Warrior′s Deception
Warrior's Deception
Diana Hall
Love Had No Place In The Life Of Roen De Galiard, Knight Of NormandyFor the past had taught him well the perfidy of women, and the beauteous Lady Lenora was likely no different. But now duty called for him to ferret out a traitor - by surrendering his very heart and soul!Fate had bound the free-spirited Lenora in marriage to Sir Roen, and though the valorous knight believed not in love, he had stormed the walls of her resistance… and set her passion free! March Madness - Don't miss these talented newcomers to the field of historical romance!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u19d4993e-e566-5c42-84f3-d4f0218b0e86)
Excerpt (#u133afeb2-10f6-54a0-9984-833aa9d04820)
Dear Reader (#ufe3f69bb-682f-503e-949d-849a7f5a4b2a)
Title Page (#uf7c2c5a0-a6a5-55bf-afd0-a5eab96149f5)
About the Author (#u9ee0b8c0-2cbf-5756-b941-c656a9fd08c7)
Dedication (#u0175cfe5-cce1-5298-997f-153339654754)
Chapter One (#udcbb5ed1-ea1b-5ee7-be04-b02157af2125)
Chapter Two (#u52c677fc-4f4e-51ea-9514-c3ee511ef0e3)
Chapter Three (#uf52915e3-daac-5a2c-bf03-63822ecbdfe0)
Chapter Four (#u677ead60-20f6-5254-a62a-da592acda5da)
Chapter Five (#u9cb6cb5f-5496-5268-b8ff-3500b03267dc)
Chapter Six (#u4d07401e-b670-59f0-81a6-82e2b1b571ca)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
From the corner of her eye, Lenora saw a shadow swoop down on her.
A huge mail-covered hand appeared out of nowhere, yanking her from her horse, and her back hit against a hard wall of metal. Stunned, she found herself breathless and dumped into the lap of an armor-clad knight.
“Let go of me!” She kicked and thrashed her legs, trying to free herself. “Who are you?” She twisted in her captor’s grasp and her eyes traveled up to the knight’s face.
A wide nosepiece on his helmet obscured his face. Only his eyes were visible. The hard-fought air she had strived for escaped her lungs in a low, desperate sigh. “Nay, it cannot be!” The knight’s dark gray eyes glowered at her, and a current of fear whorled through her.
“I’ve come to settle our bet, Lady Lenora.”
Roen de Galliard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and shook his head like a mighty golden lion. “Among other things.” He wrapped his viselike arm around her waist and pulled her tightly toward him….
Dear Reader,
When we ran our first March Madness promotion in 1992, we had no idea that we would get such a wonderful response. Our springtime showcase of brand-new authors has been so successful that we’ve continued to seek out talented new writers and introduce them into the field of historical romance. During our yearly search, my editors and I have the unique opportunity of reading hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we’d like to take this time to thank all of you who have given us the chance to review your work.
In Warrior’s Deception, Diana Hall’s powerful first book, a young woman suddenly finds herself married to a forbidding knight who has been ordered to protect her from the intrigue and danger that threaten her family.
And be sure to keep an eye out for our other three March titles. Western Rose by Lynna Banning, the story of a rancher and a schoolteacher who must work out their differences before they accept their love. Fool’s Paradise by Tori Phillips, the charming tale of a noblewoman and the jester who becomes her protector. And The Pearl Stallion, the story of an adventurous voyage by Rae Muir.
Four new talents, four great stories from Harlequin Historicals. Don’t miss a single one!
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Warrior’s Deception
Diana Hall
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANA HALL
If experience feeds a writer’s soul, then I must be stuffed.
I’ve worked as a pickle packer, a ticket taker at a drive-in movie, a waitress, a bartender, a factory worker, a truck driver cementing oil wells in south Texas, a geological technician with oil companies, a teacher, a part-time ecological travel agent and now an author. The only job I’ve kept longer than five years is wife and mother.
A geographical accident, I was meant to live in the South. After high school I left rural Ohio and attended college in Mobile, Alabama. There I fell in love with balmy nights and the beaches of the Gulf. I now live in a suburb of Houston, Texas, with my understanding husband, a beautiful daughter, a sedate, overweight collie and a hyperactive dalmatian.
To Rick for all his love and support. To Jessica for her wonderful character names. To Debbie, Michele, and Merydith for all their help. To Jean, Dee, and Margaret for their energy and belief.
Thanks
Chapter One (#ulink_d5098362-a000-5f52-aa34-373b23d7dba5)
ENGLAND-1154
“I shan’t go.” Lenora’s auburn braid whipped from side to side as she clipped each word.
Her aunt’s icy blue eyes narrowed and her thin lips drew up into a tight pucker. Her cousin, Beatrice, cowered behind her mother’s outraged body.
“You must go.” The woman’s voice changed from insistent to pleading. “Think of Beatrice. This may be my only chance, our only chance, to regain some dignity.” She shoved her frightened daughter forward. “The girl’s sixteen and well in need of a husband. This is the perfect opportunity to make a suitable match.”
Lenora did not miss the terror-filled look that entered Beatrice’s warm blue eyes. Her small frame trembled, tears glistened in her eyes.
“’Tis not to be, Aunt Matilda.” Her voice carried across the great hall of Woodshadow. Her tone trumpeted defiance and she gave her timid cousin a reassuring smile. No matter the consequences, she would protect her, even against Beatrice’s own mother.
The servants stopped in their preparation for the noon meal. Even the hounds paused in their hunt for scraps among the floor rushes.
The older woman’s glare encompassed the room. The serfs resumed their duties. Behind her aunt’s back, a young boy gave Lenora an exaggerated wink and clutched his throat in a comic mime. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain her laughter.
“What reason could you possibly have for not going?” Matilda pressed her argument. “King Henry will expect you there. You do not turn down a request from the king.” Her shrill voice rang out in an indignant huff.
“My father is too ill for me to be away. I cannot leave the keep now. Woodshadow needs me.” How could she tell them her real fear? Her home and security, even those she held most dear, were slipping from her. Beatrice would not be added to that list. After three years away from her home, she had returned to find emptiness.
She felt as if all that she loved and cared for were in a grain bag with a hole in the bottom. The loss became more and more visible, but for some reason, no matter what she tried, she was unable to stop it.
“Excuse me, Aunt Matilda, I want to go to the stable to check on my mare.” Lenora disregarded the summoning cry of her aunt and headed for the kitchen. She ducked down the wellworn stairs, two at a time, jumping the final steps to the ground-floor kitchen and storage room. The lad she had seen above tossed her a carrot from the basket he carried.
“Tyrus, you have my thanks and Silver’s.” She waved the green top of the vegetable at him.
“Give ‘er a pat from me, Lady Lenora. Do ye think ‘er time is soon?”
Her stride slowed and she puckered her lips into a worried frown. “Nay, ‘tis still a month or more, though I wish it were not. She gets weaker by the day.”
The servant boy gave his lady a bright smile, a large gap showing where his two front teeth should be. “Ye be a good’n for the healin’ and all. That mare’ll pull through. Ye done it afore.”
Beatrice scurried down the stairs. “Hurry, Lenora, Mother’s in a fury. She’s out to find you and convince you to go to Tintagel.”
Lenora needed no further warning and grabbed her cousin’s hand. Rushing past the kitchen scullery maids, she pushed Beatrice out the lower door and into warm spring air. Laughter came easily as she half dragged her cousin across the stone-walled inner bailey of the castle. She didn’t slow down until she passed the fortified bridge and blended into the bustle of the outer bailey.
Numerous puddles and cart tracks muddied the way to the whitewashed stables. Lenora lifted the hem of her dress and tried to navigate between the mud and the busy villeins. A herd of cattle, led by a serf, took control of the lane. She tried to dodge them and ended up ankle-deep in a mud hole. Slime oozed into her leather shoe and coated her toes.
Sounds of children at play and the chatter of their parents floated on the spring air. The dreary days of winter had finally ended and she was home. Every smell and sight gave her delight. Her time with the queen had opened her mind and taught her much but her return to Woodshadow had taught her something, also. She loved this place and these people.
Splattered with mud and grime, she looked back at her cousin and marveled that Beatrice had kept her deep blue kirtle and white apron spotless. The difference between her and her cousin was like comparing a palfrey to a workhorse.
After eighteen years, Lenora accepted the fact that her height and angular features gave her a gawky, coltish appearance. Unlike the famed foals of Woodshadow, she entertained no hopes of her appearance changing as she matured. Thoughts of herself vanished when she entered the cool darkness of the stable.
She balanced herself on the stall gate and laced her feet through the rails for support. Her heart lurched at the sight of the mare standing listless by the grain bin, head low, eyes glazed. Fresh-smelling hay and the odor of well-oiled tack, usually a comfort, did not settle the uneasiness she felt in her heart.
Hopping down, she held out the carrot and tried to entice the mare. “Here, Silver, try just a bite.” The horse nibbled her palm and let the treat fall to the ground. Rattled breaths sounded from the mare and echoed in the filtered light of the barn. A desire to cry sprouted in Lenora but the streak of stubbornness inherited from her father prevented it. She would see Silver through this; she wouldn’t allow her mount to die.
A light sprinkle of dust coated the mare’s rump. Lenora searched through the tack box in the stall for a curry comb. The slow rhythmic sweeps of the brush helped to calm her nerves.
Over Silver’s back, she saw Beatrice approach the stall gate. Her cousin halted when the horse tossed her mane in annoy ance. Sincerity mixed with the fear in her voice. “How does the animal fare? I know she is dear to you.”
“She does not look well, my friend. She’s too old to have another foal.” A masculine voice came from the shadows of the back wall. The young man, wrapped in a black woolen mantle despite the warm spring day, emerged from the darkness, and Beatrice stepped away.
Lenora held fast to the halter of the startled mare. “Geof frey, could you give some warning?” She patted the velve softness of Silver’s nose.
He removed his hood, his brown hair curled over walnut colored eyes. “You knew I was here.”
“Aye, but Beatrice and Silver did not,” Lenora repri manded her friend.
Geoffrey placed his hand over his heart and gave a half bow. “Pardon, Lady Lenora. To yourself and your mount.” His eye turned to Beatrice. His voice warmed. “And you, Lady Be atrice, do I need beg your pardon, also?”
Lenora smiled because the scarlet tint of her cousin’s cheeks gave away her response. As always, the color enhanced the young woman’s fair looks.
Beatrice placed her hand to her throat and whispered her reply. “Nay, Sir Geoffrey. I take no offense. ‘Tis glad I am to see your face after these many days.” Her eyes lowered and she fidgeted with her hands.
Lenora laughed. “Come now, Beatrice, do not be shy. Did I not hear you moon on and on about Sir Geoffrey’s fair face, his prose, his voice?”
“Lenora,” Beatrice complained, her face a deeper crimson than before.
With a soft pat on Silver’s nose, Lenora pulled herself from the sanctuary of the stall to join her friends. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged on a pillow of hay and watched Geoffrey lean against a pillar. Beatrice sat on a three-legged stool near her. Her cousin held her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.
Lenora’s gaze settled on the reed-thin knight. “What do you know of this tourney?” She spread her grass-stained apron and undertunic over her knees. “Why is Matilda so intent on going?”
“’Tis as we feared. King Henry wishes to reward his siege commanders with some festivities. There are a few to whom he owes much gold. In particular, the knight Roen de Galliard.” She saw Beatrice stiffen her back even more and begin to fold and unfold the hem of her apron. ‘Twas easy to see the girl’s nervousness at just the mention of the knight’s name.
