When Beatrice arrived at the lord’s bedchamber, Merrick was seated with his left leg propped on a stool as he perused a scroll in his hand. Constance sat on a cushioned chair beside him, holding their son in her arms. There was concern on her features, and Merrick was scowling.
But then, he’d been scowling nearly continuously since he’d broken his leg.
Beatrice put a smile on her face and tried to act as if she’d just happened to come by because she hadn’t confided her greatest hope to Constance yet, either. Although Ranulf was Merrick’s trusted friend, Constance might not entirely welcome a marriage between her cousin and her husband’s brother-in-arms. Ranulf was more than ten years older than she, for one thing, and, worse, landless. Constance might think she should aim for a richer or more powerful husband, unwilling to accept that her cousin was not the matrimonial prize Constance, with her sisterly love, believed her to be.
“Good morning, Constance. Merrick,” Beatrice said brightly after knocking on the frame of the door to announce her arrival. “A fine day, isn’t it? Spring is surely on its way. I believe I could find some early blooms if I went out walking today, and the air smells so fresh and lovely—well, except if you wander too close to the pigsty.” She held out her hands for little Peder. “May I hold him?”
Constance nodded and Beatrice took the infant in her arms. “And good morning to you, little man,” she murmured as she tickled the baby under his dimpled chin.
“We’ve had another letter from Ranulf,” Constance said, nodding at her husband, who was still reading and still scowling.
“Oh, indeed?” Beatrice replied as if this was news to her, loosening her hold when Peder squirmed in protest. “I trust all is well.”
Merrick shifted, easing his foot into a slightly different position. “There’s nothing Ranulf cannot deal with,” the lord of Tregellas replied, and in such a tone, Beatrice surmised it would be useless to press him further. Perhaps later she could speak to Constance alone, and her cousin would be more forthcoming.
“I hope your leg isn’t bothering you too much, my lord,” she said.
He made a sour face and grunted as he shifted again. “No.”
His wife frowned. “There’s no need to be rude to Beatrice,” she said. Her expression changed to one of sympathy. “You’ll be up and about eventually, my love, but until then, you should perhaps consider this a just punishment for overindulgence in wine.”
Her husband’s only answer was another muted grunt as he set the letter on the table beside his chair.
“Your leg’s healing very nicely, the apothecary says, so it would be a shame if you were to injure it again,” his wife noted.
The baby started to whimper and Merrick held out his hands. “Let me hold my son while you two gossip.”
In spite of the glower that accompanied his words, his tone was more conciliatory than annoyed.
Beatrice gave him the baby, which he took in his powerful hands as gently as if Peder were made of crystal. Meanwhile, Constance rose and gestured for Beatrice to follow her. “We two cangossipbetter over here by the window, where our talk won’t disturb the menfolk.”
She paused a moment and looked back at her husband. “May Beatrice read Ranulf’s letter herself? Her reading’s come along very well these past few months, but a little practice wouldn’t hurt.”
Merrick shrugged. “I see no reason to keep the contents secret.”
Beatrice couldn’t keep the joy from her features as she retrieved the scroll from the table, and she silently blessed Constance for teaching her to read and write. Her father had considered it a waste of time to teach noblewomen anything except the words and simple arithmetic necessary to keep tally on the household expenses.
“If there’s a word you don’t understand, please ask. I shall sit here by the window in the sun and enjoy doing nothing,” Constance said as Beatrice sank down into another chair by thewindow, where the light fell upon the parchment and the writing that was like Ranulf himself—upright and firm.
“Greetings to my lord Merrick and his most gracious lady,” she read, hearing his deep, smooth voice as clearly as if he were speaking in her ear. “I have nothing new to report since my first letter. I continue to attempt to make some progress with the villagers with the help of Hedyn, who justifies his position daily. Unfortunately, despite my obvious charm and friendly…
“What is this word?” she asked, pointing it out to Constance.
“Overtures.”
“Ah,” Beatrice sighed as she returned to reading.
“Despite my obvious charm and friendly overtures, the villagers appear reluctant to discuss much beyond the measure of the daily catch with their new castellan. Nevertheless, I shall continue to investigate the matter of Gawan’s death until I am either satisfied it was an accident, or convinced it was not, and if it was not, bring the guilty to justice.”
Puzzled, Beatrice looked up at Constance. “Who’s Gawan? How did he die? Why does Ranulf suspect he was murdered?”
“Gawan was a fisherman,” Constance explained. “He was found dead on the shore the day Ranulf arrived, apparently drowned. The sheriff has some doubts about whether it was an accident, since nothing of the poor man’s boat has been recovered.”
“It may have been an accident, though, as the man had set sail alone two days before,” Merrick interposed. “Ranulf will find out the truth.”
“Yes, yes, he will,” Beatrice said, returning to the letter, now held in hands no longer quite steady. Things were not nearly as peaceful at Penterwell as she’d believed although, she told herself, the castellan had the protection of his garrison, so he would surely not be in any danger.
“In the meantime, I must petition you for some funds and, if you can spare them, a mason or two. Due to some personal concerns, Frioc has let several portions of the castle defenses fall into disrepair. They should be fixed as soon as possible, or I fear the place may collapse about me. I suggest, my lord, that you journey here for a day or so to confer on what should be done, and what first.
