Dark Moon (The de Russe Legacy Book 6) Read online

  It was so very good to see them happy.

  A dream, she thought. I’m going to wake up and this will have all been a dream.

  Lysabel had the same thought every day since that dark night when four men had burst into her chamber, trussing up her husband and then throwing him from the window. In truth, it had been Trenton who had tossed Benoit out of the window because she had seen it.

  She’d seen everything.

  Trenton had thrown Benoit to the ground two floors below and then informed her that her husband’s neck had been broken in the process. He had been quiet and unemotional about it, as if he had been discussing nothing more than the weather, and then he’d climbed from the window and disappeared into the night. The last she saw was the four men crossing the manor’s moat on a small raft before fading into the darkness, all the time carrying her husband’s body with them.

  And that had been the end of it.

  It was the night that had quite literally changed her life. For several days following that event, Lysabel still couldn’t quite figure out if she’d imagined it or not. But as the days passed and Benoit didn’t show himself, finally, she began to believe. She prayed that it was true. She didn’t know where her husband’s body had ended up and she surely didn’t care. All that mattered to her was that for nearly the first time in her adult life, she wasn’t living in daily fear.

  All thanks to a childhood friend.

  As she called the girls into the manse, leaving the dogs behind, Lysabel’s thoughts turned to the eldest de Russe son. Her father was Trenton’s father’s best friend, and had been since they were children, so the de Russe and Wellesbourne families had always been quite close. Lysabel was her father’s eldest child, but when she was born, Trenton had been at least eight years of age. She remembered him from her childhood, seeing him on holidays and other occasions when the families converged. And when he’d been fourteen years of age, he and his brother, Dane, had come to serve her father and the Wellesbourne war machine.

  Trenton had been as big as a full-grown man at that age, very tall, a quiet and somewhat intimidating young man whom her father had taken under his wing. There had been something inherently sad about him and she’d heard her parents whispering about his past, about a birth mother who had been a whore and a father who had stayed away because of it.

  But neither Lysabel’s father nor her mother had ever told her anything directly about Trenton’s past, and all she’d ever heard were the whispers or rumors. Some of the old knights used to say that his father had betrayed King Richard at the battle of Bosworth, and that her father, Matthew, had saved Gaston de Russe’s life. Matthew had lost his left hand as a result. Lysabel didn’t know the entire story, and she probably never would, but none of that mattered. She was simply grateful to a very old friend who had saved her from a life that had become hell on earth.

  She wondered if she’d ever be able to thank him for it.

  But thoughts of Trenton faded as the great hall of Stretford Castle spread out before her. The hall was on the ground level, with hard-packed earth as the floor and a ceiling that was supported by great arched beams. Lysabel took her daughters into the great hall to help the servants set out the coming meal. It was their usual behavior at mealtime, considering Benoit liked all of the women around him to serve him one way or another, including his daughters. They’d been a great disappointment to him when they were born, being that they weren’t male, and he made sure to let them know every chance he got. Brencis hadn’t been beaten down by it yet but, at eight years of age, Cynethryn was starting to show signs of it.

  Another behavior that Lysabel hoped she could help her daughters forget.

  As the sun began to set, the servants built a large fire in the hearth that was tall enough for a man to stand in it. Brencis was over by the hearth where a heavyset male servant was positioning the fire, taking kindling from the little girl because it wasn’t too heavy for her to lift. Cynethryn was in the servant’s alcove, watching them prepare the trenchers that would be delivered to the family and also to the soldiers, men who ate at their own tables. There was one table for the family, at the head of the room, and then two longer, well-worn tables where the soldiers ate. Benoit had been welcoming to his men at mealtime, and liked for them all to eat in the hall, mostly because he wanted to preside as lord and master over them. It had made him feel important.

  The reality was that Benoit’s men weren’t fond of him because he was irrational and heavy-handed, but they respected him simply because he put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Benoit’s men were mostly from the surrounding area, with very few from outside of Dorset, and their loyalty to him was bought and paid for. Nothing more than that. The night Benoit had died, Lysabel told her husband’s one and only knight exactly what Trenton had told her to say – that she’d been asleep and when she’d awoken, he had been gone. When asked about the broken window in the master’s chamber, it had been easy enough to explain that Benoit had broken the window in his rage.

  It wasn’t as if everybody in the entire castle hadn’t heard it.

  Benoit’s men, for the most part, were numb to the way their lord treated his wife, but there were some who were sympathetic. There were also some who fully supported Benoit’s right to do as he pleased and even enjoyed her pain. For the past month, Lysabel hadn’t made any changes to her husband’s small army, or sent anyone away, simply because they were under the impression that Benoit would return. So everything was just the way he’d left it. For the time being, Lysabel was satisfied with that. But she knew, at some point, the men were going to start asking questions.

  She’d deal with it when the time came.

  For now, however, she was happy. So very happy. She didn’t want to think about what tomorrow would bring, only what her life was like at this very moment. She was safe, her girls were safe, and that was all that mattered.

  Bliss.