Lenora took a quick breath. “Gold the king does not have or wish to part with. Henry will pay off his commanders with a rich wife.” The knight’s reputation had made its way even to Aquitaine. Though she had never seen him, she knew well the type, crude and self-centered. Roen de Galliard did not sound like a man with patience for Beatrice’s fears. The knight would devour her gentle cousin and leave behind only a shell of the woman.
Geoffrey gazed at Beatrice’s quiet suffering. At last, her cousin spoke, her voice colored with hope. “Rich…then it cannot be me they’ll seek. King Henry already owns all my lands. Mother and I are penniless.”
“Aye, Cousin, but Father set aside a small manor as your dowry.” Lenora did not wish to dash the young woman’s hopes but ‘twas best to tell the truth. “A knight desperate to have a keep of his own might not be averse to it. Besides, now that Louis is dead, if I do not marry, Woodshadow would be yours.”
With inborn grace, Beatrice rose from her seat to kneel at Lenora’s side. Her eyes clouded with sadness as she stared past her cousin. Old nightmares showed on her face. “Stephen and Henry’s war cost us much. You, your brother, my mother, her husband and wealth. And I, my courage.”
“Courage, Beatrice? ‘Tis a brave girl you are. You survived the pillage of your home and the death of your father. You meet your true love in secret, unknown to your mother. ‘Tis uncommon courage, that alone. Your mother is no small obstacle, despite her size.”
“With much help from you,” Geoffrey said, chuckling in agreement. He went to Beatrice’s side and waited until she placed her fingertips in the palm of his hand before helping her to rise. When she reached her feet, she stepped back and stood apart from him. The struggle between love and fear ravaged her face.
Too many memories of the night her father died kept Beatrice from Geoffrey’s arms. From hearing her cousin’s nightmares, Lenora knew that the sights and sounds of the carnage and rapes still haunted the young woman’s feelings for the young knight. She prayed that her childhood friend Geoffrey would have the patience and understanding to mend Beatrice’s tattered emotions.
“Help you?” Lenora arched an eyebrow. “Aye, I suppose I’ve smuggled in a love poem or two. Guided you through the secret passages and tunnels so that you could meet. Most important, I’ve kept Aunt Matilda at bay so she’d not know what’s going on.” She winked at Geoffrey to show her words were meant to tease.
“I wish you could help us now.” Dejection rimmed Beatrice’s words. Geoffrey carefully placed his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened but did not pull away.
A suggestion came to Lenora. “Geoffrey, you could come forth. Declare yourself to my father and Matilda.”
“Your aunt would not appreciate her only daughter considering the attentions of a poor younger son and a Champlain at that.” Geoffrey spit out his family name in disgust. “Matilda is seeking wealth and the ear of the throne. She’d not get that with me as a son-in-law. I won’t marry Beatrice until I can support her.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “I’m working on a plan. Soon, I’ll have enough money and prestige to impress her mother, regardless of my name.”
“How?” Lenora noticed the light that came to her friend’s face. Perhaps he really did have a workable plan.
Geoffrey flipped his cloak over his arm and held it just below his eyes. “’Tis a secret.” Like a night phantom, he drew the cloak away from his face.
Always dreaming, always telling stories to amuse and make them laugh. Geoffrey would never change. Beatrice placed her hand softly on his arm. Devotion to her knight shone in her sparkling azure eyes.
Lenora pursed her lips while she studied the couple and pondered the situation. “’Tis true, Beatrice. Your mother would be ecstatic to regain ties to the throne and restore her wealth. Unfortunately, as Geoffrey said, marriage to him would not accomplish that.”
“If only Father had backed Henry instead of Stephen.” Beatrice released a wistful sigh.
“So say all the adulterine lords,” Lenora answered sagely. “Their lands have been taken at siege and their castles dismantled. ‘Twas a bloody end to a bloody time.”
“Aye, that is true enough. Stephen’s reign was anarchy,” Geoffrey concurred with her. “Your father did well to send you these past few years to live in Aquitaine with Henry’s Queen Eleanor. With Louis in battle and Woodshadow under attack every few months, I’m sure it eased your father’s mind to have you safe.”
He gave Beatrice a worried look. “At least your fathers both took a side. My own is nothing but a conniver who played both sides against each other. Henry would have his head if he could find the proof.”
“The war has changed us all.” Lenora smiled at her cousin. “Queen Eleanor taught me a great deal while I was with her. She’s a woman of remarkable power and intelligence.”
“Have you decided yet if you will return to the queen?” Geoffrey pressed her for an answer. “Or have you found a nice quiet abbey to continue your studies?” His eyes searched her face. The intensity of the look made her uncomfortable.
She shook her head. “I’ve made no decision as yet. There is too much here to consume my time. My future will wait until the problems at Woodshadow are solved.”
“Of which I am one,” Beatrice berated herself.
Geoffrey took her small hand in his own. “I suffer your loss, yet I’m glad you and your mother had to come here. Without that tragedy, I might never have met you, and had my empty life filled with the pure love of your smile.” The young knight gazed into Beatrice’s sorrowful eyes, and his hand caressed the worry lines from her brow.
“And, of course, Aunt Matilda would never have so apt a student as myself anywhere else,” Lenora quipped with sarcasm. The couple laughed, the pensive mood broken.
“’Lenora, a lady of your background should not smell of a stable!’” ‘She mimicked her aunt’s voice. “’Lenora, ‘tis not proper behavior to disagree with Lord Ranulf on correct agricultural methods.’”
Her cousin joined in the laughter, then grew somber. “Mother can be overbearing at times, but she just wants to repay your father. Since your mother is dead, she feared he wouldn’t take us in.”
“So teaching her motherless niece to be an acceptable young lady helps to keep her from feeling like she’s charity.” Lenora scratched her temple. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’ll try to be more…” A word that would express her emotions politely but spare her delicate cousin’s feelings just wouldn’t pop into her mouth.
“Nay,” Beatrice admonished. “Do not be anything but what you are. If I were as clever as you, I’d be able to avoid Mother’s plans for me. My only prayer is that the lands your father set aside for me will not interest a knight.”
Though said, Lenora could tell Beatrice gave the prospect little hope.
“Perhaps, if you went with her to Tintagel, you could think of some diversion to keep Beatrice away from any prospective grooms. I will be there, also, and between the both of us we should be able to protect her.” Geoffrey paused as a portly servant woman lumbered toward the stable.
“Lady Lenora, Lady Beatrice.” The woman waddled into view as Geoffrey ducked behind a haystack. “By the saints!” She stopped in front of the two girls and paused, taking deep gulps of air. Her huge chest rose up and down like a blacksmith’s forge. “Lady Matilda sent out the word the two of ye is to go to the great hall straight away.”
“Thank you, Alyse. We will be right there.” Lenora braced her arm at the doorway and blocked the view to the interior of the stable.
“See that you hurry, Lady Lenora. That woman is on a rampage, giving commands to everyone. She’s got poor Sir Hywel running circles to get everything done.” The woman mopped her forehead with the edge of her soiled apron. “’Tis too hot for a woman of my size to be running around like a youngster.” Alyse turned and plodded back across the bailey to the kitchen, muttering to herself as she fanned her red face.
“I must leave, my love.”
Lenora peeked under her arm and saw Geoffrey emerge from his hiding place. He gave Beatrice a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I will see you at Tintagel in a fortnight. With Lenora’s help, we will keep your mother from executing her plan.”
He winked conspiratorially at Lenora. “You two go on. I’ll slip out the back.” He lifted a loose board on the back wall and disappeared into the dark alley between the outer castle wall and stable.
“Don’t worry, Beatrice. He’ll be fine. No one has caught him yet,” Lenora reassured her cousin. “’Tis time now to worry about ourselves. I imagine your mother is not in good temper.”
Lenora’s long legs outdistanced her cousin’s much shorter ones. Beatrice had only crossed half of the inner bailey green when she skipped up the steps and threw open the door to enter the great hall. At the carved lion laver, she washed her hands and inhaled the tempting aromas of the noonday meal. Warm, rich smells of roasting meats and fresh baked breads thickened the air and caused her stomach to rumble.
“She’s a-lookin’ for ye,” warned a servant. He bustled past Lenora on his way to prepare the high table for the noonday meal.
“I know,” she mouthed back.
Beatrice slid in behind her to escape the attention of several hounds. “Go on now.” Lenora waved them off after she patted each massive head. Noses to the floor, the giant beasts sniffed among the new floor rushes searching for scraps. The central fireplace smoldered. Lenora watched the smoky trail rise up the new chimney.
The pantier entered the great hall from the passage leading to the downstairs pantry. His arms filled with crocks of wine, he was followed by her father’s steward, Sir Hywel.
The steward looked up and smiled at the two girls. She saw his smile fade and he ducked down a passage leading to the buttery.
“Lenora, where have you been?” a familiar voice shrieked from behind her.
She turned to see her aunt striding toward her. Biting her lower lip, Lenora arranged an innocent look on her face. “Have you been looking for me?”
“Come here, Beatrice.” Matilda’s jet black eyes darted from one girl to the other. Although petite in size, she propelled her two captives toward a less active area of the great hall. With a firm push, she sat Lenora at one end of a massive carved pew and her daughter at the other. Her eyes traveled up and down her niece’s stained clothing and tangled hair.
Her teeth close together, Matilda launched into a lecture. “I must speak to you about this ridiculous notion that you are not attending the king’s tourney. Such behavior would not be tolerated at King Stephen’s court.” The dignified voice became more elitist. “When I was at court, a woman knew her place. She obeyed her elders without question.”
Lenora schooled her features to look attentive and copied her cousin’s repentant posture.
“Aunt Matilda, thank you so much. You are truly wonderful to show such interest in the day-to-day chores here.” Lenora grinned; she had learned quickly that flattery was her aunt’s weakness.
“I’m glad you are finally realizing that. Three years with that woman has filled your head with all kinds of nonsense. Imagine, adultery with her own uncle, divorcing the King of France, and scarcely a month passes before Eleanor manages to ensnare Henry II. Why, the man is nine years younger than her.” Matilda sniffed her nose in disdain. “Someday you must fulfill your position as Lady of Woodshadow. Your father allows you to shirk your duties. You must begin to oversee the servants, the replacing of the rushes, the soap and candle making. A keep this size must be supervised vigilantly. ‘Tis my deep sense of loyalty to your father that forces me to assume the role of Woodshadow’s mistress.”
“I understand that, Aunt Matilda.” Letting her Aunt Matilda relive her glory days as a chatelaine served both Lenora’s and her father’s interests. The action kept Matilda busy in the keep and unaware of Lenora’s actions on behalf of her father. Actions that would earn Lenora several lectures from her aunt on proper decorum and would herald the seriousness of Sir Hywel’s illness.
“Good. Enough of this foolishness. You will enjoy yourself, both of you.” Matilda tucked an imaginary strand of hair into her wimple. “The king will be at Tintagel for less than a fortnight. He will preside over a tourney and hear grievances from nearby lords. That evening there will be dancing and entertainment.”
Lenora released a slow breath of air when her aunt turned her attention away from her. Beatrice became the new target.
“You will wear the lapis necklace your father gave me at our wedding. We must make sure that you are the loveliest young woman there. I’m sure you will catch the eye of a suitable partner.” Her aunt began to rattle off a list of elaborate gowns for Beatrice to pack for the coming trip. Meekly, she nodded at each of her mother’s suggestions.
Bored with details of gowns and matching slippers, Lenora decided now would be a perfect time to escape. She jumped up from the massive carved pew.
“Wait.” Her aunt motioned for her to remain seated. “You can’t leave yet, we must also plan your wardrobe. The maids need to be directed as to which gowns you will be taking and-”
“My position hasn’t changed.” Lenora’s calm voice caused her relatives to gasp in surprise. She took leave of her vexed aunt and escaped up the narrow curved stone stair that led to her father’s chambers. On purpose, she climbed the stairs two at a time, knowing it would infuriate her aunt.
