Chapter Twelve
Six weeks later
She was looking for Addax.
In a new frock made of durable brown broadcloth that Aldis and Flora had made for her from fabric she’d purchased at Tristan’s merchant, Andromeda was out in the bailey of Wrexham on a day that was quite warm.
Summer had arrived, and the sky was bright, the ground a little dusty, and the scent of flowers as they bloomed was in the air.
Lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, Andromeda was on the hunt for Addax, as she had been for about a half-hour.
Morning duties had been light for her even though she, and several servants, were in the process of cleaning out the chamber that had been stuffed with all of the relics from past inhabitants.
Anything that resembled furniture had been distributed into several of the sleeping chambers, and things like pots and pottery and shoes and any other random items had been inspected and set aside to repair, use, or sell.
But it was an ongoing project.
This morning, she had just gone over the menu for the week with the cook, the burly man who was also the quartermaster but who was surprisingly good with preparing food.
After that, she’d poked her head into the storage chamber to see a few servants there, trying to piece together what looked like several broken chairs.
Leaving them to their task, she’d continued outside on her hunt for Addax.
There was something she needed to discuss with him.
In due time, she found him at the gatehouse, which was one of two usual posts for him.
The other was the troop house where the men were run through drills.
William was running them through their exercises today, and he was the one who told her where Addax would be.
She sighted him on the walk above the portcullis as he spoke to Dermot, and she came to the base of the gatehouse, waiting for him to look away from the Irish knight before she waved at him.
When he waved back, she motioned for him to come to her.
Addax made his way down the enclosed stairs of the gatehouse, emerging into the hustle and bustle of the bailey.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said politely, though Andromeda and Addax had become great friends over the past several weeks and he’d called her Andie on occasion. “How may I be of service this morning?”
Andromeda looked around, almost nervously. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
Curious, Addax nodded and led her off toward the armory, which was vacant at this time of day.
He took her inside the large chamber built into the wall of Wrexham but didn’t close the door.
He did stand by it, however, to make sure no one would eavesdrop on their conversation, and to also ensure he was a proper distance away from her.
“It must be serious,” he said. “Have you been offended? Is there a knave I must punish?”
She grinned. “I think you know enough about me by now to know that I would have punished him myself.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Andromeda couldn’t help the giggles, but they were short-lived. She’d come to speak on a serious, if not slightly awkward, subject.
“In truth, I do think I have a problem of sorts, and I need your wisdom on the matter,” she said. “I do not feel that I can speak to Pat about this.”
Pat. She’d taken to calling Tristan by his nickname over recent weeks, something he’d asked of her, and she was happy to comply. Philip Alexander Tristan, or Pat, as he’d explained it. She was touched that he would ask her to use it.
But, then again, she would have done anything he asked.
And Addax knew it. In fact, everyone knew it.
It was no secret that Tristan thought she was something special, and she felt the same way about him.
They’d developed a sweet romance over the past few weeks even though they kept it discreet.
But discreet or not, the hint of it had infuriated Carr and seemed to alienate Dermot, so the two Irish knights had been the only negative in an otherwise deliriously lovely time in the lives of both Andromeda and Tristan.
Addax was coming to wonder if her problem had something to do with her father.
“I see,” he said after a moment. “May I ask why you cannot discuss it with Pat?”
She sighed faintly. “Because I do not want to anger him,” she said. “He will kill anyone who… well, anyone who might pay me attention.”
“What kind of attention?”
She reached into the pocket of her crisp linen apron and pulled out a slip of vellum. Handing it to him, he took it hesitantly, having no idea why she would give him a piece of vellum—until he looked at it.
Then he knew.
“Someone has been slipping those… those poems under my door,” she said quietly. “It is not every day, but it is becoming more frequent. I’m terrified that Pat will discover that someone is trying to woo me. At least, I think someone is. It is difficult to tell because the poetry is quite… odd.”
Addax held the slip in front of him, reading the words aloud.