  Much like her daughters, however, she still fell into the old habits that Benoit had instilled in her. You will serve me, you whore, with all that you are. Lysabel was so accustomed to supervising the kitchens so that the meal would be perfect, and Benoit would be satisfied, that behaving as the leisurely lady of the manse wasn’t something that ever entered her mind. She wasn’t one to sit when there was work to be done, simply because that was what her husband had expected of her. It was years of conditioning that saw her go into the kitchens to supervise the progress of the meal as her daughters continued their small tasks.

  When nighttime finally fell, and the land beyond the warm kitchens was dark, the cook brought in the fowl that she had been roasting outside over an open flame. It was time to serve the hungry who had gathered in the hall, and Lysabel made sure the bread and butter were sent to the tables. Servants were moving into the great hall as the soldiers gathered around the feasting tables, and the buzz of conversation could be heard.

  Lysabel collected her girls from where they’d been completing their duties and pulled them over to the master’s table, which was now for only the three of them. Lysabel never thought she’d know the day where Benoit wouldn’t be sitting at the center of the table, arrogantly surveying all beneath him. Now, that chair was empty and it would remain so. The first time Lysabel had realized that, she broke down in tears. No one had noticed, thankfully, but for her, it had been a pivotal moment in her life.

  No more pain.

  More men entered the hall and the trenchers were put out. The conversation grew louder as Lysabel and her daughters sat at the dais, served by a serving wench who was young and sweet, and often liked to play games with Cynethryn and Brencis. The girls were excited to see her, trying to coerce her to sit with them, but the servant girl shook her head and whispered words that instantly quieted them.

  Lysabel liked the young servant, Cassie was her name, because she was not only attentive to the girls, but to Lysabel herself. Trenton had asked her if she’d had anyone to tend her wounds, and it was Cassie who did it.
A well-bred young woman whose father had owed Benoit a debt, she had served at Stretford for the past two years to pay off that debt. Now, as Lysabel looked at her, she realized that she could send Cassie home.

  Benoit wasn’t around to stop her.

  As she pondered that possibility, she noticed someone entering the great hall, a large figure who had moved into the shadows once he came through the door. The light from the hearth and the numerous candle banks weren’t enough to reach to the entry door, which was tucked into the northeast corner of the hall.

  With the dais being at the opposite side, Lysabel couldn’t see very much of who had entered. In fact, she was turning back to Brencis to help the child cut her meat away from the bone when, abruptly, she took a second look at the figure now moving into the hall and into the light because something about him was vaguely familiar.

  It took her a moment to realize that it was Trenton.

  Shocked, Lysabel turned the meat cutting duty over to Cassie, who was still hovering near the table, and quickly stood up, rushing to greet Trenton. When their eyes finally met, Lysabel couldn’t help the smile that was so easily on her lips.

  “Trenton,” she gasped. “You… you have returned.”

  She sounded incredibly surprised and Trenton smiled at her, an awkward gesture, as if he hadn’t smiled in years and had forgotten how. It all came out like a grimace.

  “Indeed, my lady,” he said, oddly uncomfortable. “I apologize if I am interrupting anything, but I came to see how you were… faring.”

  Lysabel was deeply touched. More than that, she was glad to see him, the rush of excitement one has when seeing someone to whom she owed a great deal. Trenton appeared much different than he did the last time she’d seen him, as he’d been dressed for the serious task he’d been undertaking. But this time, he was dressed for travel, with black leather breeches, boots to his knees, a few layers of tunics, and a heavy leather vest that acted as protection against weapons, including arrows that might be fired upon unsuspecting travelers.

  But there was more to her observations, something she hadn’t really noticed until now – Trenton was easily as tall as his father, who was the tallest man Lysabel had ever seen, and he had his father’s nearly black hair and smoky gray eyes. But his father had a long, angular face from what she remembered, and Trenton had a square-jawed appearance with a big cleft in his chin.

  He was handsome; there was no question about that. The man was quite beautiful as far as men were concerned. But she’d never considered anything about him beyond that; to her, he was an old friend and nothing more.

  Lysabel was shaken from her observations when it occurred to her that he might want to speak to her alone. He seemed rather ill at ease, looking at the men around the hall as if unnerved by their mere presence. Lysabel came to the conclusion that, perhaps, he had something to tell her that he didn’t want others to hear. He seemed reluctant to say anything more than what he’d already said. No conversation, no idle words of chatter. Simply… silence.

  Nay, she didn’t like that thought at all – he’d returned when he never said he would, and now he seemed… nervous.

  Oh, God…

  “Please,” she said, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. “Come… come with me. We may speak elsewhere.”

  Trenton didn’t say anything, but he nodded, and Lysabel led him out of the hall, fighting off the panic that was growing in her heart. She took him down a small flight of stairs and into a section of the manse that contained several rooms, all darkened at this hour whilst everyone was in the hall.

  Trenton trailed after her in the darkness until they ended up in a room that smelled heavily of smoke and dampness. Lysabel shut the door behind him and he stood there, in almost complete blackness, listening to her moving around in the room. Suddenly, a flint sparked and a small flame on the tip of a taper pierced the dark. As she moved to find another candle, he spoke.