A step sagged beneath the weight of Lenora’s foot. She made a mental note of the slight wood rot in the wooden section of the defense stairs as she sped to her father’s third-story chamber. Tomorrow, she must maneuver Sir Hywel to notice the decay. Right now, she wanted to talk with her father.
Without knocking, she barreled into her father’s private chambers and announced, “She’s at it again.” Lenora bounced up onto the red velvet coverlet, tucked her long legs under her and wrinkled her nose.
Her father, Sir Edmund, smiled from his bed, the curtains pulled back to let in the welcomed cool spring air. “So, you’re having a spat with your Aunt Matilda, are you? And why are you so determined not to attend the king’s festivities at Tintagel? The occasion should be quite merry.”
“How do you know that’s what the argument was about?”
“You forget about the squints. I keep well informed of what goes on with those to help me.” Her father pointed toward the floor. Lenora was just able to make out the small peephole concealed in a knot in the lumber floor. She slid off the bed and peered down through the squint.
The old Norman device enabled her to spy on the activity of the great hall below. She stifled a laugh when she spotted the bald head of her father’s seneschal, Sir Hywel, pass below her. Light whispers of his instructions to a passing servant floated upward. The high-pitched voice of her aunt drifted up as she continued to discuss the upcoming trip to Tintagel.
“You, sir, are an unscrupulous spy.” Her voice sounded with false indignation. She stood and shook the wrinkles from her tunic and rearranged the simple rope girdle at her waist. “You promised you would remain abed.”
“You, daughter, are a mischievous wench who needs her backside warmed for talking to her father in such a manner! It wasn’t I who peeked, but Tom.” Sir Edmund’s smile abated his threat.
“With your direction, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” he agreed readily.
Laughing, Lenora wished she could transform into a little girl and once more cuddle up next to her tall, strong father. She could listen to his stories of battles and the courtship of her mother over and over again.
Although bedridden for more than a month, Sir Edmund still possessed a commanding figure. His lanky form stretched the length of the six-foot bed. Red gold hair showed no signs of gray. Clean shaven, he reflected the rugged, handsome features of his youth.
“So, tell me what you have accomplished today.” Her father punched his silken pillows and snuggled back to rest against them.
“I managed to have Sir Hywel notice that the east bailey wall needs to be fortified, and I saw the smithy as you asked. His proposal to enlarge the blacksmith shed has merit. Oh, and as I climbed the stairs I noticed there is some rot in the wooden steps.”
Sir Edmund knit his fingers together and placed them behind his head. “I’ll talk to Sir Hywel about the blacksmith. I’ll also mention those damn steps. Those wooden Norman steps are a great defense in case we are invaded, but they are in constant need of repair.” He cast her a concerned look. “It’s not been easy on you, Lenora. You are my eyes and ears while I’m stuck in here.”
“Father, I don’t mind. ‘Tis rather entertaining to invent ways for your steward to discover things.”
“Aye, I can imagine it would. Hywel is a good man. He warned me his father suffered from senility at an early age. He had to be watched for fear he would leave the keep and lose his way. Toward the end, the man didn’t even know his own name. I fear our good friend suffers from the same ailment.” Her father defended his seneschal. “Sir Hywel is as loyal as a hound and as fierce as a boar. I should replace him, but would do so when I have someone I can trust to take over. For now, I must lay this boon at your feet and trust you to do my steward’s thinking for him.”
“Aunt Matilda is doing his thinking for him now.” Lenora giggled and rotated her index finger around in the air. “She has him running circles downstairs in preparation for the King’s tourney.”
“Daughter, I believe you should go to this tourney.” Her father’s voice interrupted her musing.
“Father, I don’t want to go. I have too much to do here. Mother’s mare, Silver Maple, will foal soon. I need to be here to help. Then there are the new spring herbs to tend. I have several new ones given to me by knights from the Crusades. And of course there’s you….” Lenora stopped, bit her tongue, and wished once again she would think before opening her mouth. Her father’s eyes blazed liquid gold. Another inherited trait from her father, she recognized this sure sign of anger. She prayed the blast would be short.
“The only thing wrong with me is that I have too many women trying to tell me what to do! A few days without female company will do me good. You women are always seeing disaster. I’ve a tiny cough, a little weakness in the legs. This will pass if I’m not coddled up like a nursing babe. I’m still lord of this keep, and I can manage quite well with my seneschal. Sir Hywel may not worry about your precious plants but he and I can manage for a fortnight on our own. If ‘tis proof you need, I’ll be up out of this today.” Edmund jerked backed the ermine-trimmed coverlet and twisted his long legs toward the wooden floor.
“Nay!” She rushed to her father’s side and replaced the coverlet. “Please, Father, the physicians ordered you to rest.”
“And rest I will, but only if you attend the tourney,” Sir Edmund countered. “King Henry needs me to fulfill my vassal obligation of counsel. He intends to use the tourney as an opportunity to plan alliances and settle a dispute between Sir Champlain and Sir Ranulf. Since their claims are on land that borders ours, I want to have input into the outcome.”
“But, Father,” she protested, “surely the king will understand that you are ill. Besides, I could not speak at counsel.”
“I do not expect you to. Just keep those quick eyes and ears open and deliver a message to the king on the land dispute. I have a fear that whatever the outcome, the conflict will spill over onto Woodshadow.”
“Aunt Matilda would not approve!” Lenora cautioned.
Edmund gave her a wary look. “Then perhaps ‘twould be best for you not to mention the letter to her. Just as you neglect to mention those messages your cousin receives from her suitor.”
She wagged her finger at her father. “Nothing escapes you. You know everything that goes on in your demesne. Very well, I’m not eager to hear another lecture on how I am not in the reins of propriety. We will keep the true nature of my visit a secret.”
“Beatrice will be glad you are going, and I think ‘twill do her some good. She can’t overcome her fears if she’s never given the chance to face them,” Edmund reasoned.
Lenora’s chin lowered. “She was counting on me to help her escape Matilda’s matrimonial plans.”
“Do you really think Geoffrey is the man for her?”
She sighed and leaned her head against the canopy bedpost. “I fear he is the only man for her. Never have I seen him take the smallest liberty with her. He treats her more like a brother than a suitor. But he is the only man I have ever seen her with that does not drive her to fits of terror. How can Matilda offer her up to the highest bidder knowing how Beatrice feels about men?”
“The girl is Matilda’s only asset and daughters are married off to improve or protect the demesne. I blame your attitude toward marriage on myself. I’ve filled your head with stories of your mother and me. Ours was a love as well as a political union. ‘Twould do you well, my daughter, to use this opportunity to search for a husband for yourself.” He raised his hand to silence her expected protests. “You have enjoyed your books, gardening and your time galloping wildly around the countryside. Before Louis died, I obliged your wishes, I paid the king’s fee so you could remain unmarried. Now you are my only heir, and Woodshadow’s future. Rest would come easier if I knew that your inheritance could not be taken from you.”
“Beatrice could inherit.” She searched for excuses to ease her father’s worry and still keep her freedom. “Aunt Matilda has mentioned many times the abbey she and Beatrice stayed at. The enormous library there, the peaceful gardens. I had thought to perhaps spend time—”
“Beatrice is not a Marchavel. I inherited most of these lands from your mother, but they were poor and ill-kept. ‘Twas I that built up these properties for my descendants. I have fought with sword and words to keep Woodshadow for my heirs, for you. I do not want all of your mother’s and my sacrifices to be handed over for another’s prosperity. This was not our dream.” Sir Edmund struck his chest with a clenched fist.
Lenora bit her lower lip. She rose from the bed and moved slowly to the window. Her gaze followed the ramblings of a small boy as he chased a multicolored butterfly through new spring grass in the bailey. The steady beat of the blacksmith’s bellows blended with the clip-clop of a passing draft horse and cart. The soft sound of the grooms sweeping out the stables, the reassuring neighs of her treasured white mares whispered to her. Everyone in the demesne carried on about their business, happy to be outside after the long confining winter.
Lenora thought, If my brother had not died, I would be out there, reading or tending to Silver, or working on the new herbs.Louis would be the one with a duty to provide an heir. She had a duty to her father and to her home.
“I’ll go, Father, and deliver your letter. My eyes and ears will be open.” Lenora breathed deeply. “And I will consider what you said. But please, Father, let me choose.”
Sir Edmund relaxed his tense muscles. He opened his arms, which were quickly filled by his dearly loved only child.
Chapter Two (#ulink_5e99fff5-644e-58c4-9fd1-33ccc4202aff)
Roen slammed his fist against the trestle table. The crash of the waves outside the castle added to the thunder of the sound. King Henry had laid a trap for him under the guise of a tourney. His victory at Tintagel became bittersweet.
The young man with his feet propped up against the table scrambled to elude the crimson wine sloshed from the goblets on the table. “Take care, Roen! You’ll stain my tunic!” he admonished his friend. “I plan on stunning some young heiress tonight.”
“Take care? I am being cheated of my due, Hamlin, and you ask me to take care.” Once again his giant fist crashed onto the table. The wine goblet rocked, nearly toppling over. Hamlin dived across the table and successfully righted the containers before the precious liquid stained his finery.
Roen crushed the letter under his friend’s nose. “I have fought his wars, defended his castles and captured his robber barons. And this is how he repays me. Henry owes me gold, not a wife!” He stared at the wilted piece of paper. “I curse the day I learned to read.”
“Your mother did you a service. The ability to read—”
“My mother never did me service. ‘Twas not a kindness she sought, but a mark. A mark to show my father and brothers I did not belong.” Roen roared his outrage. “Henry would wish on me a conniving bitch instead of relinquishing the gold he owes me.”
“Stars! Roen, he offers you not a wife, King Henry offers you any wife you want. You can have your pick of beautiful heiress maidens.” Hamlin winked at his outraged friend. “Or lusty landed widows. I wish I could be so rewarded, but alas, I am to always be covered by your exceeding large shadow.” Hamlin’s chestnut eyes took on a resigned expression.
Roen de Galliard raised his clenched hands in the air like the talons of a hawk. Cast a large shadow, indeed he did. Both in size and reputation. At well over six feet, he dwarfed most men in England and in his homeland of Normandy. His reputation as a warrior was well-known throughout King Henry’s realm.
“And what good has that shadow done me?” Roen demanded. He didn’t wait for his friend to answer. “I’m one of Henry’s elite siege commanders. The sound of my name causes any of the adulterine lords to quake in his shoes. And do you know why?”
Hamlin pointed his finger at him and opened his mouth.
Roen didn’t give his friend the opportunity to interrupt him. “Because I never give up. They know I’ll bide my time. I’ll find their weakness, no matter how formidable their stronghold.”
How many attacks had he survived? It seemed endless. He always made short work of his enemy. Fast and brutal attacks, over and over again until the besieged lord surrendered or died in battle. Study, calculate, attack. An anthem for battle, his philosophy of life.
Hamlin jumped into his friend’s one-sided conversation. “I can think of no other man who needs a wife worse than you!” He held up a hand to check Roen’s outburst. “You are happiest when planning and executing a battle. Do you wish to give up such challenge when you are landed?”
“Do not be foolish! Of course not!” Roen thundered.
“Then will you remain landless? Never to be a senior, always a landless juvenis,” Hamlin countered.
“You know I wish a keep of my own. There will be no inheritance from Normandy, my mother saw to that. You have known me since we were pages. Why ask questions you already know the answers to?”
“To make you see that a wife is the answer to your needs. I see it and the king sees it. You’re too stubborn to see the practicality of a wife. Who will oversee the needs of your villeins and keep the servants in line when you are gone on one of your battles for the king? Who will keep an accurate account of spending and entertain your guests while you plan a siege or serve your aid and knight’s fee to Henry?” Hamlin asked the questions, then took a deep gulp of his wine.
