The Brat(20)
Author: Lynsay Sands

Murie eyed all the men curiously, but couldn’t help noting that every single man turned toward their small procession with wide relieved grins and obvious welcome. Emilie had mentioned that Gaynor suffered under the plague, but the expressions on the faces of the men told her more than anything how bad things were and how much hope they were pinning on her. She decided then and there that she would not let them down. She would do all in her power to make things better for those here … and to keep their lord, her husband, safe.

Despite her annoyance with him, Murie had been pondering the matter of how to keep her husband safe as she rode in that horrible wagon. Someone had put a thistle under his saddle in the hope that he would fall from his mount and break his neck. When that had not worked, they had resorted to poisoning him, and only her inability to cook without picking at the food had saved him. Well, all right, she’d more than picked.

Anyway, someone wanted her husband dead, and she intended to find out who and why, and to stop them. She’d already started making a list of the things she would need to do to keep him alive; now she just needed to sort out a plan for catching the culprit.

Chapter Eleven

"Here we are."

Murie glanced around as her husband slid from the saddle and reached up to lift her down. Smiling at him as he set her on her feet in front of the stairs to the keep, she glanced around as people began to draw near. Most of them were men, as she’d noted, but now the keep doors were open, female faces peered out with excitement. Women began to hurry down the stairs, followed by two small boys and two men, one tall and slim, and one short and round.

"Who are these?" she asked Balan as she waited for the group to reach the foot of the stairs.

"The cook and steward," her husband answered. Murie nodded. Both men were wearing brown tunics made of very rough and heavy cloth, as were most of the people at Gaynor, but it didn’t take a genius to guess which was cook and which steward. Obviously, the round little man with the welcoming smile worked in the kitchens, and the tall, skinny, scowling man was the steward.

She blinked in surprise when Balan began introductions, and it turned out she was wrong:

"Wife, this is Clement, our cook," he announced, gesturing to the tall, skinny man.

Murie’s eyes widened in alarm. In her experience all cooks were short and round or tall and round or round and round. They were always round. They got that way from sampling their food, or so she’d always assumed; but this gentleman was tall and thin. So, either his food was terrible, or … She blinked as his name sank in. Clement? Didn’t that mean kind, or something? There was nothing the least bit kind-looking about him.

Well, this wasn’t very promising, she thought as she nodded politely, almost afraid to speak and give the man an excuse to be rude. He truly didn’t appear a very friendly sort.

"And this is Thibault. He is the steward here." Murie was almost as happy to turn her attention to the little man as he apparently was to receive it.

"Oh, my lady! You cannot know how happy we are to receive and welcome you into our small family. You bring hope to all of us. I pray you will be very happy here, indeed," he cried effusively, clasping her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

"And this is Gatty," Balan continued, gesturing to the oldest of the women present. "She has been my sister’s nursemaid since she was born."

"My lady," the woman murmured.

"And these are her daughters Estrelda and Livith. They are maids in the keep."

"My lady," the two dark-haired girls chorused, giving pretty little curtsies.

"And this is Gatty’s son, Frederick." A boy nodded and smiled shyly, eyes large in an elfin face.

"And this. . ." Balan stepped forward to catch the last little boy by the collar who’d tried to shrink behind Gatty. He pulled him out front, finishing, "Is my little sister Juliana." Murie stared wide-eyed at the child. Her hair had been hacked off quite viciously, and it hung in short, uneven clumps around her head. Her face was filthy, as was the rest of her, including her clothes, which were the same rough cloth everyone else here seemed to be wearing. There was nothing that could have told Murie she was a girl, though Murie still felt horrible for making the assumption.

Taking a breath, she managed a smile and held out her hand.

"How do you do, Juliana?"

The girl reacted like a trapped animal. With her brother and the others behind her, hemming her in, and Murie in front of her, her eyes darted left then right before settling on Murie with a sort of panic. She blurted, "Yer stupid and ugly, and I do not care if you like me. I hate you!" The girl then stomped on Murie’s foot and turned to run across the bailey as fast as her little legs would carry her.

