Queen Eleanor you ought to seek, Lady Susanna, not me.”
“There are two problems with that which sounds so simple to you. The first is that Judas overheard the mother of Alan’s widow suggest his death would be the easiest way to see her grandson made heir.” She could not tell him it had played out upon the training field, for he would want to know the means by which her nephew’s life was to have been forfeited. “The second problem is you.”
His lids narrowed. “Me?”
“Though I do not believe Alan revealed your name to his wife or men, you are the reason there is a question of whether or not Judas is a de Balliol.”
“The only reason?” he said low and deep.
She knew he believed it was she who had carried the tale to her brother, just as Judith had first believed, but she would not waste her breath in self defense when the air was better spent on Judas.
“If you know for certain you cannot have sired Judas, then we shall seek an audience with Queen Eleanor to defend his claim to the barony, but we cannot do it alone.”
He said nothing for a long moment, and when he did, he once more stood over her. “What do you suggest?”
She had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Exactly what you think. Far too many of my brother’s retainers are under the control of Alan’s widow’s mother and would surely stand witness to his disparagement of Judas, and especially his fondness, while full up in his cups, for proclaiming he had been cuckolded.”
Anger darkened Everard Wulfrith’s eyes, banishing the color to the farthest reaches, but she was not fearful, for she knew it was not directed at her. He saw the cruelty and injustice of what she told, and whether it so deeply affected him because it had been done to a child of his own making or a child innocent of what his father had believed of him, it mattered not. She had him.
“You will do it?” she asked. “You will bear witness that you could not have fathered Judas? That he is a de Balliol?”
The color began to return to his eyes, and when he blinked, the black of his pupils no longer dominated. “What makes you believe the queen will take my word over that of your brother’s men?”
“I have not forgotten the dissent between your family and King Henry whilst you supported King Stephen’s claim to the throne, but I also know there are few families King Henry holds in such high regard as yours now that he has your fealty.” How she wished he would not stand so near, that his eyes did not probe so deep.
“What do you gain from this?” he asked. “Why do you care so much what happens to the boy?”
The question was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed. “He is my nephew. More, he is as a son to me, all that is left of my friend, Judith—”
“Friend!” The anger had returned, but this time it was not directed at one beyond his reach.
Refusing to retreat, she said, “Aye, friend. She did not have to ask me to watch over her son, but it was the last thing she did ere she died, and I have done it as best I could.”
“Then for her and her son, you sacrificed your own happiness? Never wed?”
His question was more unwelcome than he could know. But this was not the route she wished their conversation to travel.
“Perhaps as a means of atoning?” he pressed.
Susanna curled her fingers into her palms.
“Too late, would you not say? Judith is dead.”
The cruel bite of her nails would not stop her words from crowding the space between them. “’Tis not I who must needs atone, Everard Wulfrith. You are the cause of this misery, and you will right the wrong.”
He drew his head slightly back. “Will I?”
Her right hand came up, but she stopped it before he could—and he would have, his reflexes a step ahead of the slap she longed to land to his immovable face.
As she stared at his splayed hand that had arrested its own course near her own, he said, “I will not.” Then he pivoted and strode toward the
“There are two problems with that which sounds so simple to you. The first is that Judas overheard the mother of Alan’s widow suggest his death would be the easiest way to see her grandson made heir.” She could not tell him it had played out upon the training field, for he would want to know the means by which her nephew’s life was to have been forfeited. “The second problem is you.”
His lids narrowed. “Me?”
“Though I do not believe Alan revealed your name to his wife or men, you are the reason there is a question of whether or not Judas is a de Balliol.”
“The only reason?” he said low and deep.
She knew he believed it was she who had carried the tale to her brother, just as Judith had first believed, but she would not waste her breath in self defense when the air was better spent on Judas.
“If you know for certain you cannot have sired Judas, then we shall seek an audience with Queen Eleanor to defend his claim to the barony, but we cannot do it alone.”
He said nothing for a long moment, and when he did, he once more stood over her. “What do you suggest?”
She had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Exactly what you think. Far too many of my brother’s retainers are under the control of Alan’s widow’s mother and would surely stand witness to his disparagement of Judas, and especially his fondness, while full up in his cups, for proclaiming he had been cuckolded.”
Anger darkened Everard Wulfrith’s eyes, banishing the color to the farthest reaches, but she was not fearful, for she knew it was not directed at her. He saw the cruelty and injustice of what she told, and whether it so deeply affected him because it had been done to a child of his own making or a child innocent of what his father had believed of him, it mattered not. She had him.
“You will do it?” she asked. “You will bear witness that you could not have fathered Judas? That he is a de Balliol?”
The color began to return to his eyes, and when he blinked, the black of his pupils no longer dominated. “What makes you believe the queen will take my word over that of your brother’s men?”
“I have not forgotten the dissent between your family and King Henry whilst you supported King Stephen’s claim to the throne, but I also know there are few families King Henry holds in such high regard as yours now that he has your fealty.” How she wished he would not stand so near, that his eyes did not probe so deep.
“What do you gain from this?” he asked. “Why do you care so much what happens to the boy?”
The question was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed. “He is my nephew. More, he is as a son to me, all that is left of my friend, Judith—”
“Friend!” The anger had returned, but this time it was not directed at one beyond his reach.
Refusing to retreat, she said, “Aye, friend. She did not have to ask me to watch over her son, but it was the last thing she did ere she died, and I have done it as best I could.”
“Then for her and her son, you sacrificed your own happiness? Never wed?”
His question was more unwelcome than he could know. But this was not the route she wished their conversation to travel.
“Perhaps as a means of atoning?” he pressed.
Susanna curled her fingers into her palms.
“Too late, would you not say? Judith is dead.”
The cruel bite of her nails would not stop her words from crowding the space between them. “’Tis not I who must needs atone, Everard Wulfrith. You are the cause of this misery, and you will right the wrong.”
He drew his head slightly back. “Will I?”
Her right hand came up, but she stopped it before he could—and he would have, his reflexes a step ahead of the slap she longed to land to his immovable face.
As she stared at his splayed hand that had arrested its own course near her own, he said, “I will not.” Then he pivoted and strode toward the
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