Roen pondered his friend’s words but refused to concede defeat. Self-justified anger seeped from the pores of his skin.
His second in command pushed the point further. “A wife will bring you land and make sure your castellan does not rob you blind. She is trained to be her husband’s helpmate, to take charge when her lord is away on the king’s affairs. A wife is the answer to your needs, unless of course you wish to personally oversee the making of candles, the changing of the rushes, the weaving, the—”
“Enough! I see your point. The prospect doesn’t thrill me any more than before. Women are nothing more than vessels for tricks and tears to get their way. They’re not to be trusted. My own mother…” Roen clamped his jaws tightly. The veins in his neck pulsated with hot blood.
“My friend, I know the way your family has treated you. Through no fault of your own, you have born the brunt of your father’s suspicions. But do not mark all women by your mother.”
“I have not seen any who are different.” Lowering himself to a three-legged chair, he rested his elbows on his knees. The rickety chair groaned in protest at Roen’s weight. He raised his wine goblet from the table to his lips. All those years fighting and sacrificing for the chance to own land…Whatever Hamlin and the king thought, he knew the truth. He was being cheated.
His too-cheerful friend gave him a broad smile and slapped him on the back. “And what women have you-associated with these past ten years? Camp followers, a lord’s cast-off mistress, tavern wenches? We will find you a comely woman tonight with an impressive dowry and sizable inheritance. One who is properly trained to be a lady and servant to her lord husband.”
“We?” Roen arched his brow as he brought the wine goblet from his mouth.
“I do have an interest in the outcome. As your second in command and boyhood friend, I know that you will always want me near. So I want to make sure that I, um, you get the best possible arrangement.”
“By the blessed saints!” Roen finished off his wine in one huge gulp. “How do you always end up missing the manure pile, my friend? I am to be stuck with a wife and the duties of a lord, while you enjoy a home, your freedom, and serve only light duty.”
A sly smile played across Hamlin’s face. “I resent that. ‘Tis extremely hard work being your friend. See how diligently I have had to work to show you the king’s wisdom? Light duty, indeed. Come, Roen, ‘tis time to…evaluate…your choices for a bride.”
Roen followed his friend reluctantly from the chamber down the narrow steps to the great hall of Tintagel. The sound of the crashing ocean waves synchronized with the throb in his head. He did not relish the idea of sharing a trencher with a lady or the necessary polite conversation he would have to make with prospective brides to “evaluate” their identity and wealth.
An ember of hope began to flame in his chest. “Henry cannot force a woman to marry.”
“But what lord would deny the king’s request. Especially those who did not openly defend Henry against Stephen. The king’s vassals are all eager to prove their loyalty to him now that he has the throne. Do not worry, Roen. Anyone you pick will surely agree,” Hamlin reassured his friend.
“Very well.” He sighed deeply. “I will attend this function with an open mind. But remember, Hamlin, I want obedience in a wife. I will not suffer as my father did.” Closing the door, he took a deep, cleansing breath as he always did before engaging in a battle, and headed toward the enemy—the single women of King Henry’s realm.
Lenora slipped through the rough planks of the stall gate. The magnificent animal inside tossed his head to warn her off. She paid no attention to the gesture; she had itched to examine the horse since reaching Tintagel late yesterday.
“Easy, I’ll not harm you.” She crooned while the ivorycolored war-horse stomped his hooves. Convinced she could win the steed’s trust, she reached out and placed her fingertips on the velvety nose. The stallion didn’t nip or bite so she drew closer. On tiptoe, she brushed aside the mane and scratched the horse’s ears.
“Not one flaw,” Lenora marveled. “’Tis a model you are for every knight’s destrier.” A toss of the horse’s white blond mane signaled agreement. “I have some mares at home I would love to breed with you. ’Twould be a handsome sum I could call for those foals.”
“Lenora, are you in here?”
She turned to see her cousin enter the shaded stable. After the bright light of the noonday sun, it took a moment for Beatrice to spy her in the stall. Her cousin’s face drew up in mock surprise. “The stable is the last place I would think to look for you.”
Lenora squeezed through the slats of wood and the hem of her dress snagged on a splinter. The gown tugged her back and she reached to yank it free.
“That is your best kirtle.” Beatrice threw up her arms in annoyance. “Mother will have your hide if you show up at the meal with another ripped hem.” Her patient fingers extricated the cloth from the jagged piece of wood.
“See. No damage.” Lenora pushed the edge of her dress under the younger woman’s nose. “Your mother will have nothing to complain of, though ‘tis little reason she needs to complain.”
“She needs not little reasons when you are so adept at providing big ones.” Her cousin shook her head and her blond curls bobbed.
Lenora drew a piece of straw from the fresh bale and chewed on the end. After a moment of reflective munching, she announced the result of her contemplation. “Life is not fair, Beatrice. I work long hours to train and plan the breeding of Woodshadow horses, yet I cannot take credit for my work.”
Her cousin gave her a sympathetic nod. “’Twould be a surprise indeed for all the mighty lords who clamor for a Woodshadow mount to discover their perfect animal was bred and trained by a woman.”
“Aye, but I do not fear that day will ever come. Nor is it likely those men will discover ‘twas I that divided our fields into threes and planted the fallow field with grain. ‘Twill not happen because no man would believe it. Every success is attributed to my father. ‘Tis not fair.”
No offer of solution came from the petite young woman. “’Tis a woman’s lot, cousin. There is naught we can do.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.
“The queen would not say so.”
“The queen has land to back her up and a husband who awaits us now,” her cousin reasoned.
“Aye, yet I will seek out the owner of this destrier. Perhaps, in Father’s name, I can contract his loan as a stud. The horse will suffer none for it.” She gave the animal one last perusal. “Come, we must find Geoffrey and lay out a plan.”
The idea caused Beatrice’s eyes to sparkle. Lenora surveyed the deep azure tunic and kirtle that matched the wide blue eyes. A delicate gold-link girdle accentuated her cousin’s tiny waist. “He’s sure to fall in love with you all over again.”
“Enough to speak to my mother and your father?” She lowered her head and spoke in a tight voice. “I don’t care if I’m a lady of a great castle. All I want is to be safe.”
The statement made Lenora uneasy. Too often when her cousin spoke of her feelings for her suitor she expressed them in terms of safety instead of love. But she had informed Geoffrey of the deep-seated fears the girl suffered. He accepted them as part of loving Beatrice.
She started to speak but a page barreled past her. He ran to the war-horse’s stall and began to scoop grain into the empty food bag. “Boy, to whom does this animal belong?”
“Why, milady? Is he ill?” The boy’s voice cracked with worry. “I forgot to feed him this morn but rushed here as soon as I remembered. The knight will beat me sure if he finds I’ve not taken good care of him.”
“Nay, he is fine.”
The lad gave her a doubtful look.
“Believe me, I know the beasts. He is none the worse for a late meal, though do not make a habit of it,” Lenora reassured the page.
His eyes showed the first signs of tears and his young body trembled. A flare of hot temper blazed through her. What knight would so threaten the lad? He could only be eight or nine.
“Are you sure, my lady? Sir Roen de Galliard is not a knight I wish to cross.” The boy looked hopeful. “I think I will check on the animal myself.”’ He ducked into the stall and began to inspect the horse.
Lenora shook her head in disapproval. So the great warrior scared children as well as barons. The code of chivalry demanded a knight protect women and children, not frighten innocent boys. In her eyes, Galliard fell far short of that code.
“Lenora?” Beatrice’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “What will we do about him?” Her cousin dropped her shoulders in defeat.
“You’re not to worry about Galliard. Geoffrey and I will think of a way to keep you from him.” She gave her cousin a confident wink. “Come, we need to return to the hall for the midday meal.”
During the short trip back, Lenora racked her brains for some plan to help her cousin. She entered Tintagel’s great hall and joined the assembly of people. Entertainers, nobility and servants wove through the hall. Voices chattered and dogs barked. The melodic sounds of the musicians could barely be heard above the din.
Beatrice poked her in the back. “There’s Mother.”
Across the hall, Matilda maneuvered between the gaily dressed aristocrats. The elder woman’s gaze swept from side to side, searching. Lenora pulled her cousin back. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Geoffrey squeezed his body between two heavy-set warriors.
“Come with me.” He motioned toward the wall. The noise in the hall drowned out most of his words. Lenora followed with Beatrice in tow. He led them to an indentation in the thick castle wall. An arched window allowed in midday light.
“We must plan.” Geoffrey’s sienna gaze darted about the room. “Our fears are more than warranted. The rumor is the king intends to repay Galliard with a wife.”
Beatrice’s back stiffened, color drained from her face. Her voice wooden, she stated, “If you know this, my mother is sure to, also.”
“Aye,” Lenora theorized, “but from what I hear, Galliard strikes me as a man who would want more than Father has set aside for you. Pray the man is as greedy as I believe him to be.”
“Can we take that risk?” Geoffrey held up a hand to silence her protest. His voice sounded bleak. “There is always the chance Galliard could be turned by Beatrice’s face.”
Lenora crossed her arms and began to pace back and forth in the small area. Three steps forward, a sharp pivot and then three steps back. The answer came to her on the fourth trip.
“We must make sure he does not see her.” She pointed her finger at the young couple. “There is naught we can do till after the meal. When the trenchers are cleared for the poor, that will be the time Matilda will try to introduce Beatrice to Galliard. Geoffrey, you must see that your lady removes herself from the hall.” Lenora squeezed her alarmed cousin. “The gardens will be populated but do not strike me as a site where Galliard is likely to spend time.”
“What of Matilda?” There was a critical tone to Geoffrey’s voice.
“Ah, my dear aunt.” She snapped her fingers. “Lady Marguerite is here. Matilda will jump at the chance to be introduced to one of Queen Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“Will that delay her long enough for me to spirit Beatrice away?”
“Lady Marguerite was one of the castle’s biggest gossips. I trust she has not changed. She will hold my aunt’s interest.”
Geoffrey patted Beatrice’s hand and gave her a wink. “Do not worry, my love. We need only hide you till Galliard chooses a bride. He is sure to arrange a betrothal soon.”
And I will hasten that along, Lenora vowed to herself. Before this night is over, Galliard will be betrothed to some unlucky girl. A trumpet blast intruded into her promise.
“The meal begins. When the trenchers are distributed to the poor, look for me.” The young man blended into the crowd.
“Always I am looking for you two. Have you no thought to proper etiquette?” Matilda swooped down on the girls from behind.
Lenora smothered a groan and turned to face her aunt. Her hand moved in a tiny sign of the cross in hopes her aunt had not seen Geoffrey speaking with them.
“Aunt Matilda, we were just…” She hesitated and explored the recesses of her brain for a believable excuse.
“I don’t have time for your stories now. Come, I have us seated at the far table.” Matilda gripped her daughter’s hand firmly. “Lenora, your father’s friend requested you to sit with him. Lord Ranulf is on this side of the hall.” Beatrice gave Lenora a helpless look while Matilda dragged her to the opposite side of the room.
Lenora scooted to her seat just as the royal party entered. She dutifully rose with the rest of the hall, lowered her eyes and folded her hands. The crackle of paper in her pocket reminded her of the letter she had been entrusted to deliver.
As she curtsied, Lenora ventured a peek at England’s sovereign. She met Henry’s curious eyes, alight with good humor. He gave her an impish wink when he passed. The cleric at the king’s side cleared his throat and pretended not to notice the lack of decorum. She returned the devilish wink. Servants directly behind the party almost tripped with their heavy loads. Henry’s laugh boomed out across the great hall. He took his seat at the raised table and commanded, “Food and drink.”
