Richard had never had a tithe of his brother's piety. Occasionally he regretted the lack, thinking that a strong belief in God must be a great comfort, but at the moment he was very glad that he lacked his brother's faith and the tormenting guilt that went with it. "Good evening, Adrian," he said quietly.
His brother stirred, then turned to face the door. His face was drawn into stark bone-tight planes, more like a skull than a living man. "I suppose Walter sent for you?"
Richard nodded, rigidly controlling his shock at his brother's state. No wonder Walter had summoned him.
Adrian got slowly to his feet, his movements brittle. "Don't worry, in spite of what Walter might have said, I'm not mad. At least, not yet."
"How is Meriel?"
Adrian's face eased slightly. "I'm glad you remembered her name. Walter always calls her 'the girl.' He accords more dignity to his horses."
Richard put his arm around his brother's taut shoulders. "Come into the other room and tell me about her."
So Adrian did, talking in short choppy sentences, showing little emotion, except in his haunted eyes.
Richard sat drinking wine and listening, astonished at what Meriel had come to mean to his brother. How strange that a humble peasant girl had called forth so many buried aspects of Adrian's nature.
Was it simple lust on Adrian's part? But Richard, who in this arena was far more experienced than his brother, knew that lust was not always simple. And when he remembered how Meriel looked when she whistled her falcon down the wind, his brother's feelings were easier to understand.
At the end of his recital, Adrian was slouched wearily in his chair, his face hidden behind his hand. "And the worst of it is..." His voice broke. "Suicide is a mortal sin, Richard, condemning a soul to eternal damnation. I have been praying that I might take Meriel's sin upon my own soul, for if she dies, it will not be suicide but murder. I am as responsible for her death as if I had stabbed her through the heart. Surely God will understand and not punish her for my crime?"
"I can't believe that the Blessed Mother will not understand and intercede for her." Though Richard had his doubts about heaven and hell, if there was a just God, innocents would not be punished in the afterlife.
Nor would his brother's agonized remorse go for naught. Softly he added, "And she will intercede for you too, Adrian. To be a fool is not the same as to be evil."
"The results can be evil in either case," Adrian said bitterly.
"I am no theologian, but as I recall, what is in one's heart is supposed to be more important than one's actions."
Adrian sighed and lowered his hand. "I hope you are right, for I can do no more than hope." He stood. "I'm going to sit with Meriel. Do you want to see her?"
Richard didn't, but clearly Adrian wanted him to. He nodded and followed his brother to the sickroom. By the bed sat a Cistercian monk, the Fontevaile infirmarer presumably. The girl looked very small and frail, her face as pale as the white bandage threaded through her black hair, only her labored breathing proving that she still lived.
By the flickering light of the single candle, it took Richard a moment to identify the furry ball curled up on the foot of the bed. "Is that a cat?" he asked in surprise, keeping his voice low even though this was one case where waking the patient would be a blessing.
"Meriel's cat. She named it Kestrel. She was..." Adrian caught and corrected himself, "she is very fond of it."
As if knowing it was under discussion, the little animal lifted its head and regarded the newcomers with golden eyes for a moment before tucking its nose under its tail again. Richard supposed that it was no more foolish to have a cat than it was to have the reliquary that also sat on the foot of the bed. Probably that contained a relic that the infirmarer had brought from the abbey in the hopes that it would help the patient.
Richard thought rather cynically that Fontevaile was doing its best to please the patron who had contributed so generously over the years. But it was also true that Abbot William and Adrian were good friends, and that the abbot was a compassionate man. Richard's gaze went to the girl's still face again. The relic was as good a treatment as any, for it would take a miracle to preserve this life.
The monk rose and approached Adrian, his face grave. "She will not last the night, Lord Adrian. You must call your priest so that the last rites can be administered."
Richard could feel his brother's vivid pain without even looking at him, but Adrian's voice was steady when he said. "Very well, Brother Peter."
Within a few minutes the Warfield priest had arrived and in a murmur of Latin he performed extreme unction, anointing Meriel's eyes, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, and feet. If he had doubts about ministering to a woman the whole household knew had attempted self-destruction, he wisely did not speak them.
Then there was nothing to do but wait. Adrian realized that Richard was still present, sitting tiredly against the wall. He said quietly, "There is no need for you to stay. You must be exhausted after riding from Montford. Take my bed. I won't be using it."
Richard looked up, groggy with fatigue but still game. "You are sure?"
"Yes." When Richard stood, Adrian clasped his hand. "Thank you for coming."
Richard squeezed back, offering what silent comfort he could, then left. The priest had also gone, leaving only the monk dozing in the corner and Adrian. He pulled a stool up to the bed and sat down. Because Meriel was far beyond caring what he did, he allowed himself to stroke her face once. Her bones were delicate beneath the white rose-petal skin. To think that soon she would be gone, her bright sweetness buried beneath the earth, was quite unbearable.
Adrian believed that there had been moments of real sympathy between them, but his unforgivable actions had destroyed any possible future. As he studied her face, trying to memorize every line and curve, a bleak thought occurred to him. Though he'd often yearned for the lost life of the monastery, never had he wondered about being a freeman of modest fortune. If he had been born to the same rank as Meriel, had met and won her as his wife, he would have found more happiness than he would ever know as an earl.
Hours passed, the castle slept, and each breath came with more difficulty than the last, yet still Meriel breathed. Helplessness was a torture as terrible as being stretched on a rack, and Adrian could feel tension building steadily inside him. When Meriel died, the rack would be tightened the final turn and he would be torn into shrieking fragments. Or perhaps he would go mad, as Walter feared.
He scanned the chamber's handsome furniture and solid stone walls. Many of his guests thought this the most luxurious place they had ever stayed, but how had Meriel felt about it? What thoughts had filled her mind during the lonely hours?
His lips thinned with guilt as he remembered how he had deliberately deprived her of all companionship and activity, trying to drive her into his arms through boredom. Instead, she had cultivated a cat, fed birds, found small tasks to keep her mind and hands busy.
She was a resilient woman. In her quiet way, formidable. He remembered how she had sat beneath the window and watched the sky.
Watched the sky... a thought sliced through Adrian's musings with a shaft of absolute certainty. Knowing what he must do, he stood and pulled the covers from Meriel. Her slim, shift-clad body was wraithlike, as still as the grave. Taking a blanket, he wrapped her carefully.
Aroused by the sounds, the Cistercian woke. "My lord?" he questioned, blinking with sleepy confusion.
"No wonder she can't die, trapped here within these walls," Adrian said harshly as he lifted her in his arms. "The last—the only—thing I can do for Meriel now is to let her die under an open sky. She would have wished it."
"But the night air can be deadly," Brother Peter cautioned.
Adrian smiled humorlessly. "How can that worsen her condition?"
After a moment's thought, the monk nodded. "Very well." He lifted the candle from the bedside, then lighted the earl's way downstairs, through the sleeping bodies in the great hall and o
ut the heavy iron-bound door.
There was a waxing half-moon, enough to guide them through the castle wards to the postern gate. The monk's quiet explanations saved Adrian from having to speak himself, and for that he was grateful. The guard at the postern wanted to send an escort to protect his lord, but in a few savage words Adrian refused. Then he sent the monk back to his rest.
Finally it was just the two of them. Adrian supposed that if he had the full strength of his conviction, he would find a quiet place to set Meriel down, then leave her, but he could not bear to let her die alone or to deprive himself of what moments of her life remained.
Following a footpath, he carried her upriver until even her slight weight bore heavily, then found a spot on a bluff overlooking the water. There was a tree and he settled down against it, then arranged Meriel across his lap, her head supported by his shoulder.
It was a peaceful place. Moonlight burnished the flowing water. Below the bluff, reeds rustled gently in the wind, and now and then a water creature splashed. Across the river he saw the soft white shapes of sleeping sheep. Sometimes one more restless than the others gave a plaintive bleat.
