Barbara Phinney - Bound to the Warrior

No one moved.

Curious, Adrien strode up to peer into the chest. A tail of the material stuck out a moment before she shoved it deeper in. The cloth was pale blue in color, as lovely as Ediva’s brilliant eyes. Her hand lay on the other clothes, shaking ever so slightly. Adrien crouched and looked into her face. Her eyes were closed.

“Ediva?”

She swiped her hand over her cheek and opened her eyes. Glaring at the brash boy who’d accompanied Adrien, she snapped, “Harry, why are you still here?”

Harry looked down at his feet. “I came in with my new lord.”

“Well, you can leave now.” She twisted to speak to the woman sewing. “Margaret, I don’t need half of Dunmow Keep traipsing through my solar.”

“Ediva?”

She turned her attention to Adrien, her expression cool as the late winter rain that had fallen that morning.

“Harry will be your squire,” she carried on in English, still on her knees. “If you need me, he will know where to find me.”

“I have my own squire.”

“Harry has some knowledge of French and a good ear for learning. Use him as much as possible.” Her voice was steady, but her hands still trembled and though she looked toward his face she would not meet his eye.

Irritated, he stood and folded his arms. “I will decide the staff, Ediva.”

“You know nothing of the staff here. This is my keep, Lord Adrien, and as its lady, I make such decisions.”

With that, she slammed the lid of the trunk down. All the servants jumped.

Enough, Adrien decided as he threw open the trunk lid. Whatever was in this thing had shaken Ediva more than anything he’d seen her encounter, including the king’s command to wed. Retrieving the blue garment she’d hidden, he discovered it was a woman’s shift.

Holding it up with both hands, he drew in a sharp breath. There were long, violent slashes in it, and splattered about them were brownish stains.

Blood. He’d been a soldier long enough to recognize the unwashed stains. ’Twas a sleeping shirt of good quality, and most likely hers. What had happened? “Is this yours, Ediva?”

She snatched it back and thrust it into the arms of the girl beside her. “Never mind. Turn this into rags, girl.” Immediately after, she ordered the servants to leave.

After the servants had filed out and the door shut firmly behind them, Adrien said, “That’s blood. What happened?”

Her chin had wrinkled. Just as he thought she wouldn’t answer, she said, “Ganute’s departure gift to himself.”

Adrien fought for words, but nothing decent surfaced. Her cheeks pink, Ediva returned to her seat. “He...surprised me, ’tis all.”

Was that all it was? Nay. From her expression, there was more. He paused, also hating how he couldn’t seem to form a sentence or even find the right words to say. “You...had been married for some time, surely. You are...old.”

Silence followed, with a sudden tension Adrien had felt only before battle. All he’d meant to say was she was old enough to know what some men want. Obviously, his English needed work.

Unless the departure gift was...

His blood ran cold.

Slowly standing, Ediva turned to him. “Old? Old!” The word bounced around the quiet room like an angry bee in a clay pot. “Am I a battered pan into which you slop bones and broth for your sup?”

She wiped her eyes furiously. “I am many things, my lord, but I can tell you with much certainty, that I am not old!”

Snatching up her hem, she limped past him and threw open the heavy oak door with the ease of a man twice her size. As it slammed against the wall, she did her best to stalk from her solar with as much dignity as her bruised and aching body would allow.

Standing there, Adrien felt a pair of eyes lingering on him. He found Harry, the young whelp Ediva had assigned as his squire, peeking into the solar. The boy barely reached his elbow and was as clumsy as a half-grown pup, but he lifted his brows and shook his head like a wise old man.

“What’s your problem, boy?”

The boy’s French was horrible, but he understood. “Milady don’t like to be called old. Even m’maw and my sisters don’t like being called old.”

Adrien scowled at him. The boy colored, appropriately so, in Adrien’s mind. Harry quickly turned away, but as he did, Adrien caught his arm. “What kind of man was her ladyship’s first husband?”

The boy looked around him, as if to confirm they were alone. “I didn’t know him well, sir. But I remember seeing her ladyship in the kitchen garden after he left, tending herbs. All covered up.”

“Of course she’d cover herself. She’s a modest woman. And what do you mean, tending herbs? The lady of the keep does not garden, boy.” Did this child think he could lie to his master?

“She likes to tend the herbs, she says. M’maw says she needs the peace.”

“She needs— Why?”

“M’maw said his lordship had his way before he left. She said that his lordship didn’t deserve her.”

Adrien’s stomach turned as his suspicions deepened. Why hadn’t he seen the signs before? She’d practically told him that the only good that came out of Hastings was her husband’s death. And the bloodstains told their own tale of a brutal man.

And here he had been, bullying her further.

Father in Heaven, I have sinned against You and against Ediva. My ways are of a soldier, not of a husband. Help her to understand me. And for me to understand her.

He strode out to find Ediva and confirm the truth from her. But, as he trotted down the curved stairwell, he reminded himself that she had her right to privacy.

Nay, he argued back, he needed to know the truth behind her first marriage. He could help her. He could—

Finding her in the herb garden that rolled down the short motte, Adrien paused at the open kitchen door. Behind him, water for her bath was being warmed over the hearth. Any words he’d formed in his mind dissolved instantly. She was seated at a wooden bench, staring at a patch of herbs barely out of the ground. The air still bore a crisp feel but promised spring. ’Twas the time of year that pledged new life, new growth—a new beginning. A new master for the keep who would not repeat the cruelties of the previous one.

Ediva needed to know that she was safe in her own home. He’d made a silent promise to God during his nuptials that he would honor his wife as God would want him to. Ediva deserved that much. And she should not have to leave her own solar just to find a moment’s peace.

She looked up at that moment, eyes hurt and hollow. He’d called her old, and he was wrong. She was broken, hurt by Ganute so much that Adrien actually regretted the man’s death. If Ganute was still alive, then Adrien would be able to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget.

With a stilling breath, Adrien forced out the violent thoughts. The Good Lord wanted him to show mercy and love. His new wife needed such. He walked toward her and wasn’t surprised when she turned her attention back to the garden. Sighing, he sat and took her hand.

“Ediva, I meant no insult when I called you old. ’Twas not a slight against your youth or beauty.”

She didn’t move. He pressed on. “I’m a soldier, Ediva, not a fine prince who knows the ways of courtship. And we both know you’re not a maid.”

She looked at him, blinking. “You don’t know that.”

He frowned. “I do. You were married to Ganute for five years.”

“I could still be a maid.”

Adrien shook his head gently. “We both know that’s not so. Were you ever with child?”

“Nay, I gave him no children.” Her gaze darted about. “Some said God made me barren to punish me.”

“For what?”