A Lily on the Heath

But had she not suspected it all along? That Warwick had wed her out of pity and honor, and that ’twas Beatrice of Delbring who held his heart and interest?



She sank onto the bed, crossing her arms about her belly, nauseated and light-headed. She’d believed Warwick held her in such high esteem he took her to Lilyfare before even going to his own home, despite the fact that Judith’s estate was a longer journey from Clarendon…but now it made all the sense. For he meant to abandon her there and go to his lady love as soon as he could.



Nay, oh nay.



The words of the queen rose suddenly in her mind, tolling darkly like an insistent bell.“You may love your husband, but know if you do, ’tis naught but a curse….Pray that you must never look upon the woman your husband loves.”



Judith closed her eyes, hardly believing the sharp stabs of pain, the depth of the agony rolling through her body. How could I have come to care for him so much? So much that he has this power to hurt me so?



So much that even being at Lilyfare, being home and free of the queen, was no longer enough. She wanted Malcolm. All of him.



Your ever-faithful wife.



Over the last se’ennight, Malcolm had read those words countless times in the missive Judith had sent. What did that mean?



Likely it meant nothing; mere words. A dashed-off formality. But he could not cease from wondering. Worrying. Even hoping…that there was some sort of message therein.



And there was another line in the letter he stumbled over as well. And that you had an enjoyable visit at Delbring.



That had set him to scratching his head, seeking to read some other meaning therein. She’d already given him what he needed to know—that Eleanor had been the one behind the foiled abduction. But was there some other message he was missing? Why did she mention Delbring? He could almost hear the odd note in her tone, the discord in this out-of-place sentence.



And this, Mal told himself as he shoved the crinkled parchment into the depths of a trunk, was of such little import that he could hardly fathom giving it his attention. For matters at Warwick were grave enough that he needed spend no time gnawing over a few words from his wife.



Since arriving a fortnight ago, Malcolm had been faced with a myriad of difficult and unsettling decisions. What had seemed at first like a simple ague that took root in a cattle herd, had, by the time Mal arrived, spread from the cows to some of the people of Warwick, making them ill. Three villeins and one maid had already died.



Thus only yesterday had Malcolm made the difficult decision to send Violet to Lilyfare in hopes of keeping her safe from the bad humors.



“Poppy,” she’d said, looking up at him with guileless blue eyes. “You not coming wif me?”



His heart creaked as he scooped her up and bounced her energetically in his arms. She giggled and clutched at the top of his head as he said, “Nay, sweetling. But I will come along as soon as I can. Clara will keep good care of you, and you can ride in this nice little bed.” He showed her the cart he’d had prepared for her. “You can sleep all of the day or play with your beads. And think of all the sights you will see!”



“I never go away from Warrick,” she said. “I like my home.”



“I know,” he told her, patting down a fly-away blonde curl. “But think of all the sights on your journey. I will come as soon as I can, sweetling. And when I come to Lilyfare, I will introduce you to the great and beautiful lady there. She has hair of fire and is very kind. And she lets a large hawk sit upon her fist, like so.” He spoke easily and lightly, but deep inside, Malcolm felt uneasy.



What would loud, brisk Judith think of his daughter—this simple-minded, joyful little girl who would never attain full womanhood and who could never fully grasp the travails of life? Violet was sweet-tempered and kind, and though she would grow physically taller and curvier as young ladies did, she would never have the mental capacity to wed—and she certainly would never go to court. He would never allow it.



Therein lay part of his trepidation of sending her off without him. Mal had spent most of her childhood keeping Violet’s existence and simple-mindedness a secret outside of Warwick. The last thing he needed was some greedy, enterprising man to abduct his daughter and wed her in an effort to eventually gain control of Warwick and his other estates. Let alone what would happen to his sweet girl. She was only eight, but girls were betrothed and wed as early as ten or twelve, and he wanted to take no chances that anyone knew of this vulnerability—his or hers. And there were those who believed simple people like his daughter were cursed by the Devil, or were some sort of punishment for her parents’ actions. They looked in askance at them, and were often dismissive or even cruel.



And as much as he’d come to enjoy Judith’s company—her conversations, her opinions, even her jests—he wasn’t certain how she would act around a simple child like Violet. His wife was so quick and energetic, impatient and opinionated…would she have the patience and empathy to interact with the girl? ’Twas best for all if he were there to smooth the way, to make certain Judith would not cause Violet to feel overset or frightened.