And my love drowns,
Whilst brushing her hair with a great tortoise comb.
Should she refuse my love, or leave me,
I shall crawl from the wreckage and return to the womb.
He had to put his hand over his mouth to mask the smile that threatened. He’d never known Tristan to write poetry while infatuated with a woman, and, as he could see, it grew particularly strange when romance was involved.
Quite simply, it was bad.
So very bad.
“And… and you have not mentioned this to Pat?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “As I said, I do not want him to become angry at whoever is writing it, so I thought I would ask you what I should do. Should I find out who it is and tell them to cease immediately?”
Addax had no choice. He had to tell her, especially since she thought someone else was sending her love poetry. Or some kind of poetry.
If it could be called that.
“Andie,” he said softly, handing her back the slip. “Pat wrote this.”
Andromeda’s eyes widened. “He what?” she gasped. “He wrote this?”
Addax nodded. “Do not tell him that I told you,” he said.
“But you must not think that someone else is trying to lure you away from him. Pat has written poetry for as long as I have known him. He knows that he’s not very good at it, but he writes it because it’s something that means a great deal to him.
He’s a man of little emotion, so I believe the poetry is his way of expressing himself. ”
Mouth agape, she looked at the slip again, reading over the words in shock. Maybe even a little horror.
“Oh… Addax,” she breathed. “He is trying to write love poems for me?”
Addax smiled, but it wasn’t in a way to shame Tristan. It was in a way to honor him. “Aye,” he said. “It must mean he cares a great deal for you, because he keeps this side of him rather hidden except to his friends.”
As the shock wore off, Andromeda smiled timidly. “It’s really rather sweet,” she said. “Mayhap it is not poetry that the bards would write, but he is trying. It is the effort that makes it wonderful.”
“I agree.”
She looked at it again. “I’m not entirely sure I would use the word ‘womb’ in a love poem, however.”
Addax scratched his head, trying to be tactful. “Or ‘wreckage.’”
She wrinkled up her nose as her eyes flicked up to him. “It is terrible.”
Addax closed his eyes, nodding fervently as he struggled not to laugh. “Please do not tell him that.”
“Never,” she said, pressing the slip against her heart. “It’s the most precious thing I have ever been given.”
“Good lass.”
“Where is he?”
“The stables,” Addax said. “He had two new horses brought in from a dealer in Liverpool, and he is settling them.”
“Then I will go and see him.”
She started to move past Addax, who reached out to stop her. “Remember,” he said. “Do not tell him I told you he wrote it. Let him tell you.”
She grinned and gave him a wink. “I do believe I can force a confession.”
“Nicely.”
“Very nicely.”
With a smirk, Addax let her go, watching her walk across the bailey as she headed toward the stables.
The truth was that Andromeda had forced a confession of sorts out of Addax, though he didn’t even realize it.
She suspected it had been Tristan all along, the mystery poem writer slipping bits of vellum under her door, because very few people had access to the keep between sunset and sunrise, and Tristan was one of them.
Not wanting to directly ask him, she’d thought Addax would know the truth.
And she’d been right.
Now, to wrest the confession from Tristan.
Andromeda suspected it wouldn’t be a difficult thing.
They’d spent the past five weeks learning about one another, each day a discovery anew, and it was easily the most exciting time of her life.
She’d never known anyone like Tristan—handsome, brave, commanding, witty, and, at times, a man who easily succumbed to a woman’s wishes.
That was the sweetest thing of all, she thought.
One word from her and he’d move heaven and earth to accommodate her.
The days that flew by had been like a dream.
Since that day in the solar, when she’d dripped green dye on the floor, he hadn’t brought up marriage again, which was both maddening and welcome.
Maddening because she wanted to marry him but welcome because she didn’t want to feel pressured into an answer.
He was giving her time to make her decision, and his patience was going to be rewarded.
She intended to tell him that she would be honored to be his wife very soon.
But not until he told her about the poetry.
In a way, perhaps that awful poetry had convinced her.