The declaration was so ludicrous that Leonie’s anger fled. “Yourfault? How is that possible, Mildred?”
The older woman’s gaze fell away as she whispered, “I—I was the one who told my lord that you lived at Pershwick.” She faltered, then confessed, “It was then he decided to marry you so he could have Pershwick under his control. I am so sorry, my lady. I would never have caused you grief on purpose.”
The poor woman looked so miserable. “You blame yourself for no reason, Mildred. My husband would have learned what he wanted to know from someone else, if you hadn’t told him. I am the one who caused his attention to be drawn to Pershwick in the first place.”
“But he did not know you lived there until I mentioned it. He was terribly angry to learn that a woman was responsible for his troubles.”
“No doubt,” Leonie said dryly. “But I was responsible, so I have only myself to blame for being here now. Think no more about it, Mildred, you are not to blame.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mildred replied reluctantly. “But I will pray for you that my lord Rolfe’s temper does not rise again, as it did on your wedding night.”
Leonie blushed, assuming Mildred was referring to her stabbing Rolfe. “I hope you told no one what you saw that night, Mildred.”
“I would never carry tales, my lady, nor would Edlyn. But everyone knows what he did to you. I did not think my lord was a cruel man—hot-tempered, but not cruel. Why, any man who would beat his wife only a few hours after their wedding—”
“What?”
Mildred looked around quickly, hoping no one was listening, but the others only glanced up, then looked away again.
“My lady, please, I did not mean to upset you,” Mildred whispered.
“Who told you my husband beat me?” Leonie hissed.
“Lady Roese saw you the next morning, and she told Lady Bertha, and—”
“Enough! Sweet Mary, doesheknow what is being said about him?”
“I do not think so, my lady. You see, only the women insist my lord Rolfe did it, though none are brave enough to speak to him about it. The men swear beating a woman is not in his nature, and the disagreement has caused many arguments. John blackened the eye of his wife, and Jugge flung a bowl of stew at her husband. Lady Bertha is not speaking to her husband after the tongue-lashing he gave her, so now he brings her gifts to try and sweeten her temper.”
Stunned and embarrassed, Leonie said, “Sir Rolfe did not beat me, Mildred. If you recall, I wore a heavy veil when I came here. Do you know why?”
“A rash.”
“There was no rash, Mildred. That was a lie, made up…never mind why. My father had me beaten because I refused to marry.”
“Then—”
“My husband is being blamed for something he did not do! I won’t have it. Hear me well, Mildred. I want you to see to it that the truth is known. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lady,” Mildred assured her, considerably surprised by the revelation.
Leonie left her then, too mortified to stay in Mildred’s company. She needed a little time alone.
What, she was wondering, would Rolfe say if he knew what was being gossiped about him? Would he find a way to blame his wife for the unfair talk making its rounds among his people?
Chapter 23
AT dawn, the camp outside the walls of Wroth Keep was quiet. Dreams of victory had followed the men into sleep. The watch reported hourly to Thorpe de la Mare, but the news he was expecting had still not been sent. The camp stirred and came to life just after dawn, but there was little to do. Most of the preparations had been made the night before, so the men waited for word, talking among themselves and getting restless.
At midmorning, Thorpe approached Rolfe inside his large tent.
“It appears the plan has worked. There is so little activity on the walls that they seem deserted.”
Thorpe said it so grudgingly that Rolfe laughed. “You were hoping for different news?”
“I still do not believe your wife would help you.”
“I told you, she wants to spare lives, both ours and those inside Wroth.”
