“Tell me, what was Annabel’s relationship to the bailiff?”
“Relationship? There was no relationship.”
“Had either of them spoken to you about the other?”
How could the man know to ask the very question that he couldn’t evade without an outright lie, and that would sink Annabel deep into suspicion?
Ranulf had no choice but to answer. “Yes. The bailiff had asked to wed Annabel, but she didn’t wish to marry him.”
“And this was when?”
“Not more than two weeks ago.”
“Did the lass give any reason for her disinterest in the bailiff’s request?”
“She did not like the bailiff.”
“She said as much?”
“Yes.”
“And you said?”
“That she didn’t have to marry anyone she didn’t wish to.”
“And how did the bailiff take the news?”
“He said very little.”
“But your impression of his reaction was … angry, perhaps?”
“Perhaps, although he didn’t say as much.”
Sir Clement sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. He took a long swig of ale from his cup before placing it on the table. “Tomorrow I shall wish to speak with the bailiff’s family members — I believe you told me he has two daughters in addition to his sister living in Glynval — to ask some questions. And the servant girl, Annabel.”
Ranulf’s heart skipped a few beats. “Certainly, Sir Clement.”
Chapter
13
Ranulf lay motionless as a woman leaned over him. Her face swam in and out of view, her features watery, as though he were looking at her through a fog. She drew nearer and her face gradually came into focus.
“Guinevere.”
She smiled her languid smile. As she reached out to touch his chest, her diaphanous sleeve fell away to reveal her bare arm.
“I thought you were —”
“Hush, now.” Her smile grew wider as she touched his face, and then she laughed, her head falling back. When she straightened again her smile had turned sinister. She clenched her teeth and her face began to turn ashen. With a cackle she lifted something in her hand. A knife. Raising it above her shoulder, she laughed louder.
Ranulf tried to raise his arm to block her blow, but his limbs seemed made of iron. He could barely lift them off the bed.
She brought the knife down, toward his chest, toward his heart, still cackling. She was killing him.
Ranulf woke with a gasp then sat up and looked around. He gulped air as though he’d been running, unable to take in a full breath. The only light came from the barely flickering fire in the fireplace.
It was only another dream, another nightmare. She’d been gone these three years now. Dead.
Her face had been so real, so clear and plain. The memory of her treachery was fresh again, piercing.
Nay, not so piercing as it had once been, when her betrayal had been new, or even a few weeks ago. Certainly not so piercing as when he watched them lower her lifeless body into the ground. Though even then he’d felt a peace, almost a sense of relief that he no longer had to face her disgust. He finally took a deep breath and sighed.
Yes, she was gone, truly gone. Except in his dreams.
He swung his legs off the side of the bed, his feet touching the cool stone. He let his head rest in his hands. True, his wife had hurt him as deeply as if she had driven a knife into his heart. But he no longer felt the pain as keenly. In fact, at this moment, he felt it not at all. When had such a transformation taken place? The memory of her had tormented him, had led him to break down in anguish in the woods only two or three weeks earlier. So why did he feel such peace now, even immediately after dreaming of her?
His mind conjured up a new face. Annabel Chapman. So kind and gentle, with so much warmth and goodness in her mind and soul. A new pain had taken the place of the old one — and like the old, this new feeling was one he did not wish to linger over. Annabel had helped him see the injustice of his own bitterness toward women, but he had failed her — because of him the coroner would ask her question after question, the very thing she had been terrified would happen.
A log crumbled softly in the fireplace, sending up sparks. Another sound caught his attention, coming from the opposite direction. He lifted his head. He could hear Mistress Eustacia snoring softly on the other side of the room, but this brief sound, a scuffling as of bare feet on the stone floor, was much nearer.
A bed had been added to the upper hall for Sir Clement so he didn’t have to sleep with the workers. Perhaps Sir Clement was awake.
He called softly, “Who’s there? Sir Clement?”
“It is only I.” The voice was barely audible. He didn’t recognize it.
“Who?”
“Maud atte Water, my lord,” she whispered back.
“What are you doing here?” The bailiff’s daughter. What could she need at this hour?