  “I did not mean to take you away from your meal,” he said in his deep, raspy voice. “We could have just as easily spoken on the morrow, my lady.”

  Lysabel lit two more candles, these in an iron candelabra, and with those additional tapers, the room lit up sufficiently to show that they were in a solar of some kind, with expensive furniture and wood-paneled walls. The darkened hearth had an elaborately carved mantel, with images of saints and scenes of great saintly battles. As Trenton glanced around, Lysabel set the candelabra on the cluttered table in the center of the room.

  “You did not take me away from my meal,” she said. “Clearly, you have come for a reason and I would not be so rude as to put you off. Trenton… has something happened with Benoit?”

  Weary from four very long days of travel, Trenton realized that his appearance had frightened her. It had been unexpected, and abrupt, and now the woman was spiraling into panic. He could hear it in her voice and see it in her expression. Feeling foolish that his appearance had been so clumsy, he hastened to reassure her.

  “Nothing has happened,” he said quickly. “I am sorry if you thought I have come to tell you otherwise. De Wilde is dead, my lady, and I have only returned to see how you were faring since his death. I swear to you that is the only reason.”

  Realizing her momentary panic had been unfounded, Lysabel exhaled heavily and closed her eyes, leaning against the table for support. She couldn’t describe the relief she felt and even if she tried, she would have burst into tears before the words left her lips. Therefore, it took her a moment before she could recover her composure enough to face him again.

  “It was kind of you to think enough to return,” she said, though her voice was still quivering. “In fact, I am glad that you did. It gives me the opportunity to thank you for what you did.”

  Trenton gazed at the woman in the pale light; the night he’d abducted Benoit, she’d been beaten and harried, but she’d still been surprisingly lovely. Standing before him now, she looked relaxed and content, her face smooth and unmarred by a bruised cheek, and her hair was gathered at the nape of her neck, revealing the swan-like feature and graceful shoulders.

  In truth, it made him wonder why he’d never looked at her twice in the days he’d known her, because Lysabel Wellesbourne was a genuinely stunning creature.

  “There is no need to thank me,” he said. “I was on an errand for the king.”

  Lysabel shook her head. “Truly, Trenton, you have no idea…” She paused, thought carefully on her words, and began again. “Suffice it to say that my children and I have experienced peace for the past thirty-six days, peace as we have never known. I was thinking this evening, in fact, of how my daughters seemed to have blossomed in just the short time their father has been… away.”

  Trenton regarded her carefully. “I heard you had daughters.”

  “Aye,” she nodded. “Two. Cynethryn, whom we call Cinny, and little Brencis, known as Cissy.”

  So she has children who were subject to Benoit’s horror, he thought grimly. “And they only believe he is away?”

  “Everyone does.”

  He understood, mostly because he’d told her to convey that very thing to the people of Stretford. “For now, that is all you can do,” he said. “But at some point, it will be known that he is dead.”

  “Why must it be known?”

  He shrugged. “Do you truly wish for everyone to believe that he could come back at any moment?” he asked. “Forgive me for being blunt, my lady, but I heard what he did to you the night I was here, and I saw the results. You were bandaged and broken, so it seems to me that it is no secret how de Wilde treated you. Would it be incorrect of me to assume that?”

  Lysabel averted her gaze. After a moment, she let out a hiss. “I have spent such a long time suffering in silence and denying what was really going on that it is difficult for me, even now, to respond to your question,” she said. “You and I have not seen one another in years and although we were never close, our families were. Our fathers are the best of friends. My father must never, ever kn
ow what has happened here, Trenton. Will you swear to me that you will never tell him?”

  “I swear.”

  That seemed to ease her a great deal. “Thank you,” she whispered sincerely. “Truly, it is of little matter now, anyway. Benoit is dead and he shall never return, thank God.”

  Trenton could hear the emotion in her voice when he spoke. Wearily, he searched for a chair and, spying one, he pointed to it. “May I?”

  She nodded quickly. “Please.”

  Trenton moved to the chair and lowered himself down into it, feeling his exhaustion to his bones. But his interest in this conversation was stronger than his fatigue.

  “You are correct when you say we’ve not seen each other in many years,” he said. “I was trying to think of the last time I saw you and your family, and I believe it was during the Christmas holidays nearly sixteen years ago.”

  She smiled weakly. “At least.”

  “I was twenty years and four, I think,” he said. “Your father sent me to London on an errand to the king’s father, also Henry, and I never returned. Somehow, the de Russe name meant a great deal to Henry Tudor and the man would not let me leave. But I digress… it was a very bad winter when last I saw you and your family, although I’ve seen your father periodically since that time, but it has been a few years. How is Matthew faring?”

  The subject of Lysabel’s beloved father always brought a smile to her lips. “Well,” she said. “Papa is as old as dirt now, and he surrounds himself with his grandchildren and grandnieces and nephews, but he is still the same. The White Lord of Wellesbourne will never change.”

  “And your mother?”

  “My mother is very well, thank you. She writes to me frequently to tell me of what is happening at home.”