ungainly height, which most men find intolerable. Thus, I need not tell you the Godsend it seemed when I met you. Being of a height yourself, Gaenor’s size can present no problem.”
“A Godsend,” Christian murmured, then said, “I thank you for preparing me for our meeting, but you need not worry I will be disappointed, nor that I will allow anything of the sort to reflect upon my face. I am resolved to this marriage, and not grudgingly. Thus, not only will our families have peace, but Lady Gaenor and I are certain to find a fit pleasing to us both.”
“I take comfort in that, Baron Lavonne.”
Christian looked past the knight and watched as yet another torch was extinguished. Two more and it might prove difficult to negotiate the floor that was fast filling with pages and squires. “Good eve, Sir Everard.”
By the light of the single torch set between two men-at-arms posted as sentries, Christian forged a path among the pallets and those sprawled upon them. Shortly, he climbed the stairs and strode the corridor to his chamber. At the door, he paused to consider the chapel that was set in the far bend of the corridor.
She would not be there now, but on the morrow…
CHAPTER SIX
H e had not come. He had said he would, but for more than an hour she had sat on the bench waiting for him. Had her eagerness to meet again frightened him away? Like her, he was also betrothed.
With an unutterable sense of loss, Gaenor looked to the altar as she rose to her feet. Though she knew she ought to be grateful the knight had not returned, for it was folly for them to continue to meet when her lot was already cast, resentment welled.
She looked heavenward. “You did this,” she whispered, only to squeeze her eyes closed and beg forgiveness. After all, if God was responsible, all He had done was remove temptation—and further heartache. It was for the best. And she must try to be grateful.
In her chamber abovestairs, she closed the door and considered what had become nearly her entire existence these past months. So still. So quiet. So alone. Silence that screamed.
Swallowing to keep emotion from her lips and eyes, she crossed to the bedside table and looked from the embroidered bodice begun too many months past, to the psalter that garnered the least of her attention, to the window that knew her best and from which she watched the days and nights slowly accumulate one atop the other.
She took a step toward the latter, only to turn back and snatch up her psalter. Surely a psalm would offer comfort from this restlessness…this roiling…this terrible yearning for something beyond her reach.
But it was not easy to find relief in the small book, for tucked inside the front cover was a folded piece of parchment that protruded just enough to make it impossible to ignore. She fingered its edges and once more vowed she would burn it. Soon.
“W ell done, Baron!”
Perspiration causing his tunic to cling shoulders to hips, Christian stared between met swords into Sir Everard’s eyes.
“Well done,” the knight said again, then slid his sword off Christian’s and sheathed it.
Christian returned his own sword to its scabbard. As he did so, the ruby set in the hilt glinted in the light that slipped through the canopy of leaves. He frowned, only then realizing how much the sky had lightened since he and Sir Everard had entered the wood in the dark of earliest morn. And with that realization came another—Gaenor waited for him, though perhaps no longer.
How many hours had passed since Sir Everard had roused him from his bed and announced they would apply to the wood what had been taught in the darkened cellar? Two? Three? It had to be, and yet it had seemed hardly an hour, so intent had he been on tracking and engaging his opponent. Without the burdensome weight and din of chain mail, the exercise had been exhilarating—a contest of stealth, determination, and will that made him feel young and almost reckless.
“A Godsend,” Christian murmured, then said, “I thank you for preparing me for our meeting, but you need not worry I will be disappointed, nor that I will allow anything of the sort to reflect upon my face. I am resolved to this marriage, and not grudgingly. Thus, not only will our families have peace, but Lady Gaenor and I are certain to find a fit pleasing to us both.”
“I take comfort in that, Baron Lavonne.”
Christian looked past the knight and watched as yet another torch was extinguished. Two more and it might prove difficult to negotiate the floor that was fast filling with pages and squires. “Good eve, Sir Everard.”
By the light of the single torch set between two men-at-arms posted as sentries, Christian forged a path among the pallets and those sprawled upon them. Shortly, he climbed the stairs and strode the corridor to his chamber. At the door, he paused to consider the chapel that was set in the far bend of the corridor.
She would not be there now, but on the morrow…
CHAPTER SIX
H e had not come. He had said he would, but for more than an hour she had sat on the bench waiting for him. Had her eagerness to meet again frightened him away? Like her, he was also betrothed.
With an unutterable sense of loss, Gaenor looked to the altar as she rose to her feet. Though she knew she ought to be grateful the knight had not returned, for it was folly for them to continue to meet when her lot was already cast, resentment welled.
She looked heavenward. “You did this,” she whispered, only to squeeze her eyes closed and beg forgiveness. After all, if God was responsible, all He had done was remove temptation—and further heartache. It was for the best. And she must try to be grateful.
In her chamber abovestairs, she closed the door and considered what had become nearly her entire existence these past months. So still. So quiet. So alone. Silence that screamed.
Swallowing to keep emotion from her lips and eyes, she crossed to the bedside table and looked from the embroidered bodice begun too many months past, to the psalter that garnered the least of her attention, to the window that knew her best and from which she watched the days and nights slowly accumulate one atop the other.
She took a step toward the latter, only to turn back and snatch up her psalter. Surely a psalm would offer comfort from this restlessness…this roiling…this terrible yearning for something beyond her reach.
But it was not easy to find relief in the small book, for tucked inside the front cover was a folded piece of parchment that protruded just enough to make it impossible to ignore. She fingered its edges and once more vowed she would burn it. Soon.
“W ell done, Baron!”
Perspiration causing his tunic to cling shoulders to hips, Christian stared between met swords into Sir Everard’s eyes.
“Well done,” the knight said again, then slid his sword off Christian’s and sheathed it.
Christian returned his own sword to its scabbard. As he did so, the ruby set in the hilt glinted in the light that slipped through the canopy of leaves. He frowned, only then realizing how much the sky had lightened since he and Sir Everard had entered the wood in the dark of earliest morn. And with that realization came another—Gaenor waited for him, though perhaps no longer.
How many hours had passed since Sir Everard had roused him from his bed and announced they would apply to the wood what had been taught in the darkened cellar? Two? Three? It had to be, and yet it had seemed hardly an hour, so intent had he been on tracking and engaging his opponent. Without the burdensome weight and din of chain mail, the exercise had been exhilarating—a contest of stealth, determination, and will that made him feel young and almost reckless.
Similar Books
