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His brother had asked that morn if he still intended on the original plan or if he would be accompanying him to Bristol Manor. Haydn had told him then, and repeated himself now. “You and Isaac are to escort Phillipa to Hillstone Manor and then head to Kenshire to tell them the deed is done.”
“The deed.” Holt was definitely not going to let this one go. “Phillipa is a ‘deed’ now?”
A hawk’s cry drew their attention. Haydn watched him soar, the sky blue and cloudless today. At least the weather was with them. “What do you want me to say, Holt?”
His brother’s characteristic grin was nowhere to be found. “I want you to tell me what happened. I thought things were different between you.”
Haydn had thought so too. Despite himself, he glanced back, but Phillipa was with the men around the bend so he could hear, but not see, them. “She was writing a letter,” he ground out, knowing Holt would not rest until he explained. “A letter to her father, that he bade her send, reporting on what she knows.”
That quieted his brother. For a time at least. The road, paved in places with stone, afforded them an easier ride but more opportunity for trouble. As a merchant approached, Haydn nodded in greeting. The man sat at the front of his wagon with a young boy as his companion. A son, no doubt.
He ignored the pang in his chest at the thought that Phillipa could, even now, be carrying their child. One he would gladly welcome but who would grow up very differently than he and his siblings. Cursing King Edward, a daily ritual now, he slowed his mount, waiting for the merchant to pass the others. When the wagon creaked by Phillipa and the men without incident, Haydn spun in his saddle and rode forward.
But not before seeing her. Phillipa looked precisely how he felt.
“What did she tell him?” Holt asked as they rode forward once again.
He paused. “I didn’t see the letter,” Haydn admitted.
“You didn’t see it?”
He stared straight ahead. “No.”
“What did she say was in the letter?”
Haydn did not want to do this. “Holt, she admitted her father asked her to write. He and the king hold her sister’s future as collateral. What do you think was in there?” Thankfully they’d been careful not to reveal much. She didn’t know about Rory or, Lord forbid it, Galien. Uncle Torr’s son would be the first to be arrested with Wallace if the man was still indeed lurking around the borders.
“Do you truly believe Sherfield would sabotage his daughter’s future to punish Phillipa?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
“To be clear, brother, your wife did not admit to sending sensitive information to her father.”
“Nay, she did not.”
“But you would condemn her as if she’d done so?”
He was going to say this once, and once only. “She was writing a letter. To her father, the closest advisor to King Edward at present and a man who cares nothing for his own offspring. Influence. Money. Power. Yes. Phillipa and Catherine? Nay. We never had a chance. So leave off, Holt.”
Riding ahead, Haydn prayed his brother would not join him. After a time, it became clear he was alone with his own thoughts. He only stopped when the very place he’d been dreading came into view. An old granite obelisk marked the spot where the two roads diverged.
Halting, Haydn turned to wait for the others. As they joined him, there was only one face he watched. She did not shy away from staring straight at him but, as she’d done in the beginning, Phillipa said nothing.
Haydn wanted her to rail at him. To insist that she would never betray him, or his family. To refuse to go to Hillstone, indignant at the very idea. Instead, resigned, she waited for him to give her and the men instructions.
And so he did.
“This is where we part ways. Holt and Isaac will escort you to Hillside Manor, my lady. Your lady’s maid and belongings should provide some measure of comfort, and Holt will introduce you to the staff there.” Even to his own ears, the words, though kindly stated, sounded harsh. Disconnected.
Her chin lifted, but still, his beautiful, passionate wife said nothing. So he turned to Holt.
“Keep her safe, brother. Godspeed. I shall see you at Kenshire.”
He’d been witness to many deaths, both in battle, and in his own family. Kenshire’s steward, Peter, who he’d loved like a second father. His uncle. Too many others, gone too soon. But not once had Haydn shed a tear. He had never witnessed his father crying and so he assumed he should never do so either.
Which was why, as he rode away after one last look at her face, Haydn was so surprised to feel his throat tighten. He squeezed his eyes shut, thankful Hamon was behind him. Regaining control, he took a series of deep breaths, vowing not to play the vision of her stricken expression over and over in his mind. Instead, he replaced it with a vision of his mother in their garden at Kenshire. With Haddie standing atop the wall walk, watching waves crash onto the shore in the distance. With he and Hugh jesting good-naturedly in the training yard. Of his father and he and Holt hunting.
They would not lose Kenshire to the king’s whims. Bristol Manor and its inhabitants would not be targeted for housing traitors. The passage would remain open and safe, despite the war raging around them.