Great platters of artfully displayed food were presented to the guests. Four men strained to support pallets with two golden brown suckling pigs. The glistening skins made Lenora’s mouth water. Two porters carried a mountain of sweet cakes and honeyed nuts. They managed to genuflect before the king with their delicious load. Servants ladled bite-sized pieces of meat into the guests’ trenchers. Bells tinkled from the juggler’s hat. A minstrel rehearsed a ballad while he strummed a lyre.
Seated at her right, Lord Ranulf stabbed a piece of spiced meat from the trencher and offered it to her. “How is your father? When you were delayed, I feared ‘twas due to my old comrade’s health.”
“He’s much better, thank you, Lord Ranulf.” She chewed the tender morsel. One of the many pages scampered over to fill the agate wine cup. The tip of his tongue showed while he poured the red liquid into the heavy cup.
Lord Ranulf waited with patience for the lad to finish his task. “I suppose ‘twas the heavy rains that delayed you. ‘Tis a shame you missed what competition there was. The rains canceled much of the tourney, also.”
“The roads were nearly impassable, but my aunt was determined to come.” She watched the page and felt the lad’s nervousness.
With trained grace, the page returned the goblet without a spot on the white linen tablecloth. He let out a loud sigh of relief. She gave the boy an understanding smile. ‘Twas not easy to be at everyone’s beck and call. An opportunity to gain information on her adversary came to her. “I have heard that much of what victories there were belong to Sir Roen de Galliard. Is he here?” She flashed the elderly knight a brilliant smile.
“I’m sure he is.” The gray-haired man scanned the crowd, then smiled. “The knight approaches Henry now. He’s a hard man to miss.”
She turned toward the high table and knew instantly who Lord Ranulf spoke of. Roen de Galliard towered over the king and the rest of the men in the room. The modest cut of his tunic did nothing to hide the man’s brutal strength and power. Lenora wondered at the aura of self-assurance the man radiated.
Broad shoulders filled the back of the chair he sat in while he conversed with the king. Worn long and in the old Saxon style, his mane of hair flowed to just past his shoulders. The flaxen hair hid much of the man’s face.
She concentrated on deciphering what she could from his half-hidden features. His sharp profile showed rugged lines and dark color. Battle scars, white with age, gave him a fierce look but did not mar him in disfigurement. No emotion humanized his face. Like a marble statue, he sat on the dais. He seemed to dismiss the crowd of people with a bored disregard, as though they were not important enough to consider.
A sudden movement and he turned to face her intruding gaze. Eyes the color of thunderclouds pierced her own. Humiliated, Lenora broke contact, not sure if he had truly seen her or if her guilt made her self-conscious. Unwelcomed warmth burned her cheeks.
“Lady Lenora?” Lord Ranulf wrinkled his brow in concern. “You look ill.”
“Nay, I am fine.” A quick gulp of wine calmed her. She prodded the man to speak to give her a chance to recover from her embarrassment. “Pray, tell me of your daughter. I have not seen her here.”
“Expecting again. The girl has given me three strapping grandsons. I think this time she and her husband wish for a daughter to spoil.”
The gregarious elder recited story after story of his eldest grandson’s strengths and wits throughout the meal. She nodded at the right moments and made the correct oohs and aahs but listened only halfheartedly. Every long tale gave her the opportunity to reconstruct her composure.
Fortified at last, Lenora hid behind heavy lidded eyes and spied on the dais table. The king sat with his advisers and the Lord of Tintagel, but the knight had disappeared. She probed the hall for his whereabouts and spotted him with no trouble. He stood near the back of the hall with a dark-haired man. At first she thought ‘twas Geoffrey he spoke to, but the smaller man carried himself differently, his stance more lighthearted than her friend’s serious one.
Lord Ranulf’s tales continued to roll from his tongue. The abundance of wine the man had drunk probably explained his exceptionally good memory. A horn blasted from the balcony above. At last, the end of the meal; time to break away from her talkative companion. “Lord Ranulf, thank you so much for the delightful entertainment. You must come and see us soon.”
“Oh, aye, I will.” The man reached for the wine cup and slurped the last few drops. “But let me finish my story. Charles, that’s the oldest boy, he grabbed the horse’s tail and—”
Lenora shot to her feet; friendship could demand only so much. “As much as I would love to hear the tale of the tail, I must speak to King Henry. Father wishes me to extend his sorrow at not being able to attend.”
“Of course, of course. I will see you later and finish the story. That boy is a rascal.” Lord Ranulf raised his hand in salute and turned to the man seated across the table from him. “Darius, my friend. Come let us share a cup of wine. Have you heard of the prank my grandson pulled?”
Lenora whistled under her breath at her escape and took off to scan for her relatives. Luck came her way; they stood not far from her. A woman in a garish blob of color flittered near them. Lady Marguerite. Thank heaven for such a stroke of luck.
Rushing to her aunt’s side, she whipped her arm through Matilda’s and swung her around. “Aunt Matilda, may I introduce you to one of Queen Eleanor’s favorite ladies-in-waiting. Lady Marguerite, this is my aunt, Lady Matilda.”
With a slingshot motion, she propelled her aunt forward and pushed the two ladies together. “I know you have much to discuss. Lady Matilda was at Stephen’s court, you know.”
The two dowagers sized each other up. Curiosity won. Each dropped a snippet of gossip, then their heads drew together and the real news began. Her plan was working.
She backed away with Beatrice behind her. After she cleared the eagle eyes of Matilda, a giggle burst from her lips. “Step one, accomplished. Hurry and find Geoffrey. I’ll take care of Galliard.”
For the first time all day, her cousin’s face glowed with hope. “Perhaps this will work.”
“You had doubts?”
“Your plans don’t always work. Remember when you tried to-”
“Don’t think failure, think victory.” A gentle push toward the window displayed her urgency. “Now hurry off. Stay in the garden as long as you can and watch for your mother.”
Beatrice merged with the crowd and met Geoffrey near the window. He leaned to whisper in her cousin’s ear, his brown curls merging with the blond ones.
“Step two, taken care of.” The blond giant of a knight came into view and she slapped her thighs. The crunch of paper reminded her of another mission. She struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’ve got to deliver Father’s letter.”
King Henry rose from the high table when she scurried to his side. Breathless, she pulled the wrinkled sealed missive from her pocket. “Your Majesty, my father wishes me to extend his regrets at not being able to fulfill his obligation of counsel due to his health. He hopes this will aid you in your decision on the property dispute between Sir Ranulf and Sir Champlain.”
“’Tis with sorrow I heard of my hunting companion’s malaise. He will improve, I’m sure,” Henry stated good-naturedly. “We’ve planned a hunting adventure this spring. I want to try out my new falcon against your father’s Swiftkill.” Henry’s bright eyes shone with warmth.
He opened the letter and browsed its contents. The king’s brows knit together. “When did your father give you this?”
“Shortly after your invitation reached us.”
“Did anyone else see this message or know you were to deliver it to me?”
“Nay, Your Majesty. We, uh, Father felt ‘twould be less of a commotion if my aunt knew nothing of it. Is something wrong?” Lenora queried.
“Your father has given me something to ponder. Don’t worry, dear, nothing to concern yourself with. Go, enjoy the entertainment.” He brushed her off and retreated from the room, the letter still in his beefy hands.
Step three, accomplished.
Now for Galliard. She surveyed the crowd for the knight. Young girls in brilliant gowns glided about, casting flirtatious glances at wealthy lords. Laughter boomed from a group of war-hardened knights as they recounted old battles. Lenora took a deep breath and began her search for Roen de Galliard, not quite certain of her battle plan but determined to protect her cousin’s happiness.
Chapter Three (#ulink_2b1e7f59-8d32-5bba-bd9d-6a69dc33b706)
“Hamlin, take your pick. They are all the same to me.” Roen turned his back on the assembly of possible brides. “Only make sure you choose one with a prosperous demesne and a proper attitude.”
“How am I to know that? ‘Tis battle we’ve spent our time in, not tallying up what riches belong to what lord,” Hamlin replied, irritated. “I’m afraid this is going to be more difficult than I thought.” He stroked his chin while Roen gave him a cynical smile.
The great hall of Tintagel blossomed with the beauty of English ladies. Overadorned children, displayed like trinkets by their mothers, danced by him. The sight nauseated him. Roen would rather have his fee paid in gold, but the chance to own land compelled him. A lord with no other feudal obligation except to the king was a prize few obtained. However distasteful, marriage enabled him to become landed.
“I suppose we could ask someone,” Hamlin ventured.
“If a decent heiress is in the room, a man with good sense would not proclaim it to us but use the information to better his own lot,” Roen said, rebuffing his friend. The two men simultaneously dropped down onto a half-log bench.
“I’m better prepared for battle than I am to search for you a wife. I say let’s just look for a pretty one,” Hamlin suggested with a shrug.
“Perhaps I can help you with this dilemma.” A feminine voice intruded on their conversation.
Roen did not stand but turned his head to view the speaker. His tone sarcastic, he asked, “In what way could you be of any help to me?” He purposely conveyed his contempt and gave the wench a look meant to dissolve her audacity.
She almost turned away, but didn’t. Her eyes changed to a shade of brown that tantalized him. They reminded him of something familiar, yet it eluded him. His inability to stamp a name on their color needled him. It did nothing to improve his impression of her.
The woman did not lower her eyes from his scrutiny. He saw her back pull up straighter. The pointed chin tilted up like a defiant child. Her eyes blazed, her voice strained to rein in her anger. “I know most, if not all, of the women present and the worth of their landholdings. I’ll give you information on any women you choose.”
Roen snorted with indignation. “I should trust you? How do I know you won’t lie to further your own cause?”
“How would being untruthful aid me in acquiring your warhorse?” The woman scrunched her brows together, perplexed.
“You want Destrier!” Roen felt an almost uncontrollable urge to shake the wench senseless. “No woman is worth that horse.”
“Destrier? You named that magnificent animal Destrier? I suppose your dog is called Dog.” The woman’s voice held back none of her scorn.
Roen opened his mouth to speak, but the truth of her words muted him. What did it matter what he called his hound?
“I don’t want to keep the animal, just use him for stud service on some of my father’s mares at Woodshadow.”
At the mention of the keep, Roen’s interest peaked. “Woodshadow, you say. Does not the king have a palfrey from your stable?”
“Aye, that he does, a gift from my father.” Pride marked her words. “A steed from Woodshadow is much desired. Your mount, Destrier—” the woman rolled her eyes “—would be no worse from the wear.”
“Perhaps she could help us at that,” Hamlin noted.
Not willing to concede yet, Roen sneered. “An idiot could tell that Destrier is an unsurpassable mount. That she recognizes the fact hardly merits us trusting her judgment. How do we know she doesn’t wish to marry me herself?”
The words were no sooner uttered than Roen knew exactly what her eyes reminded him of—molten gold. He had seen a man in the Holy Lands melt down the precious metal to form items for the church. The woman’s eyes reminded him of hot gold, rich in color, scalding in temperature. Her eyes seared his with their intensity.
“I can think of no greater purgatory than to be your wife. For a number of reasons, most of them dealing with you.” She blasted out her words in a fiery voice. Nearby, heads turned toward them. The woman lowered her voice and gritted her teeth. She turned from him to face Hamlin, who looked both shocked and amused.
“Pray, knight, you seem to have a sensible nature,” she began placatingly. “Kindly tell your friend that not all women seek the confinement of marriage. Some wish time to study and learn. I am one such woman. Marriage is not what I seek for myself.” She smiled, and the embers of anger in her eyes began to fade. “Besides, I’ll be honest.” Her smile twisted into a mischievous grin. “I am cursed with three faults which make marriage not an option for me.”