“There you are, sweetling,” he said now, pressing a smacking kiss onto her round cheek before gently tumbling her into the soft pile of bedding in her cart. “You shall have a great adventure, and I want you to pick one flower for me every day. You can show them all to me when I come to get you.”



“But what if I forget?” she asked, thrusting out her lower lip.



“Then Clara will help you,” he said, glancing for affirmation at the woman who’d been Violet’s nurse since she was born.



“Indeed I will, Lady Violet,” Clara agreed. “We shall keep them all in a box and you will show them to your Poppy when he comes.”



“Now,” Mal said, turning away from his daughter to face Clara and Lelan, who was to lead the traveling group. “You must keep Violet out of the sight and notice of Lady Judith until I can arrive. Do you understand? Nevril has come to Lilyfare by now, and he will assist you to find a place where Violet will not be noticed or underfoot. I must be the one to introduce the two of them. Do you understand?”



Though both of them looked at him with trepidation in their eyes, their responses were affirmative. Mal gave them, and the rest of the men-at-arms in the party, a steady, meaningful look. “I say to you—do you not allow them to cross paths, or you will feel the depths of my ire. And though Lady Judith’s man Waldren travels with you, do you not allow him to learn of Violet’s identity. She is Clara’s daughter, sent away to be safe from the plague.”



“Aye, my lord,” they said—each of them—in succession as he looked at them.



Satisfied that he’d done all he could to protect Violet from any discord, and also from being recognized as his daughter until he could prepare Judith, he returned to the cart to give his child one last smacking kiss and a hug. “Be a good girl. Papa will come soon and I will wish to see all of the flowers you have collected for me.”



“Flowers. Aye, Poppy. Clara will help me.” She beamed and bounced up in his arms, narrowly missing his chin as he bent to embrace her once more to hide the sudden sting of tears. He blinked rapidly, drawing in her delicate, little girl scent.



“Fare thee well and Godspeed,” he said to Lelan when he recovered, setting Violet away. “You shall send word to me every se’enight without fail.”



“Aye, my lord. And we shall protect her with our lives,” his man replied.



“And more,” Malcolm told him frostily. “Godspeed.”



He turned and went back into the keep, feeling the same sense of bereftness he’d experienced when leaving Judith behind at Lilyfare. Pray God my daughter is safe until I can see her again.



And now that Violet was safe—or would soon be safe—he had other matters to attend to. The ailing cattle, the sickening villagers…and the fact that the Queen of England had attempted to have him killed.



The days passed both slowly and quickly at Lilyfare.



Tabatha was delighted her lady had recalled her whimsical promise to allow her a space for her own animal infirmary, and whenever she was not attending Lady Judith, she was at the small structure. The fox had healed and been set free in the meadow, and poor Bear was completely blind so he was corralled in a large area so he did not accidentally get trampled by the horses. Topaz the cat had free reign of the stables, and was just as free with his own gifts of fat mice or squirrels—which Tabby preferred not to receive.



As oft as not, Sir Nevril happened by, usually with a poor jest about rabbit stew (would the man never cease?), but occasionally, he brought something he thought would interest her. Once, a four-leaf clover he informed her was a sign of good luck. Another time, he brought two daisies twined with a dandelion stem. Only two days ago, there was a sparrow with a lame wing, which he carried to her carefully on his large hand.



After she had been at Lilyfare for well over a fortnight, one day Sir Nevril appeared at the doorway of the infirmary. Without even looking over, Tabby knew it was he because of the way his shadow fell, showing the bumps of his curly hair and the breadth of his shoulders…and the way he stood. Casually leaning against the doorway as if waiting for her to notice him.



Quelling the pleasant little flutter in her chest—the one Tabby had begun to notice more oft as of late when he made his appearance—she took her time finishing the project she was doing: sewing a small, warm pocket for a very young rabbit found abandoned inside a small depression in the meadow.



When she looked up and their eyes met, Tabatha felt a quirk of something hot and unfamiliar rush through her. This caused her to speak sharply, “Aye? And what do you there, blocking all of my light, Sir Rabbit Stew?”



Nevril seemed to take this as an invitation and stepped into the small space. He wore no mail today, and so his movements were silent except for the soft grinding of his boot in the dirt. “I bethought you would find this helpful,” he said, pulling something out of his tunic.



It gleamed dully in the middling light, but its subtle rattling was familiar to Tabatha. She rose and took the object—a small silvery thing made of chain mail. “What is it?”