"Juliana!" Balan roared furiously, even as he stepped forward to sweep Murie into his arms. Casting a scowl after the retreating child, he hurried up the stairs with Murie, his gaze concerned as he glanced at her. "Are you all right? Did she break anything?"

"Nay, of course not," Murie assured him, holding on for dear life as she was jostled in his arms by his jog up the stairs. "You need not carry me, husband. She merely stomped my toe."

"Aye," he muttered. "And I shall tan her bottom for it when she finds the courage to return."

"Nay," Murie said sharply, and kicked her feet now that he was carrying her into the keep. "Put me down, please."

"Not until we reach the table. I wish to examine your foot." Murie drew a breath for patience. Her foot was fine; a bit sore, but fine. The girl hadn’t stomped as hard as she might have, and Murie hated being fussed over.

At the speed Balan was moving, they reached the trestle table in moments, and he set her down in the head chair, then knelt to lift her skirt and remove her shoe.

"Husband, please. I am fine," she insisted, then sat back abruptly as she realized they were not alone. Osgoode, Cecily, Habbie, the servants and soldiers and even the wagon driver from Reynard were now crowded around them, most hunched forward, eyeing her toe with concern. The only one missing from within the walls was the young girl who had caused all this fuss. She was off alone somewhere in the bailey, no doubt weeping from fear of her brother’s retribution.

Putting aside the child for the moment, Murie felt a blush rise up her cheeks at so many eyes on her ankle and foot, and leaned down to hiss in a whisper, ‘You are showing my nak*d ankle and foot to everyone."

"What?" Balan asked absently.

"She says yer showing her nak*d ankle and foot to all," Habbie announced helpfully.

Balan glanced about with surprise, then promptly dropped her skirt and stood, forcing everyone to straighten away from them. He scowled at the gathering, then reached out to pat Murie’s shoulder. "I do not think ’tis broken."

"I did tell you that, my lord husband," Murie replied with a scowl.

"Aye, she did," Thibault agreed, eager to be of assistance.

"Outside, in front of the steps."

"Aye, well…" Balan frowned slightly and glanced around. "I shall leave you in Gatty’s capable hands. She shall give you a tour of Gaynor and explain how things work. I must get a reporting of what has occurred in my absence and see that all is well."

"Of course, husband," Murie said, managing a smile.

"If Juliana returns while I am gone, you just send her out to me, and I shall tend to her," he said as he started to turn away. Murie’s mouth tightened. "Husband?"

"Aye?" he turned back.

Terribly aware of the people surrounding them and of her desire to make a good impression, Murie forced a smile and said,

"Do you not think I should be the one to deal with Juliana?"

"Nay."

Her smile twisted into a scowl, but she forced it back into a smile. "I am sure you would agree that it would be better if I deal with her."

"Nay," he repeated.

"Husband," she tried again. "I am the injured party here, and I am now her sister and guardian. I should be the one to deal with the child."

"Nay."

"It is like talking to a boulder," she muttered to herself.

"Honestly, Emilie could have warned me he was as stubborn as a stone wall."

"Wife, I can hear you," he said dryly.

"So can we," Gatty spoke up, amusement sparking to life in her eyes.

Murie scowled at them all and suddenly announced, "I am quite overwrought. I think I shall cry.

Osgoode’s eyes widened in horror, remembering. He beseeched his cousin, "Balan, please, let Murie handle the girl."

"Aye," Thibault agreed. "We do not want the lass unhappy here."

"I am sure she will not hurt Juliana," Habbie added. Balan ignored them all, his gaze locked on Murie as he returned to stand before her. He froze, staring silently at her for the longest time, then asked, "How will you handle it?"

"I will not hurt her," Murie assured him with annoyance. "I shall simply talk to the child. Obviously she is very unhappy. She has been orphaned, like I myself was, and was terrified I would not like her or some similar thing. She responded out of fear. I will just reassure her and … talk to her," she ended helplessly. Balan was silent for another moment, then bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. At least, it started lightly, but when Murie instinctively let her mouth open he couldn’t seem to resist deepening it, if only briefly. As he ended the kiss, he whispered,

"You are too soft."

