Holiday Defenders. Debby Giusti

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      Chapter Eight

      Gastonbury must be a place of enchantment, Rosamund thought. It had done the impossible.

      She had forgotten.

      Life seemed to have been given to her anew and her past…her past was somehow irrelevant. Comfortable and safe this last fortnight, she hardly recognized herself any longer.

      For the first time, she knew deep contentment and she was happy.

      In the ladies’ solar with Alayna one afternoon, she sat on the floor with Leanna, who was just shy of her second year and as placid and pleasant as her brother, Aric, was brash. Lucien and Alayna’s second child was doted on by her parents, and was her grandmother’s delight. Veronica sat on a cushioned chair, smiling indulgently as her granddaughter built tiny towers with the colored blocks Rosamund handed her.

      “She is an angel,” Veronica mused. “Though I am sure I do not know from where she gets it. Her mother was a handful, always tearing in my embroidery basket and unraveling my loom. She never sat still, not for an instant, that one. As for her father, I have little doubt he was a full-fledged terror.”

      Rosamund stayed wisely silent. Her own opinion of Lucien was hardly flattering. The fearsome lord of Gastonbury’s visage set her to quaking even now, a full month after being welcomed to his home.

      Veronica continued, “I shall have to ask his mother when next she visits. She comes every Easter, a week as uneasy as you are like to find in this castle. The rest of the year she spends in a convent.”

      “How odd.” Rosamund looked up at Veronica. “Why is it she only comes for such a short time? Is she unpleasant?”

      “Not at all. She is very polite, but a bit cold. When one understands her past, one can see why. She made many mistakes in her life. What a wretched fate it is to have to live with the fruits of one’s labors when they are fraught with mistakes and folly. Ah, Rosamund, when you are old like she and I, and realize much of your life is behind you…sometimes it weighs heavy on you.”

      Rosamund’s brows rose. “Surely you have no regrets, my lady.”

      “Regrets? Nay, not exactly. Yet we all have things we would do differently. Say what was in our heart more often. Perhaps not have bothered with a quarrel.”

      “You think of your husband. Do you still miss him?”

      Veronica smiled slightly. “Oh, aye. And I always shall. He was a great, great man. I loved him.” She shook her head and let the matter drop.

      “I lost a brother when I was ten. He took ill and passed away. And, of course, I shall always miss my mother,” Rosamund said quietly. “’Tis a very sad thing to lose someone you love so much.”

      Veronica placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Of course ’tis so, child.”

      It was an invitation, such a gentle segue for Rosamund to confide in her. And strangely, Rosamund found she wanted to.

      “I was only twelve when she died. The night it happened, she came into my room and sat by my bed. I was sleepy, not yet dreaming but not awake, either. I felt her hand on my brow, brushing away my hair as she often did. Her touch was always cool and soothing. She wished me pleasant dreams, just as she did every night. She said good-night.” And something else. Something she couldn’t quite remember; didn’t want to remember. It was always there in her dreams, the unknown…the threat of what she might recall if she thought long enough….

      “Rosamund, dear, do not speak of it if it troubles you.”

      “Nay, ’tis not difficult.”

      “Of course it is. But sometimes memories are like poisons in an old injury. They fester if we don’t lance the wound. As painful as that is, it is the only way we can heal it.”

      Yes. It was like that. Poison inside, eating at her.

      “She died from a fall from the ramparts. She must have gone up to gaze at the night sky. She sometimes did that, when her mind was restless. Somehow, she leaned too far out and fell.” Or was pushed. Rosamund studied her hands, clasped together. The knuckles were white. “I do not suppose I will ever know what happened.”

      Liar.

      “Poor child.” Veronica leaned forward and clasped Rosamund’s locked hands in hers, stroking them until the tension eased.

      Rosamund bowed her head, fighting the tide of emotion. Her eyes were squeezed tight. Wetness spiked her lashes, making them hot against her cheeks. She could cry right now, if she would let herself. She could weep for ages.

      She pulled her hands away with a deep, halting breath. “Thank you, my lady. You are kind to indulge me.”

      Veronica smiled, reaching out to touch her fingers to Rosamund’s forehead, smoothing aside a twisted tendril. “You may find there are more words after these have settled. When they come, seek me out, child. Sit at my knee and I shall listen.”

      Rosamund only nodded. Leanna toppled another tower and the two of them turned their attention back to the pretty babe.

      Lucien sat by the corner hearth in the hall, clutching a pewter cup in both his hands. Agravar sat on a stool, hunching toward the cold grate, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limp.

      “You look like hell,” Lucien said, and drank. “Did the trio of trollops finally get their hands on you?”

      “Who? Oh, those three. God, is there no way you can banish them or something?”

      “Can’t do it. They’ve committed no crime. We’ve had common law in England for two kings now.” He took another drink.

      “Is Alayna in bad spirits?”

      “She’s…she’s weeping. I have no idea why. I do not think she has any idea why. I think…” He stopped, clenching his teeth until the tick showed in his temple. His next words were whispered. “Something is wrong, Agravar. She was never like this before. Something ails her and it goes beyond the babe inside her.”

      “The barber and the midwife have both pronounced her well, you told me so yourself.”

      “’Tis not right. I feel it.”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