Cursed! Her smile kindled a twinge of arousal but he quickly doused it. She seemed too intelligent to believe in superstition. Roen started to terminate the conversation with her but her eyes held him. They no longer burned, but had mellowed to the shade of warm cider. A half-hidden smile twitched at her full lips. She dared to tease him!
“Only three? You do yourself service, woman.” Roen arched his brow cynically.
The smile became more animated. “Aye, only three, but as far as men are concerned, major ones. The first is plain to see, I am no beauty.”
His gaze raked down the length of her body. She stood almost to his shoulder, and he savored the length of time it took to explore her body. With caged patience, she waited while he noted her generous mouth and elflike chin. He let his gaze linger on the mature breasts. The unpretentious gown hugged at the gentle swell of her hips. Dark braids hung between the valley of her breasts. Wisps of curls escaped the confines of the butter-colored ribbons of her plaits.
Roen studied the wavy mass of hair. At first it appeared dark brown, but as the sunlight filtered through the window, it highlighted the copper tresses. He smiled despite himself when, once more, the maverick lock of hair escaped from behind her ear and she replaced it yet again.
Aye, no English beauty: she was too dark and her features too irregular. Yet, she intrigued him, especially her eyes. Never had he seen eyes the color of gold, or ones that expressed so much of the person’s inner self. Now those eyes stayed on him. Surprised, Roen realized she was evaluating him.
Humph! Roen admitted to himself. The chit has backbone. A mere look does not send her off in tears. Finally, when he saw she would stand her ground, he answered, “I concede, and the other faults?”
The wench relaxed: he could see the tension leave her body. A grudging look of admiration tinted her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve already had a taste of the other two. I’m exceptionally intelligent, and not afraid to let others know it. Lastly, I have a bit of a temper.” She held her fingers apart slightly to demonstrate how small a “bit.”
Hamlin bubbled with laughter, while Roen quirked his mouth into a reluctant smile. “I can readily see how those three particular faults might make it hard to find a husband, Lady…” Hamlin paused. “You know our names but yours remains a mystery.”
“I am Lenora de Marchavel of Woodshadow. My father is Sir Edmund. Now, do we have a bargain?”
Roen racked his memory for information on Sir Edmund. The king spoke of him often and considered the man a loyal friend. From what he had heard, the girl’s father was a man of honor and integrity. Would the same hold true for the daughter? Still reluctant to enter an agreement with a woman, Roen assessed his alternatives.
“You drive a hard bargain.” Lenora’s eyes gleamed. “I will give you the choice of one foal your animal sires. The foal will be worth a hefty bag of gold, not to mention the prestige of owning a Woodshadow mount.”
“Agreed. You will tell me truthfully of any woman I choose. In return, Destrier is yours for a month.” Roen knew he had the better deal, yet Lenora’s eyes troubled him. Instead of defeat, her warm spice-colored eyes shone with victory. Roen nodded toward the ladies milling about in the great chamber. “Pick one and tell me what you can.”
“Roen, there is no use wasting Lady Lenora’s time on all of these women.” Hamlin gave Lenora a crooked smile and pointed toward the crowd. “How about that one in the yellow gown? The one seated at the feet of the rather large dowager.”
“Lady Daphne. She is two years my junior. Her father is Sir George Champlain. He lays claim to much land, though ‘tis spread widely and difficult to oversee.”
“The condition of her inheritance?” Roen asked impatiently. He barely registered the presence of the flaxen-haired young girl.
“Well, she stands to inherit a sizable fief on the birth of her first child. In fact, that property is the major income for Sir Champlain.” Lenora bit her upper lip, the edges of her mouth upturned in an engaging grin.
Roen eyed his informant carefully. A faint light danced through her eyes. She held something back. “The rest,” he demanded.
An impish smile slid across her lips. “The only thing I could add is the fact that she is thrice widowed.”
“Three husbands!” Hamlin jumped up and peered at the innocent-looking beauty across the room. Daphne, her eyes downcast, continued to listen to the never-ending complaints of the older woman. “What happened to them?” Hamlin asked in a hushed voice.
“The usual—hunting accident, illness, thrown from a horse—things like that,” Lenora replied matter-of-factly.
“Why so many husbands lost to accidents?” Roen queried. He noted the intelligent sparkle in Lenora’s eyes. A ripple of admiration intrigued him, but he brushed the emotion aside.
“’Tis no secret, Daphne’s father does not wish to part with her dowry land. By allowing his daughter to marry but not to conceive, he keeps control of his best property and gains from Daphne’s inheritance as a widow.”
Roen slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “He should be hanged. Why have you not taken this matter before King Henry?”
“Because I have no evidence. Though I nursed the poor girl through two miscarriages, I’ve no proof her father caused them or the demise of her husbands. A village woman who came to me to speak of the tea Sir Champlain forced upon his daughter prior to her miscarriages died on her return home. Daphne knows what her father and brothers are capable of, as do I. She would never live to testify against them.”
Lenora drew back and leaned against the cold stone wall. Misery dulled the glow in her eyes and face. “Someday that man will pay for the way he treats his daughter.”
Brittle agate eyes displayed anger, sadness and fear. Roen knew Lenora did not lack spirit, for few men stood up to him as she had. Lord Champlain must be a monster to cause her such dread.
“Your counsel is well taken, go on to the next.” Roen waved his hand dismissively toward the great hall. For the next hour lie listened to Lenora recite all she knew on each woman Hamlin pointed out. She informed them of gambling debts, land disputes, how complex their obligations to area lords and the disposition of each woman. Roen sat on the pew with his long powerful legs stretched out, ankles crossed, disinterested. If he bothered to ask a question, it dealt with the woman’s holdings or family reputation. Finally, he rose, his frustration and disdain erupting.
“I have had enough. Every woman here has either a poor dowry, a plain face or some other shortcoming.” Roen paced in front of his two confidants. He stopped and turned to face Lenora. “Are there no women here capable of meeting the most basic of standards?”
“What do you expect?” Lenora could hold her anger no longer. “You look over a possible wife with the same enthusiasm as purchasing a…a cow for pasture. Do you feel that you are so great a prize? Think what the woman gets in return from a marriage to you. Nothing, since you bring no land and she becomes the brood mare for an overbearing oaf. A dullard who can’t even think up a proper name for his own horse.” Lenora took a breath, ready to continue her tirade.
“Who is that?” Hamlin interrupted the tongue-lashing and pointed to the opposite side of the room. Lenora swiveled, looked at the young woman Hamlin pointed at and groaned. She swallowed hard and cursed Beatrice’s timing. Why couldn’t she have remained hidden for just a while longer? By Hamlin’s dropped jaw, she could tell Beatrice had made an impression, the wrong impression. Lenora stepped back and stumbled into the wall-like chest of Roen de Galliard. His strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight against him.
“Steady, Lady Lenora,” Roen whispered in her ear. His breath caused gooseflesh to race down her neck. She closed her eyes to regain her composure. Instead, it fortified the sounds and sensations about her. She heard the pounding of his heart, felt the rise and fall of each breath he took. Suddenly, the sensations stopped. Roen released her as if she were a cocklebur bush. He stepped away from her and moved toward Hamlin. The siege commander took a deep breath and surveyed the room. His eyes settled on her cousin. Lenora knew his thoughts, what size dowry did Beatrice possess and would she act the docile servant of her husband.
“Who is she?” Hamlin did not drag his gaze away from Beatrice. Lenora hesitated. When she did not answer, Hamlin looked over his shoulder, misery evident on his boyish face. “She’s married to someone already, isn’t she. A beauty like that could not remain unclaimed for long.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. His ashen locks swayed with the movement.
“Tell him,” Roen ordered.
Lenora thought fast. If she told them Beatrice was married it might work for a time, but Aunt Matilda would find a way to introduce Beatrice to Roen and eventually her lie would be discovered. The greedy lout might marry her cousin just to get even with her; he was mean enough. The knight had more pride in himself than any man she had ever met. Pride! The answer to her problem unfolded. She could save Beatrice.
Lenora straightened up to her full height and crossed he arms. She looked the knight in the eyes and stated, “That is my cousin, Beatrice de Greyere. She is unmarried, but unavailable.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she is in love with someone.”
Roen stared at her, incredulous. “And why should that deter me? Women are always falling in and out of love. It means nothing as long as she has an acceptable dowry and is obedient to her vows.” He laughed like a satyr and turned to his friend. “Come, we will introduce ourselves to this beauty that has so bewitched you.” Roen pretended to close Hamlin’s gaping mouth and lead him toward Beatrice.
“Very well, then.” Lenora took one more chance, a dangerous one, but calculated to prey on the man’s overbearing pride. “I’ll introduce you, but you do not strike me as the type of man who could make love to his wife knowing she wished he were someone else.”
The sound of his quick intake of breath warned her to brace herself for the storm of his anger. She contemplated running, but where could she go that he could not find her? Roen advanced, his square jaw clenched, neck veins visible. His huge hands were balled up into fists at his sides. Lenora had a momentary vision of those two clubs pummeling the life from her body. She steeled herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were no longer the color of thunderclouds. Now they reminded her of a full-blown gale, one that would wreak havoc for days.
“By God’s Wounds, woman, you go too far,” Roen snarled. “Do you doubt I can command obedience from my wife? I will not tolerate a whore for a wife.”
“I’ve no doubt you would try to command your wife’s very thoughts. You can use those powerful hands to control a body, but not a mind, and never a heart.” Lenora stood firm, anger overruling her fear as usual.
“Sir Roen,” the young page from the stable interrupted. He smiled at Lenora and handed Roen a message. He turned with a smart bow to the lady and started to leave.
“Hold, boy.” Roen’s voice stopped the page in a dead halt. “When you deliver a message, you wait on a reply.” His gaze dropped from Lenora and spotted the insignia of King Henry scrawled across the bottom of the missive. Damn! He would have to attend to the business of royalty before the woman’s punishment. Lenora’s jabs had hit close to home. His father’s attempt to control his mother’s heart with fists and cruel punishments had been to no avail. His mother still had betrayed him and left Roen to suffer the painful taunts of his brothers and the mental and physical blows of his father. How many times had his father told him not to trust the heart of a woman? No woman would ever hurt him again, least of all a mouthy shrew.
“This is not over.” Roen glanced up from the message, but the woman had vanished. There were many dark recesses and support beams in the great hall, too many places that could cast shadows even in daylight. He could not keep Henry waiting. Cursing under his breath, he barked at the page, “Where is the king?” Roen did not wait on a reply but marched ahead. The boy scurried to catch up with the knight’s long strides. Hamlin followed behind, craning his neck to watch Beatrice.
When she saw the two men leave, Lenora stepped out of the shadows, shaking her head in disbelief. What a bore, an unimaginative mass of brutality. No matter what the cost, she would not let this brute have gentle Beatrice. He would have her cowering in some corner at his first angry glare. Lenora picked up the edge of her gown and raced across the hall to her cousin. Beatrice must be warned; they must leave immediately. For Beatrice’s sake and, as she thought of the knight’s fury, her own.
Roen climbed the stairs to the king’s bedchamber and wondered why the need for such privacy. In the close confines of the castle, the king’s chamber was the most secure place. After instructing his second in command to patrol outside the room, he entered and greeted his king.
“Your Majesty.” He approached the red-haired man seated near a table. Henry stood and grasped his extended hand in a bone-crushing handshake. Not as tall as Roen, the king was still an impressive man. His love of hunting and riding kept him trim and washed his freckled face with healthy color. Faint laugh lines creased his mouth and eyes.
