An Uncertain Choice(38)

Lady Rosemarie started to kneel next to me, but I caught the eye of the duke. One look was all it took for the older knight to guide Rosemarie a safe distance away.

I began to loosen the mantle and shirt of the nobleman, hoping to make the man’s breathing easier. “Tell the cook to bring me a decoction of black hellebore to purge this man’s stomach,” I called to a nearby servant, who immediately ran off to do my bidding.

“Can he be saved?” Sir Bennet asked, lowering to one knee. His features creased with worry.

“It depends on how much poison he consumed and how quickly it reaches his blood.” I began to roll up the nobleman’s shirtsleeve, knowing I would need to do the bloodletting myself because the physician wouldn’t be able to arrive in time. I’d done it before on the battlefield and the thought of doing so again didn’t scare me. “Do we know the source of the poison yet?”

Sir Bennet nodded toward a silver goblet lying on the floor surrounded by a pool of strange-colored ale.

“The ale was poisoned?” I surveyed the room and the numerous cups of ale that many of the guests were still holding. Cold fear slithered through me. How many more people would suffer?

“Take away the ale,” I ordered another servant standing nearby. “Dump every last drop into the moat.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Sir Bennet said gravely. “I don’t believe anyone else is at risk.”

But already the guests were abandoning their goblets, their faces drawn with worry.

Sir Bennet held a goblet in his own hand. He glanced inside to the spicy liquid and then swirled it in a circular motion. When he raised his eyes, they were as dark and murky as the ale. “I have already sipped from this goblet,” he said in a low, almost dazed voice.

“Are you ill?” I appraised my friend, checking for signs of poisoning.

“I’m perfectly fine.” Sir Bennet stared at the spilled goblet on the floor nearby. “But it should be me lying on the floor at death’s door.”

“No one should be lying on the floor.” My keen gaze penetrated the crowd, searching for signs that anyone else was suffering.

“Yes,” Sir Bennet insisted. “The poison was meant for me.”

“How can you be sure?”

Sir Bennet stared back and forth between the two goblets again, before his gaze came to rest on the one that had spilled. “That one was mine.” It did indeed have a special crest of small jewels around the base, the same as the other goblets given to those seated at the head table.

My pulse slowed to a crawl as I tried to make sense of my friend’s words.

“I was looking at the artwork with Baron York. We set our goblets down together on the table, and when we came back I must have grabbed the wrong one. We were talking. And neither of us were paying much heed.”

“Then apparently someone put the poison in your cup while your back was turned?”

Sir Bennet’s normally sun-browned face had turned pale. “It would seem that someone intended to murder me.”

My nerves were suddenly on edge, my senses on high alert. If someone had intended to murder Sir Bennet, then that person was likely still in the Great Hall. Was it one of the servants mingling among the guests? A disgruntled nobleman? An enemy disguised as a friend?

My mind rapidly assessed all the possibilities. Who would have motivation to kill Bennet?

A sudden unsettling thought barreled into me. Was it possible that someone wanted to murder the three of us so that Lady Rosemarie would have no choice but to enter the convent?

I glanced to the head table, where the abbot had sat all evening without moving from his chair. Even now with all the commotion, the abbot remained in his spot. His forehead was creased with worry, and he’d pushed his goblet of ale away, obviously no longer interested in drinking the beverage for fear of the poisoning.

I leaned back on my heels and peered around the room, searching for the culprit. Nevertheless, my gaze came to rest again on the abbot’s tonsured head.

From the start, I’d sensed the abbot’s reticence to our arrival. But surely he wasn’t so strongly against Lady Rosemarie getting married that he would resort to murdering her only prospects.

It was a ludicrous idea.

Of course honoring the Ancient Vow was important. And of course becoming a nun was a sacred and valuable service to God. But surely the abbot couldn’t begrudge Lady Rosemarie the chance to test whether that was truly God’s will for her or not.

Unless he had something more to gain by her entering the convent.

I could only shake my head. I couldn’t — ?wouldn’t — ?allow myself to think that the abbot was connected in any way with the attempted murders. As a knight, I was bound to believe the best about someone until proven otherwise.




I let the abbot’s gentle hands smooth my hair back. But neither the abbot’s comforting gesture, the cool night air, nor the glorious fragrance from my roses could soothe my troubled heart.

“I’m sorry, my child,” the abbot said again, as he had many times since I’d kneeled before him in the garden.

The physician had finally arrived at the castle, and the knights had helped move the poisoned nobleman to his chamber. But no one held out much hope that Baron York would live through the night.

While the other guests had retired to their rooms, I’d fled to my garden for solace. Abbot Francis Michael had been kind enough to follow me, but I wasn’t sure anything — ?not even his meditations about life and death — ?could take away the pain of knowing a man was dying in my home . . . on account of me.