with Isabeth when she was evidently only thinking of him – but not communicating it very well.
He’d never in his life met a socially awkward woman, but that was apparently what he had on his hands.
He never would have guessed it by her wit the first day of the tournament, before things turned so terribly bad, but perhaps that was because Dyce was by her side.
Perhaps his presence gave her confidence.
But Dyce wasn’t by her side any longer and perhaps Isabeth didn’t know what to think or how to manage what she was now in charge of.
Ronan realized he needed to make her feel comfortable in this strange new world she found herself in.
A world with no husband speaking for her.
“Thank you, Bibby,” he said. “I shall amend my ways accordingly.”
The old soldier simply nodded his head and headed out of the inn.
Ronan watched the man go before standing up, thinking on his next course of action.
Initially, he was going to leave Isabeth alone this night but he was coming to think that might not be wise.
Her first night without her husband, in a strange place, with a strange future ahead of her. She was understandably disoriented.
He’d be less than a friend if he allowed her to feel such loneliness on this night.
Ronan knew that a bath had been brought to her as well as a meal because her chamber door was in his line of sight and he’d seen the servants going in and out.
He’d seen the bathtub go in and he’d seen it come out.
A food tray, too, but he hadn’t noticed if it was empty when it was removed.
He’d been too busy paying attention to his own thoughts and wants.
Therefore, he went back to the kitchen and spoke with the old couple there who did the cooking.
They showed him the tray that had come out of the front room, the room they called the King’s Room, and it was a full tray.
Nothing had been touched. They were going to feed it to someone else and Ronan gave them his blessing to redistribute the food, but he also ordered a fresh meal.
He watched the wife, an elderly woman with wild gray hair tied up with twine, dish out stew from a large pot over the hearth.
Bread and butter joined the stew on a new tray.
They had some kind of almond dish but remembering what Isabeth had said about almonds, he passed that over for an egg dish that had been baked that morning.
They were hard boiled eggs that had been rolled in a fish paste and breadcrumbs and fried in fat.
The old woman warmed them up before putting the dish on the tray.
Armed with a tray loaded with food as perhaps a peace offering, he headed towards Isabeth’s rented chamber.
*
She should have been exhausted, but she simply wasn’t.
Isabeth stood at the window, overlooking the kitchen yard, seeing the Ravenscar wagon parked partially in the barn.
She could clearly see Dyce’s casket, which had been covered with an oil cloth that was weighed down with rocks.
A storm was raging at this hour, having blown in off the sea, and the de Brito soldiers had done their best to protect their lord’s remains.
But all Isabeth could do was stare at the casket.
Was she truly being selfish?
Was this entire incident caused by her selfishness?
As the shock of Dyce’s passing began to settle, several things began to occur to her, not the least of which was the fact that she had been pestering Dyce to compete in the Middlesbrough tournament ever since he’d told her about it nearly a year ago.
Dyce usually only competed in the smaller tournaments because, truthfully, he wasn’t terribly practiced at it, but the Middlesbrough tournament was a much bigger tournament than he’d been used to, attended by the professionals who followed the circuit.
And she’d encouraged him to compete so she could attend.
Perhaps it really was her selfishness that brought her to this point in her life.
With a heavy sigh, Isabeth turned away from the window and sealed the oil cloth so the wind wouldn’t blow it around.
Her chamber was quite warm, as the fire in the hearth was burning brightly.
She’d taken a bath that evening, washing with lavender-scented soap that Dyce had bought her, and she’d soaked until her skin wrinkled up.
She’d lain in the water, her full breasts right at the waterline, running her hands over her barely rounded belly and thinking of the child growing inside of her.
But the hands on her belly moved to the fluff of curls between her legs, a part of her body that Dyce had claimed for his own.
He had probed, touched, stroked, tasted, and kissed the junction between her legs and there had been a few times when he’d brought her pleasure, but not much.
Sometimes, when Dyce touched her, she would close her eyes and imagine it to be someone strong and handsome and exciting.
She knew it was wrong, but Dyce’s touch had never meant that much to her.
That was something she’d resigned herself to.
Truth be told, she was young and virile.
Dyce had shown her a taste of the pleasure a man could give a woman.
As she lay back in the water and stroked herself, she easily brought herself to a climax, something old Gerta had told her was bad for the child she carried.
It wasn’t as if old Gerta knew she touched herself so sinfully, but the superstitious old woman had told her not to climax when her husband made love to her.
That really wasn’t difficult.
When the bath grew cool, she finally climbed out and dried off before the fire.
Donning a heavy lamb’s wool shift with long sleeves and a high neck, something to keep her warm on this stormy night, she’d dried her hair by the fire, running her comb through it until the titian locks dried into soft waves.
The storm raged on outside and she knew she should try and get some sleep, but she simply wasn’t tired.
She was spiritually and mentally exhausted, but sleep…
it wouldn’t come easily this night. As she sat and pondered the bed a few feet away, there was a soft knock at her chamber door.
Curious, she pulled her shawl from one of her satchels and wrapped it around her shoulders as she approached the door.
“Who comes?” she asked quietly.
“Ronan, my lady,” came the reply.
Wondering what the man wanted at this late hour and suspecting he might have returned to yell at her again, she was hesitant to answer the door.
But then she was fearful that he might kick it open, so she threw the bolt and slowly lifted the latch, opening it just enough so that he could see one eye.
“What is it?” she asked warily.
Ronan lifted the tray. “I come in peace,” he said. “May I enter?”
The one eye looked at the food on the tray for a moment. “I am not hungry, my lord.”
Ronan maintained the faint smile on his lips. “But mayhap your son is,” he said quietly. “I would wager that you have not eaten all day and you must think of Dyce’s son. You would not starve a child, would you?”
That shot holes in her resistance. After a moment, she shook her head in surrender. “Nay,” she said, opening the door to admit him. “Come in.”
Ronan entered the very warm chamber and set the tray down on the table. The fire was blazing in the hearth as the storm raged outside. He turned to see that Isabeth was still back by the door, still eyeing him warily, and he stood away from the table and indicated for her to sit.
“Please,” he said encouragingly. “Eat it while it is still hot.”
She took his invitation but it was reluctantly. She sat down, shawl clutched around her shoulders, eyeing all of the food on the tray. When she reached for the cup of wine, she realized that it was warm and she took a healthy swallow.
All the while, Ronan watched her closely.
“My lady, I am sorry the past two days have been so difficult between us,” he said quietly. “May we calmly discuss the situation? I fear our emotions may have gotten the better of us.”
Isabeth was cutting into the boiled egg, but she paused and looked up at him. “I am not certain what there is to discuss.”
“I think there is a lot to discuss,” Ronan said, trying not to sound too forceful.
“I was harsh with you earlier and I apologize, but I know you understand that a knight’s word is his bond.
I promised your husband something and I cannot go back on my word.
You were married to an honorable man, so I know you understand how important honor is to a knight. ”
She turned back to her egg, cutting more slowly. “I understand.”
“Then you realize I am not leaving you.”
She sighed heavily. “I suppose I do.”
She seemed quite sad. Ronan wasn’t heartless – he understood that she was feeling defeated. Her husband had died and now she had a knight she could not shake, grimly determined to be of service whether or not she wanted him to be.