“Roen, my dear friend, so how goes the hunt?” The king gave him a wicked grin. Roen knew to which “hunt” the king referred. Henry had followed the same hunt several times. With his wife, Eleanor, living in Aquitaine, the king consoled his loss with several mistresses, the Lady Rosmund in particular. Roen wondered how wise it was of Henry to parade his lovers at court so openly. Queen Eleanor was a shrewd and jealous woman. Henry could not afford an arranged annulment and lose his wife’s overseas holdings.
“I prefer to speak of more pleasant subjects,” Roen answered dryly. There was more on the king’s mind than just teasing him.
Henry crossed to the table and retrieved a letter. “Read this. Tell me what you think.” The king sat down, arms folded across his barrellike chest.
Roen browsed through the letter to the king. The sender stated his opinion on a nearby land dispute. Odd choices of words made the letter somewhat convoluted but the gist could be easily understood. He stroked his chin and looked at the missive again. From the corner of his eye, he spied King Henry watching him for a reaction. There must be something he had missed. He restudied the letter.
“’Tis in code!” A familiar pattern emerged from the confusing phrases. “We used this code during the war with Stephen!”
King Henry nodded and reached for the paper. “It took me some time to discover it. If I did not know the sender so well, I might have missed it. He has purposely mentioned battles where the code was used.”
Roen glanced through the letter again, using the code to glean the true message. “He asks for help to protect his family and his land. A traitor is in his midst.” He turned toward the king. “What will you do?”
“This—” Henry took the letter from his hands “—could simply be a letter on a land case and the code a coincidence. Or a good and loyal friend could be in need. Sir Edmund has aided me countless times. I shan’t abandon him now. That is why I need you to help him. First, because he is a loyal compatriot. Secondly, there are still those who secretly oppose me as king. I cannot afford to let his keep fall into a traitor’s hands.”
The dull ache in the back of his head turned into a crashing storm of pain. Sir Edmund! Heaven would not punish him like this. He searched his memory for every knight named Edmund he had served with. Unconsciously, he massaged his left temple. Sharp daggers of pain lanced through his head. Roen asked, “Is the man Sir Edmund de Marchavel?”
“Aye. I’m surprised you could tell that from his letter. I want you to think of some excuse and investigate this matter. His daughter—”
“I’ve met!” Distaste flavored his voice. “Why hasn’t Sir Edmund married the shrew off to some poor fool?”
Henry threw back his head, and his laugh boomed across the room. “So you’ve met the sharp-tongued Lenora. I see no blood. Her wounds could not have been too deep.” The king chuckled while he poured a tankard of ale for himself and Roen. “Ah, Lenora, she’s a favorite of mine. Always asking questions and demanding answers. She must be what Eleanor was like in her younger days. Before life made her hard.” The king paused thoughtfully and sipped his drink.
“The girl has a tongue as hideous as Medusa’s hair.” Roen took a long gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll warrant ‘tis just as deadly to a weaker man.”
The king slapped his knee and gave a belly laugh. Then he pointed his finger at Roen and warned, “Don’t let the girl fool you into thinking she’s had no suitors. There have been several, but she spurned them all. Books and horses hold her interest more than marriage. Since her older brother stood to inherit, Sir Edmund paid the fee to keep her unmarried. Allowed her to follow her fancies at home. There was some discussion of her entering a convent to further her education.”
“I pity the abbess who receives her as a novitiate.” Roen could not picture the fiery girl in drab gowns and the bleak surroundings of an abbey. Nor could he see her taking vows of silence and obedience.
“Things have changed recently, perhaps the reason Edmund is in danger. Her brother died last year in battle against one of Stephen’s men, which leaves Lenora as Edmund’s only heir to Woodshadow. The girl must marry and have a child in order for the keep to stay in the family.” The king shook his head and muttered under his breath. “So many good men lost their lives for me. I owe England much in restitution.”
“Who inherits if Lenora remains childless or—” Roen hesitated “—dies?” Although the woman vexed him sorely, the thought of the spirited girl dead did not sit well with him.
“The property is held through Lenora’s mother. If she dies or is without an heir, then Woodshadow will revert to her aunt, the Lady Matilda and her daughter, Lady Beatrice. Both have motive. They are landless and living on Edmund’s good graces at Woodshadow.”
“They should be easily dealt with. Bring the women in and let them view the rats and roaches of the dungeon. A few threats and they will break quickly.” Roen took a gulp of his drink and considered the matter settled.
“And what if ‘tis not them? Then the traitor will know we are on to him. We may push the treacherous party too far and forfeit the lives of both Sir Edmund and his daughter. We must go carefully and gain the proof we need.”
Roen gave him a resigned nod. “What is it you want me to do?”
The king stood and continued, “So far, Lenora has not been harmed and is unaware of the danger. The traitor may hope she will still enter the convent and thus give .up her inheritance. But if she had plans to marry, it might flush our prey out.” King Henry gave him a speculative look.
“Nay!” Roen roared his refusal. “I would never consider marrying that sharp-tongued hellcat. Nay, Henry, you are my liege lord, but do not ask this of me.”
“’Twas—” the king spread his hands out eloquently “—a suggestion. A possible solution to two problems. But if ‘tis unacceptable…”
“Unacceptable? Your Majesty, can you imagine a lifetime with that woman? She’d drive a man insane.” Roen didn’t think Henry understood the depths of his strenuous protest. “‘Tis obvious her father has not kept a strong rein on the girl. I doubt she even knows how to run a household.” A groan erupted when he saw the king fold his hands across his chest and give him a steely look. “Your Majesty, the Lady Lenora is definitely not what I want in a wife….”
Henry leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips and contemplated the strong ale in his goblet. He knew Roen well, and the knight’s protest intrigued him. The man was more interested in Lady Lenora than he cared to admit, or he would not still be cursing the girl. Perhaps marriage was a viable solution to his problem. His siege commander would be repaid for his military aid with a wealthy keep, Woodshadow would be secure with a vassal loyal to the throne, and his old friend’s daughter would be protected. He just had to deliver the solution to Roen in a more digestible form.
“Perhaps you are right,” King Henry agreed. “After all, since the fee has been paid, she would have to agree to marry you. I could not command it or even request it. She may refuse you.”
“She wouldn’t dare!” Roen could not believe that any woman would not be eager to jump into the marriage bed with him. “I may be landless, but I don’t enter the contract with nothing. I’ve enough in booty and ransom money to impress even the likes of the Lady Lenora.”
“Nevertheless, we must think of a ruse for you to visit Woodshadow for a time. Long enough for you to discover if there is a threat, and if there is, the source.”
“I already have one,” Roen admitted with reluctance. His mood did not improve when the king raised his brows in mock surprise. Above all things he respected loyalty; he would help his liege’s friend. “I need a few days to collect my winnings from the tourney. I’ll be in Woodshadow before the next fortnight.” He took leave of the king and met Hamlin at the end of the hall.
“What happened?” Hamlin asked. “I heard you bellowing from here.”
“Come with me.” He strode out of the hall, leaving his friend behind. Unmindful of Hamlin’s pleas to slow down, he strode toward the stables. Reaching Destrier’s stall, he checked the horse’s feed and well-being.
“Well, my friend,” Roen said, patting the horse’s neck. “At least one of us will be enjoying himself at Woodshadow. You’ll be busy with the mares and I’ll be…” His mouth grew dry and his voice died out. Like a bit of fog, a dream of Lady Lenora enticed him. An image of her long, slender white legs wrapped around his waist seized his imagination. Her hair, like copper bracelets, tangled in his fingers. The ragged sound of his breath shook him from the spell. He ran his hand across his forehead and down the back of his head. His body’s reaction to this woman did not make sense.
A quiet, demure, obedient wife was what he sought. He would go to Woodshadow and protect the girl and her father because the king had asked him. But he would use the opportunity to exact his revenge against the woman’s dagger-sharp words. As with any battle, Roen intended his revenge to be costly to his opponent, Lenora.
Chapter Four (#ulink_efeb64ac-c00f-57d1-83c2-648ccee16bcf)
“By the blessed saints!” The gnarled old man threw down the twig broom in disgust. “Lady Lenora, I’ll never be gettin’ my morning work done with ye tramping back and forth.”
Lenora halted her relentless pacing and looked down at her feet. The stableman’s neat piles of dirt lay scattered, her footprints visible in each.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I was so worried about Silver I didn’t look where I was walking. I promise to be more careful.”
“Aye, ye promise to look out. Just like ye promised to not be worrying yeself sick over this mare…and Gladymer…and ye father…and…” Tom poked an arthritic finger at her. “And about whatever happened over at that tourney.”
The desire to deny the charges stuck in her throat. Tom’s one-eyed stare silenced all her rebuttals. He pointed to the black patch that covered his left eye and added, “I may ‘ave lost an eye in battle, but the one I still got works good enough for me to know somethin’s amiss. What was it that made ye have to leave Tintagel so quick ye barely had time to brush the sweat marks off your horses?”
“I was homesick. I wanted to be at Woodshadow with Father and Silver Maple.” Lenora smiled. “And you.”
“Humph! There’s no need to be trying to grease me. It won’t work like it does on your aunt. So ye don’t want to talk to me. A loyal servant all my life. Served with your father, saved his life countless times, taught some pesky little miss to ride.” Tom began to number off on his fingers all of his numerous sacrifices.
“Believe me, nothing out of the ordinary happened.” She fixed a bright smile on her face to reassure her father’s retired infantryman. To escape from Tom’s prodding questions, she moved to her mare’s stall. Leaning her elbows on the gate, she rested her chin on her hands.
How could she tell her father’s man about her confrontation with Roen de Galliard? Anything she told the old man would be channeled to her father’s ear. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about her fears and confused emotions concerning Galliard. Beatrice had her own concerns, Aunt Matilda was out of the question and she didn’t dare tell her father. Lenora knew she had pushed the golden giant beyond the safety point. ‘Twas only luck that had spared her from the man’s bad temper.
Closing her eyes, she sought the comfort the stable always offered. Images of thunder gray-blue eyes and wide shoulders splintered the stable’s calming aura, leaving her tense and full of nervous energy.
Tom scrutinized the young girl he had watched grow up and mature into a spirited young woman. So, something happened at the tourney you don’t want me or your father to know, he deduced to himself. He winced when his troubled mistress, lost in thought, once more paced through the dirt, destroying his morning’s work.
“There’s only one answer for this, your ladyship,” Tom announced in a loud voice. Her worried eyes broke from their trance. He shuffled toward the back of the stable. Hoof stomps and angry snorts cracked the silence.
Lenora heard several grunted curses before Tom reappeared moments later with a prancing dapple-gray stallion, tacked with her father’s saddle. Shoving the reins into her hands, he commanded, “Ride him.”
“You want me to ride Father’s stallion, Jupiter? Astride?” The horse pawed the smooth dirt floor of the stable, irritated with Tom’s restraining hands. The stallion jerked his head, almost dislodging the reins from her hands.
“Aye, lass. I know ye can handle him and he needs the workout. With the lord ailin’, Jupiter here is sorely in need of his daily gallop.”
“But Father has always been with me when I rode him. I don’t know if I should.”
Tom’s twinkling eye squinted and studied her. “You’re needin’ to ride your worries away, a ride that’ll make ye one with the wind. Ye can’t do that perched on a saddle like a pet bird. Ye gotta dig your talons into the saddle, hold on and outride the devils that are a-plaguing ye so. Jupiter is the horse that can outride any demon ye’ve got tagging after ye.”
The truth of his words hit home. She paused a moment, then lifted the back of her grass-stained work dress and tucked it into the front of her girdle. Tom tossed her a coarse woolen hood from a peg. She stuffed her thick auburn braid into the loose hat. In her makeshift braes, she mounted Jupiter. The long, well-oiled reins cut into her hands as the stallion strained to break free. A quick nod of her head to her old friend and she clicked her tongue against her teeth.