Doubtless it was Adrian's imagination, but Meriel's breathing seemed a little stronger now. He touched her cheek and it seemed warmer, but perhaps that was just because his fingers were cool. In the moonlight, her face showed the innocent peace of a sleeping child. The explosive tension he had felt in the castle had drained away, leaving the calm of resignation.
The sun rose very early at this season, and as the first faint light defined the horizon, Adrian began to talk. Since Meriel was beyond hearing, he spoke in Norman, his mother tongue, the language of his heart. "Abbot William says that the purest, highest love is for the divine, because when mortal men love mortal things, they often kill what they most love. And that is what I did," he said with deep sadness, his gaze fixed on the pale oval of her face.
"I loved you from the moment I saw you, but was too blind a fool to know my own heart." He sighed and tilted his head back against the tree trunk. "So being mortal man and a sinner, I set out to possess you, to clip your wings and cage you so that your songs would only be for me. But in the end you found another way to fly, and so defeated me."
He drew a shuddering breath. "May angels carry you to your rest, ma petite."
He had the fancy that angels did hover near, waiting for Meriel to slip from her body. Then they would take her by the hand and fly away, leaving Adrian alone forever. "Ah, God! If only I could turn back time!" he cried out, anguish overwhelming him. "If only I could start again, I would do everything differently. I would try to win your love through kindness rather than compel it by force, and if I failed, I would accept your will and wish you joy on your own path."
Meriel had been quiescent in his arms, but for the first time she moved, a subtle shift of weight, as if nestling more closely. Adrian stared down, knowing her movement had not been his imagination. Her breath really was stronger now, and quieter, not so labored as before. Was it possible that she really was improving? He laid two fingers at the base of her throat and found her pulse easily.
The intoxication of hope surged through Adrian's veins, and he closed his eyes and prayed aloud, his voice choked and breaking. "Holy Mother, I know that you must want Meriel's sweetness and joy in heaven, but if it is not against God's will, then spare her. Spare her. Grant me a chance to atone for what I have done, and I swear and vow that I will do anything in my power to make amends. Whatever her wish, I will grant it, even if she would ask that I cut out my own heart. Because I love her, Blessed Mother, I love her, and of all the saints in heaven, you know most of human love."
Then the miracle occurred. After aching years of inner emptiness, once more Adrian knew the exultation of spiritual grace. He had fallen away from God, but now he could pray again, once more he was enfolded in the mantle of divine love.
And part of his joy was his knowledge, beyond question and doubt, that Meriel's soul was safe. After her spirit departed, he would find comfort in the fact that she would be in realms of light.
He felt a gossamer touch on his head, like an angel wing, or a mother's kiss for a sleeping child. With it came an insight into why Meriel had instantly meant so much to him. Over the years Adrian had lost touch with the gentle, loving side of himself, the side that had found fulfillment at Fontevaile. Meriel was not just her own beloved self, but an emblem of his own lost soul.
No wonder he had loved her with desperation. Even if she died in his arms, he would still have the healing he had found through her. And he would be able to hope that someday, in heaven, he might find her again. "Thank you, Holy Mother," he whispered brokenly, "thank you."
For a long time he neither moved nor thought, simply sat content in the deepest peace he had ever known. Then Meriel stirred and he opened his eyes. The edge of the sun was over the horizon now and there was light enough to see her face, delicate and pretty as a fairy child's. She shifted again, then opened her eyes and looked up at him.
Adrian caught his breath with delight, not quite believing that there might be a second miracle. He whispered, "Meriel?"
She said nothing, just stared at him, like a grave blue-eyed baby owl. There was no recognition in her eyes, but there was intelligence, like the wisdom sometimes seen in the eyes of newborns, when all the world is new and strange to them. Her cheeks had color and she looked as healthy and pretty as the first time he had seen her. "Meriel, do you know who I am?"
