Hers to Desire. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
who was still reading and still scowling.
“Oh, indeed?” Beatrice replied as if this was news to her, loosening her hold when Peder squirmed in protest. “I trust all is well.”
Merrick shifted, easing his foot into a slightly different position. “There’s nothing Ranulf cannot deal with,” the lord of Tregellas replied, and in such a tone, Beatrice surmised it would be useless to press him further. Perhaps later she could speak to Constance alone, and her cousin would be more forthcoming.
“I hope your leg isn’t bothering you too much, my lord,” she said.
He made a sour face and grunted as he shifted again. “No.”
His wife frowned. “There’s no need to be rude to Beatrice,” she said. Her expression changed to one of sympathy. “You’ll be up and about eventually, my love, but until then, you should perhaps consider this a just punishment for overindulgence in wine.”
Her husband’s only answer was another muted grunt as he set the letter on the table beside his chair.
“Your leg’s healing very nicely, the apothecary says, so it would be a shame if you were to injure it again,” his wife noted.
The baby started to whimper and Merrick held out his hands. “Let me hold my son while you two gossip.”
In spite of the glower that accompanied his words, his tone was more conciliatory than annoyed.
Beatrice gave him the baby, which he took in his powerful hands as gently as if Peder were made of crystal. Meanwhile, Constance rose and gestured for Beatrice to follow her. “We two can gossip better over here by the window, where our talk won’t disturb the menfolk.”
She paused a moment and looked back at her husband. “May Beatrice read Ranulf’s letter herself? Her reading’s come along very well these past few months, but a little practice wouldn’t hurt.”
Merrick shrugged. “I see no reason to keep the contents secret.”
Beatrice couldn’t keep the joy from her features as she retrieved the scroll from the table, and she silently blessed Constance for teaching her to read and write. Her father had considered it a waste of time to teach noblewomen anything except the words and simple arithmetic necessary to keep tally on the household expenses.
“If there’s a word you don’t understand, please ask. I shall sit here by the window in the sun and enjoy doing nothing,” Constance said as Beatrice sank down into another chair by the window, where the light fell upon the parchment and the writing that was like Ranulf himself—upright and firm.
“Greetings to my lord Merrick and his most gracious lady,” she read, hearing his deep, smooth voice as clearly as if he were speaking in her ear. “I have nothing new to report since my first letter. I continue to attempt to make some progress with the villagers with the help of Hedyn, who justifies his position daily. Unfortunately, despite my obvious charm and friendly…
“What is this word?” she asked, pointing it out to Constance.
“Overtures.”
“Ah,” Beatrice sighed as she returned to reading.
“Despite my obvious charm and friendly overtures, the villagers appear reluctant to discuss much beyond the measure of the daily catch with their new castellan. Nevertheless, I shall continue to investigate the matter of Gawan’s death until I am either satisfied it was an accident, or convinced it was not, and if it was not, bring the guilty to justice.”
Puzzled, Beatrice looked up at Constance. “Who’s Gawan? How did he die? Why does Ranulf suspect he was murdered?”
“Gawan was a fisherman,” Constance explained. “He was found dead on the shore the day Ranulf arrived, apparently drowned. The sheriff has some doubts about whether it was an accident, since nothing of the poor man’s boat has been recovered.”
“It may have been an accident, though, as the man had set sail alone two days before,” Merrick interposed. “Ranulf will find out the truth.”
“Yes, yes, he will,” Beatrice said, returning to the letter, now held in hands no longer quite steady. Things were not nearly as peaceful at Penterwell as she’d believed although, she told herself, the castellan had the protection of his garrison, so he would surely not be in any danger.
“In the meantime, I must petition you for some funds and, if you can spare them, a mason or two. Due to some personal concerns, Frioc has let several portions of the castle defenses fall into disrepair. They should be fixed as soon as possible, or I fear the place may collapse about me. I suggest, my lord, that you journey here for a day or so to confer on what should be done, and what first.
“And perhaps, my most gracious and generous lord, as well as oldest friend—and thus I trust I have duly appealed to both your loyalty and such vanity as you possess—you could bring some provisions with you when you come, such as a few loaves of bread, some smoked meat, a wheel of cheese, and a cask or two of ale. I regret to say the food here is rather lacking, unless one likes fish, and until I can devote more time to hunting game, likely to remain so. Also, you might consider bringing your own bedding. What is here is adequate, but not as comfortable as Tregellas affords.”
Beatrice had a sudden vision of Ranulf huddled in a crumbling castle, wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket and lying on a pallet of fetid straw after a meal of watery stew made of rotten fish heads.
She jumped to her feet, the parchment falling to her feet unheeded. “You can’t let him live in squalor!”
Merrick raised a brow as little Peder, surprised and confused by her abrupt motion, burst into tears. “Squalor?” he repeated loudly enough to be heard above the baby’s cries. “I hardly think—”
“The household must have gone to rack and ruin after Sir Frioc’s leman left him,” Beatrice said, wringing her hands in dismay. “Especially if Ranulf’s busy trying to find out what happened to that Gawan.”
“How do you know about Sir Frioc’s leman?” Constance asked incredulously as she rose and went to take the baby from her husband.
“Demelza told me,” Beatrice replied, following her. “Her sister’s brother-in-law lives in Penterwell and she knows all about it. Apparently they quarreled because Sir Frioc wouldn’t offer her marriage. That must be why Ranulf comes home to terrible meals and filthy bedding—there’s no chatelaine to organize things.
“Oh, Constance, you must let me go to Penterwell,” she pleaded, equal parts appalled and determined to see that Ranulf didn’t suffer a moment longer than necessary. “I can take Ranulf some decent food and linen and you know I can ensure the servants mend their ways and the cook does better. Oh, please say you’ll let me go!”
Sitting beside Merrick, Constance lifted her baby from her husband’s arms and loosened her bodice in preparation to nurse him. “Beatrice, as much as I’d like—”
“You’ve been telling me what a fine job I’ve been doing helping you,” Beatrice persisted, going down on her knees beside Constance’s chair and gripping the arm.
Her vivid imagination had already gone from picturing Ranulf cold and hungry to Ranulf lying on his deathbed if she didn’t get to him, and soon. “I can make the servants listen to me—you know I can. And I can organize his household so that it can run smoothly for a time before anyone need return.”
She clasped her hands together, quite prepared to beg, for Ranulf’s sake, as her gaze flew from Constance to Merrick and back again. “Please, let me do this!”
A grim-faced Merrick shook his head. “No.”
Constance had once said her husband found it difficult to refuse a woman’s pleas, but he seemed to be finding it very easy at the moment. “That’s a fine way to repay your friend, letting him suffer when there’s someone at hand who can help him,” Beatrice declared as she scrambled to her feet.
Despite