Tom dropped his hand from the bridle and watched the girl he loved like a daughter—and the horse he cursed like the devil—walk out of the stable toward the outer bailey and the open fields beyond the castle gate. “Don’t worry, Lady Lenora, there are those of us here a-watchin’, out for ye,” he whispered to himself, and then retrieved his twig broom.
Lenora’s fingers curled tight around the reins to keep the powerful stallion at a bouncy walk. She maneuvered her impatient mount among the working villeins and freemen of Woodshadow. Once past the smithy, she entered the more open space of the outer bailey courtyard.
Her attention gravitated toward managing her excited horse. Jupiter’s muscles contracted and he arched his neck, impatient for the signal from his rider to break into a more taxing gait. When she reached the marshal’s tower at the castle gate, the dewy rolling hills of the meadow became visible. New spring grass sprinkled with just-opened multicolored wildflowers swayed in the still-cool air, beckoning horse and rider.
She leaned forward and whispered into the stallion’s ear, “Let’s see if we can outrun that nagging Roen de Galliard.” The horse sprang forward, almost unseating her. Her fingers wove into the gray black mane, and a breeze of refreshing air blew the hair from her eyes. The rhythmic beat of Jupiter’s hooves on the dirt road became hypnotic.
Tender shoots of grass blurred with the darker green of hedges and trees. She swept past peasants toiling in the black soil of recently furrowed fields, past huddled flocks of woolly, bleating sheep and grazing cattle. The tension pulled away, left behind in the dust of the stallion’s thundering hoofbeats. Her anxiety tumbled away from the force of the wind. She smiled, then laughed. To her right, she spied a low hedge. A quick move of the reins guided the galloping horse toward the emerald hedges.
“Come on! Let’s do it!” Horse and rider concentrated on the obstacle ahead. The hedge seemed to grow in height as they approached it. ‘Twas not a low-lying wild brush but a natural fence, grown to keep out deer and roving cattle. Jupiter sensed the challenge ahead of him, and she felt the horse’s hard muscles contract as he prepared for the jump. The hedge loomed before them.
Her heart pounded against her chest. Even to her own ears, her breath sounded ragged. Her conscience berated this latest folly but ‘twas too late to change course now.
Two strides from the hedge, Lenora laced her fingers into the flying mane, leaned forward in the saddle and gave the stallion his head. She felt the surge of strength course through Jupiter’s body, a lurch, then she was airborne. Her body transcended the confines of the earth and she became weightless, suspended in midair. Air whipped around her and tore the hood from her head. Her waist-length braid came unbound and streamed about her. Pleasure, excitement, complete freedom sprouted within her. Too soon, she saw Jupiter’s long legs reach the fast-approaching ground. The hard impact jarred her backbone and jerked her back in the saddle.
Exhilaration made her giddy. Another hedge lay a short distance away. Laughter bubbled from her. Lenora pushed her long tresses from her face and pivoted Jupiter toward the next jump. Thoughts of the bad-tempered knight cleared from her mind.
She dug her heels into Jupiter’s flanks, and the pounding of horse’s hooves drummed in her ears. She prepared for the jump, mentally picturing when she would need to ease off the bit to give the stallion his head. Just a few more strides, five more, three more, “Now!” She loosened her hold on the reins, grabbed the flying mane, and leaned forward in the saddle. From the corner of her eye, a shadow swooped down on her. A huge mail-covered hand appeared out of nowhere, yanking her from Jupiter’s back just as the horse sprang. Jupiter cleared the hedge as her back hit against a hard wall of metal. The blow knocked the air from her lungs. Stunned, she found herself breathless and dumped into the lap of an armor-clad knight.
“Let…go…of…me.” The words came in several wheezes while she attempted to fill her empty lungs with air. She kicked and thrashed her legs, trying to free herself. “Who are you?” She twisted in her captor’s grasp and her eyes traveled up to the knight’s face.
A wide nosepiece on his helmet obscured his face. Only his eyes were visible. The hard-won air she had strived for escaped her lungs in a low, desperate sigh. “Nay, it cannot be!” The knight’s dark blue gray eyes glowered at her, and a current of fear whorled through her.
“I’ve come to settle our bet, Lady Lenora.” Roen de Galliard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and shook his head like a mighty golden lion. “Among other things.” He wrapped his viselike arm around her waist and pulled her tightly toward him. His deep musky smell filled her nostrils. The hard steel links of his chain hauberk bit like metal teeth into her back. Pain shot through her shoulders and festered her outrage.
“I had no need of rescue, Galliard. I was in control of my mount. I demand you release me immediately!” Hot blood rushed to her face. The heat of her ire changed to humiliation when Roen moved his mount toward a group of knights and squires. The wind carried hoots and cackles from the men.
“’Tis not you I’m worried about,” Roen retorted calmly. “My concern is for the horse. I don’t want your stupidity to risk hurting a good mount.”
“Oh!” Lenora floundered for a sarcastic reply, but her mind was frozen, like a pond in midwinter. Instead, she shot him an icy look, crossed her arms and retreated into an angry silence. She was forced to look either ahead at the jeering men or down at Roen’s thick muscular arm, imprisoning her. The tension of the past few days returned and her will weakened. She chose to look down, centering all her fury on the ironlike arm that held her captive.
Roen rejoined his men at a leisurely gait and savored the feel of the woman against his chest. He chuckled to himself, amused by her silence and angry indignation. The faint hint of lavender mixed with the familiar scent of hay wafted from her windswept coppery locks.
When his men pointed out the young lad on the horse, he had admired the boy’s horsemanship. ‘Twas obvious the vigorous stallion was well under control. Admiration had changed midjump when the boy’s hood blew off. The “lad” transformed into a tall, copper-haired lass. He had held his breath until horse and rider came down to earth. Heaven’s grace had spared the girl once. Why had she tried to push her luck by trying again? She could have broken her neck. His arm tightened instinctively around her.
“That hurts!” Lenora gasped. “I’m not fool enough to jump from horseback.”
He forced his arm to relax and stared down into her upturned face. Auburn tresses lay in disarray around her face and gave her a Gypsy look. Faint golden brown freckles were sprinkled lightly across her straight nose and high cheeks. Her eyes no longer burned from the fire of her anger, but he could still see smoldering embers of gold in the earthen-colored orbs. His fingers played with her unbound waist-length hair. They wove into the thick strands and took a light but possessive hold.
“Really?” he questioned. “You jump a hedge that is waisthigh to me, you barely regain control of an animal that is clearly too much for you to handle, and then you try to jump a hedge even higher than the first. Aye, you have need to warn me you’re no fool. Your actions do not show it!”
Lenora wanted to smack the smug smile from his face and scream at him that it was all his fault. If not for him, she wouldn’t have been riding in such an outlandish fashion in the first place.
Determined not to let him see how upset she was, Lenora arranged her features into a mask of calm and serenity. “Galliard, I suppose that in your own misguided way you were trying to be chivalrous, although there was no need. So why don’t you stop, let me down to catch my horse, and each of us may travel our own way?”
His smile turned to an irritating smirk. “But, Lady Lenora, my way is your way. Remember our bargain?”
“Let us say that your…aid to me just now more than fulfills your obligation.”
“That would be true, if the aid had been needed. Since you have mentioned several times that it was not, I cannot feel justified in letting this small act be your…reward for all you have done for me.”
She bit her upper lip to help keep her tongue in check. Mentally, she questioned the possible double meaning of his words. Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud laughter from the men ahead.
“Roen! You’ve caught your prize, but poor Landrick is still chasing his.”
Lenora recognized Hamlin, sitting astride a sturdy chestnut stallion. She followed his gaze toward the rolling hills and saw a mounted young man, armorless, trying to outmaneuver the still-galloping Jupiter.
“He’ll get him. If Roen gives an order, Landrick won’t give up till it’s completed,” a young squire declared.
“I’ll clean your tack and that of your knight for a week if he does.” Another young knight gave her a wink and wagered with the squire.
Her elbow jabbed into Roen’s side as he moved to join his men. He paid no attention. The move only caused her to yelp in pain when the sharp metal of his haubrek pinched her skin.
Lenora bridled. The knave’s quiet chuckles proclaimed his amusement with her predicament. Her mask of composure cracked. She was not about to let Galliard’s men think she needed rescuing. “I’ll take that bet, to get Jupiter, if you’ll include all my knights.” She gave the wagering knight an innocent smile.
“Forget the bet, Roderick,” Roen warned. “She’s not leaving me until she is safely dumped at the gates of Woodshadow.”
“I have no need to leave your side to capture Jupiter.” She broadened her smile. “And I do believe the squire is quite tired by now.”
The group watched as once again Landrick tried to steer the running horse toward the waiting men. At first, the young squire appeared successful, then Jupiter broke. With a sharp turn the stallion evaded Landrick’s rope and the strange men ahead. The action diverted her captor’s attention.
Lenora saw her chance. She slid out from between Roen’s arms and dropped to the ground. Her feet hit the earth hard and she stumbled a few steps away to escape the knight’s reach. “This is as far as I need to be. Is it a wager, Sir Roderick?”
Roderick took one peek at the black look of his commander’s face and shook his head. “Nay, Lady Lenora, I do not doubt your skill with the animal. If you can bring him in, pray do so, and save our friend further loss of pride.”
A warmth of satisfaction cloaked her. She had escaped the moody knight and his man admitted her horsemanship. A challenging neigh caused her to turn. Jupiter feigned surrender, then just as the sweat-soaked squire drew close, the horse pivoted and raced away. When her stallion paused, she pursed her lips together and emitted three sharp, shrill tones. The animal’s ears twitched toward the sound. Once again, she whistled three sharp blasts.
Hearing the call, Jupiter reeled and galloped toward her. Sides heaving and sweat-stained, the horse skidded to a stop at her side. She captured the loose reins and swung up into the saddle. Relaxed from his workout, the charger stood docile, waiting for his rider’s command.
Roen gave his horse a slight squeeze, nodded to his second and moved nonchalantly toward her. The set of his rocklike chin mirrored his granite-colored eyes. She did not doubt that he felt he had one more score to settle with her.
Gathering the reins tightly, Lenora pumped a cheerful tone into her speech. “I would like to extend the hospitality of Woodshadow to you all. I hope you will join me for the nooning.” Secretly, she prayed they would all ride away and she would never see Roen de Galliard again.
She kept her eyes on the leader of the group of men. The hard line of his jaw, the bulging neck veins and the scowl announced his emotions. His eyes narrowed as he moved his mount next to hers. The brush of his leg against her own sent currents of excitement speeding up her thigh, settling in the pit of her stomach.
“Drop your reins!” Roen commanded. “Return to my horse.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’ll ride into Woodshadow on my own mount.” She squeezed Jupiter with her knees, but the horse did not move. Glancing from Roen, she saw Hamlin firmly holding on to her horse’s bridle. He gave her a dimpled smile of apology.
“The horse needs to be cooled down or he’ll colic. Give the reins to Landrick. He also needs to cool his mount.” At the mention of his name, the boyishly lean squire held on to his saddle and slid his feet to the ground. He grasped the girth until his feet would support him. Sweat streaked his red face.
“My grooms will see to my horse. You have no need to be concerned, Galliard.” She tried to wrench control from Hamlin but the knight’s hold persisted. Roen lifted her from her saddle and plopped her down onto his lap.
“But it is my concern, Lady Lenora. ‘Twas my man that ran the horse. ‘Tis his responsibility to care for it now. He will return to your home when the horses have been walked and cooled down. I will be glad to offer you a ride back to your home.”
She opened her mouth to utter several of Tom’s more colorful curses but she was slammed back against Roen when his charger cantered toward the castle. Her back kept colliding with Roen’s powerful chest from the horse’s rocking movement. