“Oh, the revenue,” Bartholomew mused, interrupting the baron. “One thinks often of the cost of hosting such a venture, but one must expend coin to earn it.”
“Truly?” Anna prompted.
He beamed at her. “I have never told you, my lady, of the coin that flows into the coffers of those barons who host tournaments. It is true that the events come with expenses, for there must be feasting and there must be wine, and there must be ransoms paid, but the bounty that is earned in taxes and wagers. I knew a lord who hosted a tournament, invited all the best knights, then put a high toll on all roads leading to his gates from his borders.” Bartholomew laughed. “He told me he had earned tenfold the cost of the event before it even began! Can you imagine? Tenfold!” He paused before the portal to their chamber and wagged a finger at the very interested baron. “And his repute!” Bartholomew gave a low whistle. “The bards sang of him. The ladies yearned for him. The knights honored him. The king favored him. Truly, there was naught he could do wrong. ’Twas clever beyond all.” He leaned closer to Royce, his manner confidential. “When I have a holding, you may be certain that I will host such a tournament, for I know it would be a sound venture.”
Royce frowned in consideration of this. “My wife might enjoy it,” he allowed.
“Indeed, she might.” Bartholomew smiled down at Anna. “And now, my lady wife, your duties are done by God but not by husband.” He winked lewdly at her. “To bed! Good night to you, Sir Royce.” He swept Anna into the chamber, only to be greeted by Cenric. He leaned back against the door for a moment and dared to meet Anna’s gaze.
She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eyes. “I have never known you to be so fulsome, my lord,” she whispered, then reached up to touch her lips to his cheek. The press of their softness against his skin sent a surge of heat through him and made his heart pound.
“Well done,” she whispered, her eyes glowing. “Thank you.”
Before Bartholomew could savor her rare approval, Anna pivoted and walked toward Leila. “Dare I hope the water is yet warm? It was always cold when I lived with the sisters, but truly, husband, I grow spoiled in your company.” She sat on a stool and unfastened her stockings, as if he were not watching her with such interest.
But then Anna lifted the hem of her kirtle and granted him a fine if fleeting glimpse of her legs. It must have been unwitting, for her gaze flew to his in sudden dismay. Their gazes met and held, and a bewitching flush rose over her cheeks. She untied the garter and removed the stocking with haste, then smoothed down her kirtle to hide her legs again. She turned her back upon him so abruptly that he wondered whether her fears of men—of knights—were restored.
The bedwascurtained. They could draw the drapes and make a great deal of noise, as if vigorously making love. It was the sole way to keep from offending Lady Marie, Bartholomew reasoned, for then he could argue that his wife had exhausted him.
The trick would lie in convincing Anna to cooperate. It would have been untrue to say that he had no desire to lie with her, because he did, but he knew what was right and what was not. He could not touch Anna in that way. He had given his word.
But that did not mean that Marie had to know the truth.
Were they being watched even now?
Had Royce gone to his wife or retired alone?
There was a rap at the door, and he found Timothy on the threshold. The squire bowed and entered the chamber, for he had come to help Bartholomew disrobe. All set to the business of making ready for bed, although Bartholomew’s thoughts were spinning.
There would be little slumber this night and a hard race on the morrow to escape.
And what then? If they succeeded, would he ever see Anna again? Or would their paths part forever? If naught else, he wanted to leave her with one good memory of a knight.
And he had this night together to grant it to her.
*
Father Ignatius had learned long ago to keep his counsel when he was uncertain of his situation. Prudence was a necessary trait for any who would survive in this holding when it was under Sir Royce’s command.
Indeed, Father Ignatius’ nature was such that he could weigh the merit of two competing possibilities for months on end, if not years. He preferred to make as few decisions as possible, and ignored the conviction that doing naughtwasa choice in itself.
Truly, the only thing Father Ignatius had ever known without doubt was that he should take holy orders.
He had, for example, been troubled for years by the departure of so many from the village of Haynesdale. That they were compelled to take to the forest and live like outlaws, when few of them had committed any crimes worthy of such a punishment, would have been of sufficient concern. That he, by remaining in the village, was losing the flock he had been charged to tend was even more troubling. There were days when he thought he should follow the survivors into the woods, seek them out, and ensure that they were provided with the services of his office. He knew there had to be some of them out there, even after the great fire.
Father Ignatius knew however that if he did as much, he would be in violation of the baron’s express orders to forget their existence. There would be no return to his home and hearth, even if he went once. This might have been one thing, but he in his role as village priest was responsible for the tithes being submitted on time from Haynesdale. He feared that Sir Royce would simply add the tithes to his own treasury, for that man had offered several times to do as much.
Caught between the tending of his flock and the defense of tithes owing to the church, Father Ignatius was not certain what to do. He believed that the ultimate administrator would value souls over tithes, but he was far less certain of the bishop’s preference. So, he lingered, and he debated, and he did not choose.
And now, here was Anna, the smith’s daughter, in Sir Royce’s private chapel, dressed as a noblewoman and apparently wed to a French knight. He would have given the young woman the benefit of the doubt, for she was pretty and he had not had tidings of her for two years—indeed, he had feared her dead, as had many others—but Sir Royce’s comments revealed that he believed her to be Anna de Beaumonte.
She was no more Anna de Beaumonte than he was the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Father Ignatius said nothing, because he did not know what to do. He had wondered whether the arrival of these knights had any connection to the sudden appearance of this remarkable relic in Sir Royce’s collection. Both the knights and the reliquary seemed exotic, too exotic for Haynesdale. He had shown it to the lady because he had thought she might know something of it.
She had seemed to be hinting.
But he had been so surprised to recognize Anna that he had failed to notice much else. In mere moments, he had been left alone with the reliquary to lock it away, while the knight and Sir Royce left with Anna.