Murie scowled at the claim as he straightened.

"I shall allow you to handle her this time," he announced, ignoring her expression. "But you may tell her from me that if she does something like that again, I shall deal with her immediately  – and much more firmly than you."

Murie smiled widely. "Thank you, husband."

Nodding, he started to turn away, then turned back to add,

"And Murie?"

"Aye?"

"You are very bad at pretending to sob. Even the king said so." Apparently satisfied by the stunned look on her face, he turned and marched to the keep doors.

"I think I shall join Balan." Osgoode excused himself with a smile, then turned to follow his cousin.

Balan reached the keep’s main doors, paused and turned back with a scowl. "Anselm, I am wanting an accounting," he said.

"Oh, aye, my lord." A soldier broke away from several others and hurried after Balan, who had turned and marched out of the keep. At the door, he also paused and scowled. "Are the walls to be left unmanned?" he said.

Murmuring amongst themselves, most of the soldiers who’d swarmed inside with them stepped reluctantly away and began to make their way after Anselm.

Murie glanced around almost expectantly, but no one else made a move to leave. It seemed that none of the others felt any great need to get back to whatever they had been doing. Instead, they stood there smiling as if she were a performing jester about to tell a joke or juggle something.

"Yer the king’s goddaughter," Frederick said suddenly into the silence, only to be cuffed by his mother.

"Yer not to speak ’til yer spoken to," Gatty reminded.

"Nay, ’tis all right," Murie said quickly, and she offered a smile to the boy before saying, "Aye, I am. How did you know that?"

"Lord Aldous and his party stopped here on their way home and told us," the boy said, his chest puffing up with importance.

"He said Lord Balan had married the spoiled, sobbing goddaughter of the king known as the Brat and should have been home with her by now. He was wondering if something had happened to slow down your party."

Murie managed not to react to Malculinus’s unpleasant description and once again thought she was most fortunate she had not married the man.

" ‘Tis sorry I am, my lady," Gatty murmured, catching her son by the ear and dragging him backward. "He should not have repeated what Lord Aldous said."

"Nay, ’tis all right," Murie said, and sank thoughtfully back into her chair. So, Aldous wondered if something had happened to slow down their party? As far as she’d known, Lauda and Malculinus were still at court. Glancing at the people surrounding her, she asked, "When were they here?"

"Nearly a week ago," Clement answered.

"They must have left on our heels. They would have had to, to reach here a week ago. We were at Reynard a week."

"So, you simply stopped to visit Reynard? There was nothing that happened to slow you down?" Gatty sounded relieved and explained, "We were all growing quite worried as the days drew on."

"As it happens," Cecily said, drawing everyone’s attention from her mistress. "Lord Gaynor was nearly killed twice on the journey from court, and my lady once. In fact, if not for my lady, Lord Gaynor would most like be dead. Someone poisoned his meat, you see, but she ate half of it and thereby saved his life. She nearly died herself. She was unconscious and delirious the entire week we were at Reynard."

Murie flushed as everyone peered at her wide-eyed. Really, Cecily could have kept the exact method of how she’d saved Balan’s life to herself and allowed the staff to draw their own conclusions. There wasn’t much less flattering than the truth. Realizing that a curious silence had fallen over those around her, Murie glanced about to see everyone staring at Cecily.

"Oh dear!" She stood and moved to her maid’s side, her expression apologetic. "I am sorry, Cecily. You should have been introduced as well. Everyone, this is my maid, Cecily. She accompanied me to court as a child and has been with me these past ten years."

There were murmurs of greeting all around, and Thibault stepped forward, wringing his hands nervously. "Is it true, my lady? Did someone try to kill you and his lordship?" Murie hesitated. Balan had not seen fit to inform his people of what had happened on the journey out, and she did pause to wonder if she herself should, or leave it in his hands. It did seem that the cat was rather out of the bag already, thanks to Cecily’s comments. And besides, it was probably prudent to keep the people informed as to what was going on so that they might keep an eye out for trouble and help keep Balan safe until Murie could find the culprit.