Once a Bride Read Free Page B

mumbled, “Praise be the Lord.”
    “Praise be,” Eloise responded, mostly from habit, but also grateful the monk retained his senses.
    Except his senses seemed muddled. He stared at some spot across the expanse of the hall, as if his thoughts roamed far from the cut on his head, too. Did he feel guilt for his part in her father’s predicament? She hoped so.
    At the sight of blood, several of the castle folk gathered around to satisfy their morbid curiosity. The serving wench approached with careful steps, heeding the water in the basin she carried. Beside her shuffled Isolde, Eloise’s handmaiden, clutching towels, favoring her disfigured foot.
    Did Isolde know her beloved older brother, Edgar, had left Lelleford with its lord? Had Edgar informed Isolde that Sir John Hamelin required the young squire’s attendance in a heedless dash from home?
    Eloise took the towel Isolde held out, noting no worry in the curve of the maid’s bow mouth, no concern in her brown doelike eyes. Concluding Isolde either didn’t know of her brother’s peril or hid her concern very well, Eloise dipped a corner of the towel into the basin.
    She gently dabbed at the monk’s wound. “As I thought. ’Tis ugly but not deep. No need for needle and thread.”
    Isolde tilted her head to get a better look. “Aye, ugly. How did you come by such a cut, good monk?”
    Brother Walter yet stared across the hall. His continued silence bothered Eloise.
    Since coming to Lelleford near winter’s end from Eve-sham Abbey, a monastery to which her father generously contributed, Brother Walter had kept mostly to himself. He either tended her father’s accounts or prayed in the chapel. He rarely spoke unless addressed, but he always acknowledged a question or comment. Had the bump on his head done more damage than she thought?
    “Brother Walter?”
    He jerked at the sound of his name. “My lady?”
    “Isolde asked how you came by your wound.”
    His hand rose to touch the gash. “I must have hit my head on the desk when …” His daze began to clear as he glanced around the hall. “Lady Eloise, your father, I must speak with him.”
    He is gone, and you know why.
    “I know not where my father is right now. Surely whatever you have to say to him can wait until after we patch your head.”
    “No time.” He slid off the bench, becoming agitated. “I must find him forthwith.”
    She grabbed the wide sleeve of his brown cleric’s robe. “You yet bleed. Pray sit before you fall over.”
    He glared at her with uncharacteristic ire, then tugged his sleeve from her grasp and called out, “Has anyone seen his lordship in the past few minutes?”
    He was answered with silence and shaking heads.
    “Saints preserve us!” Brother Walter hustled to the stairs and then disappeared up them. Cries of “Sir John!” echoed back into the hall.
    Isolde giggled. “How odd. I did not know the monk could move so fast or shout so loud. ’Tis as if a bee got up beneath his robes and threatens his privates.”
    Eloise couldn’t withhold a smile at the maid’s irreverence, or from thinking Brother Walter deserved to get stung.
    She shook her head at her foolish musings. Soon an earl would arrive, seeking to arrest her father, and she should be preparing somehow. Except how did one prepare when one wasn’t supposed to know? She wasn’t even sure she should allow Brother Walter to run about the castle shouting for Sir John.
    Eloise turned to the serving wench. “You may empty the basin. ’Twould seem the good monk’s head wound is the least of his concerns.”
    With the dismissal, the other observers wandered off, too—except Isolde, who stared at the stairs, puzzled. The sound of leather sandals slapping stone preceded the return of the monk, who made a quick perusal of the hall before scurrying out the door that opened to the bailey.
    Isolde sighed. “He must have something right important to tell his lordship. What do you think it might be?”
    “I have no