Page 29 of Bold Angel
“Aye, my lord. ’Twill be my pleasure to see it done.” Climbing up on the bed, she opened her arms and her thighs in welcome.
Yet even as Ral drove into her, it was the tiny maid with the fiery dark hair that he wanted. It was the wench who was his wife he took again and again through the long bitter hours of his wedding night.
Chapter Seven
Caryn moved listlessly, stopping in the solar though she knew it would be empty, passing along the narrow, rush-lit halls.
She had never felt lonely in Braxston Keep. There were too many familiar faces. Servants who had once been loyal to her father, Richard and Marta, and new friends she had made. Like the young squire, Etienne, who, on discovering their mutual love of horses, had finally forgiven her for duping him into helping her run away.
She glanced at the people on the floor of the great hall below her. She had never felt lonely, but she felt lonely now, and had since the morning after her wedding. The morning Marta and the others had come into her room, found the bloody sheets but discovered their lord was gone.
His whereabouts had been discovered and word quickly spread. Now there was an uneasy stirring in the hall whenever she was near, a sense of condemnation, as if she had somehow failed them when she had failed their lord.
That was the way they all saw it: The Saxon maid he had taken to wife had fallen so short of the mark he was forced to return to his leman. It angered her they should stand with Ral instead of her, since most of them wereSaxon. How could they side with the savage Norman warlord?
Yet the fault was partly her own. Save for Marta, no one knew of the Dark Knight’s presence that night three years past. The night of the rapine of her sister. Though most had heard stories of the soldiers’ vicious attack, they knew little about it. In truth, neither did Caryn.
She had been badly beaten that night, had only been conscious part of the time. And she didn’t like to remember; at the convent, she had been forbidden even to discuss it.
Still, she would never forget the dark Norman’s face above her own battered features, his hard gray eyes piercing as she slid back into the yawning blackness. He hadn’t been among the first men-at-arms who had set upon them like feral hounds, but he had been among them at the last.
Mayhap if she told the tale, the others would understand. Mayhap they would turn against their powerful overlord and praise her for denying him her bed.
Mayhap they would, and yet…
Caryn sighed, knowing she would never repeat the story. As Marta had said, the war was past, and like the rest of the people at Braxston, her life was now tied to the castle and its lord. Hurting the Norman would only hurt her people and ultimately herself. In time, the others would accept the way it must be between her and the tall dark Norman.
Caryn only hoped she could accept it herself.
Her mind still in turmoil, Caryn made her way toward the door of the keep, anxious for a cleansing breath of air. She was almost there when a soft mewling sound caught her attention. Certain the noise had come from a narrow passage leading to a storeroom, she walked in that direction and stepped inside. In the corner behind a sack of grain, she discovered a litter of yellow-striped kittens, dear little things, so tiny each could have nestled in the palmof her hand. When she crouched beside them to stroke their fluffy fur, one began to suckle the edge of her thumb.
Caryn laughed softly. “’Twould seem, little ones, that you are hungry. Poor wee babes. Where is your mother?” A noise above her in the corridor drew her attention from the mewling balls of fur. The tall Norman’s presence squeezed a tightness in her chest.
“So at last I have found you. I was beginning to worry you had left us again.” There was censure in his voice and just a hint of concern. Except for meals and a few brief conversations, this was the first time her husband had sought her out since the wedding.
“The vows have been spoken. The time for running is past.” Brushing dust from her tunic, Caryn came to her feet.
“I am glad you understand that.” He extended his hand and she noticed he held a heavy ring of keys. “I have been remiss in not bringing these sooner.” He pressed the ring into her palm.
“What are they?” Caryn held up the heavy iron loop, inspecting each piece of well-oiled metal.
“Chatelain’s keys. They unlock the stores and all of the rooms in the keep. Did your mother not carry such keys?”
“Aye, but—” Caryn stared down at the keys, feeling a growing sense of panic. “I-I thought Richard acted as your chatelain.”
“You are my wife. The job is now yours.” He looked at her as if she should be pleased. Instead her stomach knotted.
“B-But Richard does such a splendid job. ’Twould surely not please him, should I interfere. ’Twould not be kind to hurt his feelings.”
“Richard knows the way of things. The keys are now yours.”
It was expected for a wife to manage the hall, even toact as seneschal—overseer of the lord’s affairs—should ever the need arise. But Caryn hadn’t the faintest notion how to go about it—nor did she want to learn.
She forced herself to smile. “Thank you, my lord.”
Unlike other highborn children, she had never been fostered to the home of a relative for training in wifely duties. After her mother had died, her father had meant to see it done, then he had died and the task was left to her uncle. But there was always Gweneth to see to, then the Normans had come and the war had begun.
And Caryn had never encouraged it. She hated women’s work, hated being cooped up indoors. Even now, as she stood beside the man who was her husband, she hoped for a day of riding, mayhap a trip into the village. The people in the castle might think she had somehow failed them, but there were others who would not deem it so. Villeins she had yet to visit, people she had known since her childhood.
