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 cam
e 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.
CHAPTER 16
Austyn rode.
The thunder of a man’s rebuke. Fierce, impassioned words, pitched too low for his ears to decipher. A woman’s response, her plea unintelligible, but trembling with fervent conviction. The unmistakable crack of a hand striking human flesh.
He had rushed forward then, prepared to do battle for his lady’s sake, only to discover Holly, his Holly, with her palm pressed tenderly to a man’s cheek. His Holly, begging prettily for a man’s forgiveness. A man of God perhaps, but first and always, a man.
A veil of darkness had descended over his eyes. And he had flung himself on the bare back of his horse and rode.
Austyn rode until the silent bellow of rage trapped in his lungs subsided to ragged pants. He rode until his fists unclenched from their primal need to do harm. Until they surrendered the seductive temptation to smash and maim and utterly destroy the wall of sanity he’d labored upon for a lifetime, one heavy stone at a time. A wall so thick and so high that it was already completed before he realized too late that he had enclosed himself inside.
He rode until he could do nothing but slide off his winded mount and drop to his knees in the tall, coarse grass at the edge of the river.
The rising wind whipped his hair into a frenzy, stung his burning eyes, sang a mournful refrain over the rushing in his ears. Gray clouds scudded in from the west, bringing with them a wistful hint of the sea that had birthed them. Austyn remembered laying on this very bluff as a small boy, his head pillowed by his mother’s skirts as she recited from memory one of the epic poems he adored. Tales of battle. Tales of valor. Tales of honor.
She had raked his hair from his brow and smiled down at him, her eyes alight with love. “Someday, my son, you’ll be such a man as these. A knight. A hero. The pride of the Gavenmores.”
Austyn doubled over, sickened by the memory. Sickened by the poison festering in his soul. He had thought Holly—his funny, homely little Holly—to be the one who would purge him of it. ’Twas utterly ludicrous that she would be capable of provoking even a shadow of the debilitating jealousy that had scarred the hearts of the Gavenmore men for generations.
He pressed a hand to his heart, feeling beneath his tunic the outline of the token bequeathed to him so grudgingly by the beauty he’d encountered in the Tewksbury garden. Now there was a woman to incite madness in the heart of a man! he thought. There was a woman worth surrendering his soul for! But when he closed his eyes to conjure her face before him, her exquisite features melted, reforming into a puckish grin and a pair of animated violet eyes. Her mane of sable curls vanished, disintegrating into springy tufts that bobbed like a nest of baby snakes, yet felt surprisingly silky to his touch.
Austyn groaned. What in God’s name was he to do now? Rush back to the castle, drag that snide priest from the chapel by his cowl, and demand to know the nature of the man’s impassioned quarrel with his wife? Corner Holly and bully her into a confession of wrongdoing?
He came to his feet, setting his lips in a grim line of determination. He wouldn’t give that treacherous witch Rhiannon the satisfaction of doing either. ’Twas but a single stone of the wall around him that Holly had crumbled with her clumsy affections and artless attempts to please him. It could be easily enough repaired with the mortar of indifference. And what man would dare to judge him for refusing to count the terrible cost of that indifference?
As Austyn swung himself astride the horse and drove it back toward the castle, the first cold beads of rain struck his face like a baptism of his mother’s tears.
• • •
Thunder rumbled over the black mountains like the purring of a giant cat. A cool breeze drifted through the oriel window of the solar, carrying with it the gentle pattering of the rain on the balcony. ’Twas the seventh day of rain and the gloom and damp were beginning to sorely vex Holly’s nerves. She paced the cozy chamber, the defiant crackling of the fire on the hearth only heightening her restlessness.
Carey sat sharpening his arrows on the windowsill while Emrys, Winifred, and Elspeth played a muffled game of dice in the corner. Two yellow hounds drowsed before the fire. They lifted their broad heads to give Holly a doleful look as she swept past.
She stopped abruptly before the table, planting her palms firmly on its freshly polished surface. “Sir, I have strewn the floor of the great hall with new rushes and dried herbs—sweet-smelling tansy and lavender, basil and winter savory, even a sprinkling of wintergreen.”
Her boast earned her only a taciturn grunt from the man behind the table. A man nearly buried behind a mound of ledgers and scrolls. A man who’d barely spoken to her for a sennight and who only endured her company when he could devise no escape from it.
Holly wracked her brain for more achievements to recite. “I’ve scrubbed the rust from all the manac
les in the dungeon.”
“Very industrious of you,” he said, refusing to grant her even the boon of a glance. His voice was as cool and distant as the silvery web of lightning arcing over the river.
Elspeth crooked a sympathetic eyebrow. Winifred and Emrys stared fixedly at the dice. Carey scowled at Austyn’s back.
Holly straightened, her back rigid. If she could no longer please her husband, perhaps she could anger him. Any stamp of emotion upon the impassive beauty of his countenance would be a welcome variation.
She reached up to tug a lengthening curl, her eyes narrowing with a hint of temper only Elspeth recognized. “I’ve asked Winifred to prepare pickled lamprey for your supper tonight.”
Nothing. Not even the threat of pickled eel could induce a shadow of his crooked grin, a petulant twitch of his chiseled lips. Lips that had once praised even her smallest effort with extravagant charity.
Holly folded her arms over her chest and tapped her foot on the floor. “I fear I accidentally spiced your porridge with hemlock this morn. You should succumb to the throes of a convulsive death by nightfall.”
“That’s very nice,” he murmured. Snapping a ledger closed, he rose in one crisp motion, directing his words at Carey. “I’m off to the north fields to see how long the rain will delay the haying. I shall return at eventide.” He brushed past her as if she were invisible, leaving her standing empty-handed and hollow hearted before the table.
Carey unfolded himself from the windowsill. “My lady, you mustn’t take his brooding to heart. The Gavenmore lords have always been prone to black moods. They harden their hearts and—”
Holly lifted a hand to silence him, forcing a tremulous smile. “I fear that one must first possess a heart before one can harden it.”
Terrified that Carey’s compassion would entice her hurt and frustration to spill over into tears, she turned and fled blindly from the solar.