Chapter Twenty-Seven

The day after the storm, the serfs cleaned up the tree limbs and apples that had fallen in the orchard, and others set about repairing a corner of the stables crushed by a toppled oak. Though the keep hadn’t received word from the earl in over a day, his return was deemed imminent, and everyone speculated about whether he had succeeded at putting an end to Black Hand’s menace.

Would he capture the cur alive and bring him back in chains? Or would someone slay him in battle—the outcome preferred by nearly all?

Bridget spent the day hefting hives and directing anyone available who could help with processing the herbs that had spent the summer hanging to dry. The restrictions imposed on entering or leaving the fortress grounds would have to be lifted soon if all the preparations for the coming winter were to be accomplished. Shyleburgh Keep counted on the assistance of villeins and serfs from the surrounding area to put up the grain and fruit for extended storage and for pressing cider from the apples and honey from the combs.

That night, Sir Albert serenaded them again, and afterward, invited Aislinn to sing with him. Next to Bridget, Karlan made a strange growling noise in his throat. She looked over at him and saw he glowered at the two singers as they laughed over forgetting the words.

Aislinn did seem inordinately happy, even with her intended away. And when Sir Albert took little Mattie into his arms to sing her a lullaby, and Aislinn bent close to stroke Mattie’s sleepy cheek, allowing her shoulder to touch Sir Albert’s, Bridget’s eyes widened.

FitzHenri would definitely not appreciate seeing his betrothed getting rather cozy with his second-in-command. He didn’t deserve such a slight. Mayhap Bridget should say something to her sister. But…Aislinn was probably simply being kind to the man.

Perhaps it was time she got back to her assigned task. The earl would want his courtship to continue, even if he wasn’t here to advance it in person. So, the next day, she hastened to FitzHenri’s solar, sat at his desk, and wrote him a letter from Aislinn. A response to the letter he’d written her.

Strange, but the words came easily this time, pouring out of her with barely a thought. Surely, this was due to the fact that no vexing male peered over her shoulder, interrupting her or stealing her focus.

The letter confirmed, in no uncertain terms, Aislinn’s feelings for her lord and begged him to hasten the nuptials.

Every word squeezed Bridget dry as she scribed it. She vowed her undying love and fealty—that is, Aislinn’s undying love and fealty to her Grégoire.

Afterward, Bridget felt wrung out. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? To see Aislinn wed to the next earl of Shyleburgh, then for herself to go off to her new life of quiet contemplation, scholarship, and prayer.

She’d made the two fall in love, so any sadness or envy she was feeling was her own fault. Crying over it would do no good. Her earthly pangs of loss—and lust—would pass.

Eventually.

After rolling up the missive and sealing it with wax, she placed it front and center on his desk, where he would be sure to see it. And she must remember to tell Aislinn about it before the earl returned.

Which wasn’t long afterward. The earl and his men had spent the last night and day amongst the cottagers and villagers in the surrounding areas, identifying those with disloyal sentiments or ties to Black Hand. The villain, himself, had scurried back into the Cumbrian wilderness.

At hearing this, Bridget’s sense of relief was so great, she fairly floated on clouds to the laundry shed that eve, the lure of a bath after three days of hard toil and hand-wringing too strong to ignore.

Tonight she would see him again, and she wanted to look her very best.