Her brows drew together and she blinked thoughtfully. Remembering that he had spoken in Norman, Adrian repeated his question in English, but she still did not answer. Chilled, he wondered if her mind had been damaged. She had taken a great blow on the side of the head and Brother Peter was sure there was damage to her brain, but there had been no way to know how much.
Adrian relaxed. "I prayed for your life, and if your injuries keep you forever in a state of innocent simplicity, I will love you still. There might even be a special grace in that, if you cannot remember how ill I treated you."
He smiled, then kissed her lightly on the brow. "I swear that I will care for you always, ma petite, and that none shall harm you while I draw breath."
As the final miracle of the night, Meriel smiled back at him.
* * *
Alan de Vere stopped to buy a hot apple pastry at a street stall in Evreux and received a saucy smile as well. He smiled back, for the baker's girl was a pretty wench. Perhaps he would come by here again when he had more time to dally. But now it was time to attend Lord Theobald at the castle.
Alan walked briskly, munching the pastry and feeling well pleased with the world. Lord Theobald had come to Normandy to reach terms with Geoffrey of Anjou and had been successful in his mission. Geoffrey was the empress's husband, and while there was no love lost between the two, he had been happy to use his wife's claim to her father's lands as an excuse to make himself master of Normandy. With Geoffrey's encouragement, Theobald had taken the castle of a baron who had been a thorn in Geoffrey's side.
During the siege, Alan had been fortunate enough to capture a prosperous knight, and the ransom had been very handsome. Most of the money must go to Avonleigh, but he had come into the town today especially to find a gift to take back to Meriel. She worked so hard, always gay, never complaining, and he wanted to buy her some special luxury.
It had been hard to decide, for the local merchants had a dazzling array of wares, but at length Alan's choice had fallen on a brightly polished silver mirror. Unlike silk or velvet, it would never wear out, and it would show Meriel her own pretty face.
He chuckled, thinking how she believed that her tall blond sisters had all the family's beauty. Neither of them, nor William's wife, were half so appealing as Meriel.
Within another year or two Alan should be able to dower his sister to a knight like himself, though he would surely miss her when she married. He wouldn't pick just any man; Meriel's husband must be a man of honor and kindness, one who wo
uld treat her well. Aye, and Alan would let her meet and approve the man for herself before any contracts were drawn.
Then he could think of finding a wife for himself. He licked honey-sweetened sauce from his fingers. Lord Theobald had hinted that he might put in a good word for Alan with the king. Not all heiresses were daughters to barons and out of his reach. Some were heir to modest manors like his, and such a one would be a perfect match.
A half-hour later, washed and combed, he went to Theobald's solar to see if his lord needed him, and found the baron seated at a table, brooding. The older man looked up at his entrance, then waved to a chair. "A message arrived from Lady Amicia this morning. There's bad news, I fear."
Alan took the indicated seat. "Is there illness? Surely the castle is not threatened."
"Nay, the bad news is not mine." Theobald was a short, powerfully built man, fearless in battle, but now he toyed with his dagger, cleaning his nails, not meeting Alan's eyes.
Finally he looked up. "My wife received a message from Avonleigh to send on to you. Apparently Lady Meriel went riding one day and never came back. Her horse did, but your men could find no trace of her when they searched. She is presumed dead." His voice broke for a moment. "Amicia sends her condolences. You know how fond she was of your sister. She told me that she had never had a waiting woman she loved more. Indeed, we were all very fond of her. She was like a spring day. I'm sorry, lad."
It wasn't possible. Numbed, Alan tried to make sense of the baron's words. She couldn't be gone, not Meriel, with her gifts of life and laughter. Who could want to harm her? "She isn't dead," he said hoarsely. "You said they did not... did not find her body. They just did not look hard enough. Perhaps she had an accident and a villager is taking care of her. Mayhap she is home already, apologizing for the worry she caused."
"The fact that they did not find her means nothing, Alan, you know that," the baron said, compassionate but unwilling to encourage self-delusion. "Robbers could have killed and buried her. She could have been thrown from her horse and broken her neck and the wolves would leave no trace."