Barbara Phinney - Bound to the Warrior

Another cold thought washed over her. No doubt those coins will soon be off to London as taxes to the king. Ediva had not increased the rent, thus easing the burden on her tenants, and had instead practiced good, sensible thriftiness to allow her to save enough to keep the castle going all winter. She’d hate to see it all leave now.

But Adrien has already counted it. Geoffrey had opened the strongbox for him.

She would deal with Geoffrey later.

“I’d appreciate it greatly, sir, that you wait for me to escort you about the rest of the keep.”

Adrien had already reached the door. “’Tis all done, Ediva. I have seen all I need to see, counted the silver and secured the strongbox. I do, however, have some changes to make.”

She felt her ire rising and tamped it down, for she couldn’t exactly stomp away this time. “The king may own this keep, but the coffers are full because of my careful management. There will be no changes.”

Adrien smiled. The warm curling up of his mouth took her so completely aback, she wondered what foolish thing she’d said.

“You are quite right about your good management, milady, but know this, the coffers now belong to the king.”

She straightened her spine. “My lord, know this. My people have no one save me.” She tried to maintain her determination, but her current position offered little help.

Her husband tilted his head and she knew he was recalling how she’d flashed fear at him before. “Your words do not match your eyes, Ediva.”

She drew back in her bed but lifted her chin. “When I buried Ganute, I told my people I would do my best to keep them from harm. I’ll do so even if it costs me my life.”

He walked over, barely taking two strides to reach her. The ropes and wooden braces upon which the overstuffed pallet sat now strained as he pressed his knuckles onto them to lean close. His voice was soft, yet filled with warning. “Let us pray such a high price shall never be demanded.”

Straightening, he left her alone. Alone and wondering if her new husband would really extract the high price she’d inadvertently suggested.

* * *

Adrien strode into the kitchen and ordered some food for them. Several maids scurried in obedience, leaving him alone in the smoky room. The day was nearly gone, but the door out to the small garden where he and Ediva spoke earlier remained open. He watched the youth he’d handed his reins to dump kitchen scraps near where Ediva had been sitting. From the shadows bolted several cats that grabbed the refuse before darting away. One small dog, mange-filled and bone thin, chased them for their prizes.

Spying him, the youth jumped, turned tail and dashed away. Perturbed, Adrien jammed his fists into his hips and glowered. Aye, he was tall and well-muscled—he was a soldier, after all—but he was hardly an ogre.

“That’s Rypan, milord. He’s not good with folks,” a fresh voice called out. “He’s not too smart and often can’t speak.”

Adrien turned to find young Harry sitting by the hearth. A cook hurried past, snapping at him to move out of the way as she tended to the meal. Harry jumped up. The complete opposite of the boy who’d dashed away, Harry had bright, bold eyes and a saucy expression. His most annoying, yet beneficial, trait was his ability to speak French.

“Where did you learn French, boy?”

Harry grinned proudly. “I listened. M’maw worked for Lady Ediva’s family. Milady learned it, so I learned it, too.”

“Did Ediva bring you when she was married?”

He shrugged. “M’maw came with Lady Ediva, and I guess I was too young to leave her.”

“Who’s your mother?”

“One of the cooks. But not the cook.”

Adrien tossed a look over his shoulder to the cook bustling around behind him. The woman shot Harry a sharp glare.

“She’s Rypan’s aunt. He’s got no folks besides her.”

“Your French is horrible, boy. I’ll have to teach you proper grammar.”

An even bigger smile split the cheeky boy’s face. “I’d like that. Milady speaks to me in French, for her lord could not understand it.”

Adrien frowned. “Ha! I doubt very much you were her confidant.”

Harry shrugged. “I do not know what that means, sir. She’d just ask me to get her things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Sweets, mint from the garden, herbs for teas. She don’t drink strong ales.”

Again, Adrien rolled his eyes at his substandard French. “That wouldn’t require subterfuge.”

“Nay, ’twas not subberfuge I got for her.”

Adrien sighed. The boy had no idea what the word meant. “I meant that it would hardly require secrecy. What kind of herbs?”

Harry shrugged again.

“Harry!” A voice rang out from the depths of the kitchen. An older woman appeared with a lantern. “Find your sister. She needs to take food to the hall.”

As Harry dashed out of the dim kitchen, the woman shot Adrien a fast glance before setting down the lamp and stoking the fire.

“What kind of herbs would Lady Ediva need, woman?” he barked at her, feeling unreasonably annoyed by Harry.

“Milady doesn’t drink any ales or wines, sir. Herbal teas, juices and broth are all she wants.” She bustled about the trays of food, doing her best to ignore him.

He refused to take the slight personally. She was none too happy to have a Norman lord, Adrien guessed. As a soldier, he was used to ill-tempered people, even many of the knights who were better educated than anyone here were surly and ill-spoken. ’Twas part and parcel of the work.

When the yelps and growls of that scruffy dog penetrated his thoughts, his attention snapped away from the cook.

When he looked back, she was gone. His thoughts returned to Ediva’s earlier words, how she’d subtly suggested Adrien could be in danger of being poisoned. And with that boy suggesting Ediva knew her herbs made him wonder...

Had she considered such an end for her first husband? An uneasiness wobbled through Adrien. He’d threatened to have her taste the food first. Had Ganute ever thought to do the same? Poisons were often effective. With a cruel lord of a manor lounging through the long winter nights, ’twould be easy to plan a murder. And yet that had not been Ganute’s death. ’Twas on the battlefield that he saw his end. Adrien pursed his lips in frustration. Would life at the keep prove too great a test for him?

For now, he had little fear of attack. The keep was subdued, watchful. Waiting to see what sort of lord he would prove to be. He pondered the same question himself as he climbed the stairs to Ediva’s solar to retrieve her for the evening meal.

Hours later, as he lay on a pallet in his private room off the great hall, listening to the servants settling for the night, he still found himself pondering the issue of herbs.

Wondering if he should force Ediva to taste his food first.

And hating that he’d even need to.

Chapter Five

Ediva awoke early. The eastern sky was barely tinged with morning when she freed the vellum from the window. A hint of spring eased into the room, and she heard her maid roll over on her pallet. Margaret hated to rise early, and because there was no reason to today, Ediva let her sleep. Quietly, she grabbed her cloak and slipped from her solar to walk the parapet above.

Outside, she drew in cool air. She much preferred the warmth of summer or the insect-free autumns, but early mornings were wonderful any time of the year.

Ganute often had slept in, and after the nights she had wanted to forget, Ediva would slip down to the kitchens for a small bite of bread and some broth. She’d order her bath water and return to the parapet to wait for a servant to announce its arrival, reveling in the brief span of time that she had to herself and dreading her husband’s awakening.