“Will you give me your word that you’ll not interfere?”
Again Kiernan nodded.
“Then leave them be and go to sleep.” He patted his son on the shoulder, wishing he could always keep him safe. “If Constance wants our help, I’m sure she’ll ask for it.”
Kiernan dutifully disrobed, washed and got into bed.
But he did not sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CONSTANCE GLANCED UP FROM HER embroidery at Beatrice seated across from her, working on an altar cloth in a most desultory manner. At the rate she was going, it wouldn’t be finished before the Second Coming, even though she’d been silent since sitting down.
“I know you’re disappointed that we couldn’t join the hunt, Beatrice,” Constance said, trying to sound sympathetic although she was, in truth, relived. It had been very difficult avoiding Kiernan since that disastrous encounter in the chapel, but avoid him she must. Did he think Merrick was blind or stupid? Did he truly not appreciate the trouble he could cause her if Merrick suspected his aim, or did he simply, selfishly, not care? “It really is far too muddy for us to ride out. You’ll have other opportunities, I’m sure. We’ll need plenty of game for the wedding feast.”
Which would be in a se’nnight.
A se’ennight, and she would have to choose if she would marry the lord of Tregellas or refuse him. To think that decision had once seemed so easy, it could hardly be called a decision at all.
Beatrice sighed as if life were really too tragic and regarded her cousin with a melancholy expression. “If only it hadn’t rained last night.”
“It’s Cornwall,” Constance replied with a rueful smile. “And it’s cleared up. If it stays nice, perhaps we can ride out later in the afternoon. Now come, tell me a story while we work. Or is there some news you’ve heard from the servants?”
Constance wasn’t above listening to gossip. For one thing, it was part of her responsibility to know what was going on among the servants and their guests. For another, it was entertaining, even if she had to try to separate fact from fancy, especially when Beatrice was the source.
Beatrice put down her needle and thought a moment. “Well, Eric is determined to ask Merrick for permission to marry Annice at the next hall moot.”
“There’s nothing new in that, is there?”
Beatrice’s eyes began to sparkle. “Some of the women think he was going to wait a bit longer. There’s been talk of another girl in Truro who’s caught his eye. But then Annice was made Queen of the May. Apparently that encouraged Eric not to delay.”
Constance frowned.
“Oh, not that he’s worried about Merrick. No, no, the women are all much more confident he’s not going to be like that. It’s just that some of them think Eric was, well, taking his own sweet time about it and now he’s realized he’d better not delay, or someone else may come a-wooing.”
“Annice must be pleased.”
Beatrice picked up her needle and threaded it with a piece of emerald-green silk. “I suppose so, although I heard that she’s been acting quite aloof lately. Some wonder if being Queen of the May has gone to her head.”
Constance was surprised to hear that. “I didn’t think she was particularly vain.”
“Neither did I, so it’s probably just jealous tongues wagging.” Beatrice stuck her needle in her work again and leaned closer. “There’s something else, about Sir Henry. I think he’s got a mistress in London.”
Constance stared at her incredulously. “Did he tell you that?”
“Of course not!” Beatrice grinned with pride. “I figured it out myself, from things he’s said.”
This being Beatrice, that could mean Henry had merely mentioned a woman who lived in London.
“I think you were absolutely right about him, Constance. He’s just a charming cad, and no woman should trust a word he says. I could never care for a man who kept a mistress.”
Whether Sir Henry had a mistress or not, Constance didn’t care. She was simply relieved Beatrice suspected such a person’s existence. That should prevent her from making a mistake that could end in shame and ruin.
“I don’t think Sir Ranulf has a mistress,” Beatrice mused aloud. “I’m sure he’s suffering from a broken heart.”
Constance thought it unlikely that the sardonic Ranulf would admit that, if it were true. “What makes you say that?”
Beatrice shrugged, but her eyes shone with certainty. “What else could make a man so cynical about love? He actually said he thinks the tales of King Arthur and his knights are ridiculous!”
