Sweet Bea. Sarah Hegger
Garrett caught her wrist. She looked up at him with a murmur of protest.
“Speaking of your son?”
Lilly rolled her eyes and stuck out her bottom lip. “Jesu, Garrett, but you fret more about my boy than his own da.”
“Where is your boy, Lilly?”
“He is with his auntie,” Lilly said.
“Did he eat today?”
“Aye, Garrett, the boy ate today.”
“And you bought him shoes with the money I gave you?”
“Aye, Garrett, I bought shoes. He will only outgrow them, you know.”
“Good.” Garrett released her wrist.
Lilly got back to work.
He liked Lilly; they were friends of a sort, but he wouldn’t tolerate her ignoring her young son. Not for the first time he thought Lilly might be seeing him as a replacement father. It was time to end their arrangement. As soon as she’d taken care of his aching balls.
Chapter 4
Despite Nurse’s preparations, nobody called for Beatrice, so she visited her mother. She couldn’t believe her mother wouldn’t recover. Sir Arthur would have stayed if he knew his lady was in mortal peril. He adored his Lady Mary. Women older than her mother had babies all the time. Still, she couldn’t rid herself of the worry curled viper-like around the dark recesses of her mind.
Her mother had looked tired and a trifle wan, but seemed in good spirits. For once, she and her mother had been in perfect accord.
Winding down the staircase, Beatrice wanted to do something to cheer her mother up. Mayhap she could gather her some fresh flowers from the meadow. Or finish her embroidery without the entire thing becoming an unrecognizable snarl. There wasn’t much chance of that happening and flowers were too commonplace.
She wanted to do something to take her mother’s breath away. Something big, that would stand out in the family history. Garrett’s face flickered across her mind. Such a thing would certainly warrant mention in the family history. Unfortunately, for all the wrong reasons.
Voices drifted up the stairwell. Henry, her brother, spoke.
Her uncle replied.
Beatrice quickened her step. Visitors were always welcome, and her uncle, doubly so.
“You should not have come here,” Henry said.
Beatrice stopped. She couldn’t have heard right. Henry was as fond of Godfrey as she.
“This is madness,” Henry continued.
“Calm your fire, Henry,” Godfrey replied. “And keep your voice down. Anyone might be listening.”
The screens were empty. Nobody was in the dim corridor leading to the kitchens. The people of the keep were preparing for the evening meal.
“She shouldn’t have come.” Henry’s voice came softer now as he heeded their uncle’s warning.
“I had no choice.” Faye?
Beatrice’s heart gave a happy leap. Her sister was here, too. She took a quick step forward.
“You have placed us all in terrible danger.” Henry’s words stopped her a second time.
“Where else would I go?” Faye replied.
Beatrice’s pulse quickened. She should announce herself. If she did, however, the conversation would stop, as it always did when she approached. Beatrice hesitated. Her mother wouldn’t approve of listening to a conversation that didn’t include her. Perhaps, because her mother didn’t need to listen in secret. Nobody ever kept things from Lady Mary.
Beatrice stole closer and peered through the decorative carving at the top of the screens.
Henry and Godfrey stood at the opposite end of the hall, their heads close together.
Faye stood nearby, dressed for traveling with her hood thrown back. Her pale blond hair had escaped its braid and mud splattered Faye’s cloak to the knees.
Beatrice had never seen her sister as disarrayed.
Her nephews were here, too.
Beatrice almost gave up her hiding place.
Sir Gregory, the knight who always accompanied Faye, stood patiently to the side with the children. Little Arthur curled up in the large man’s arms. His sweet face was pressed against the knight’s tunic, his mouth open in sleep. Young Simon gripped Sir Gregory’s thigh with one arm. The knight dropped his hand and touched the top of Simon’s golden head, his large, rough hand so gentle on the child. Gregory took no part in the quiet conversation between Godfrey, Faye, and Henry.
Damn. She couldn’t hear them from here. Of course, if somebody were to remain concealed beyond the group, behind the great tapestry portraying one of her father’s numerous victories, then that person would hear everything said. And one could reach the tapestry through the chapel.
Beatrice crept out of the screens passage and raced back up the stairs. She slowed as she crossed before her mother’s chamber, but pelted the rest of the way toward the secondary staircase. From here, it was easy to slip through the back of the chapel and find the entrance concealed by the tapestry. She was breathing heavily by the time she reached the small alcove beside the entrance. She took a moment to calm her breathing before she snuck closer.
“Do you have the money?” Godfrey asked.
“Nay.” Henry sighed and muttered something Beatrice couldn’t quite catch, but she did hear the word scutage. The king had levied the tax once again, shortly before her father decided to join the other barons in their Army of God.
“Is there any truth to these allegations?” Godfrey asked as parchment crackled.
If she dared peer around the edge of the tapestry, she’d be directly in Henry’s line of sight. She contented herself with merely listening.
“Of course there is no truth,” Faye replied. One of the children murmured and Faye lowered her voice. “My father would never abuse his position as sheriff in such an unconscionable manner.”
“Of course he would not,” Godfrey replied in his smooth, deep voice, good for stories and soothing. “But the king does not have to provide evidence to damn your father. The rumor alone will cause dissent amongst the rebel barons. The burden lies with your father to prove the king wrong.”
“If he were here,” Henry continued stiffly, “he would answer these ridiculous charges in an instant. The king only charges him now because he is not here. It is despicable.” Something thumped the table and made Beatrice jump. Must be Henry. He was a table pounder.
The baby’s startled wail cut the air.
Hurried footsteps and Faye shushed him.
“It is called politics, dear boy.” Godfrey spoke quietly. “And it is a battleground on which you had best tread warily.”
“I cannot send for my father,” Henry said.
“But you must.” Faye’s voice shook.
Beatrice desperately wanted to see what was happening.
“It is impossible,” Henry snapped.
If it were a simple matter of answering charges, her father should be here to do so. She wished she knew how it all worked, but her knowledge was somewhat vague. Her oldest brother, Roger, might explain it to her. Henry would rather have his toenails drawn than explain things to a simple girl.
“Indeed,” Godfrey replied. “Not with the way matters are poised in London. I am not long back from there and tensions are high. Arthur must remain in London, for the sake of the kingdom.”
Her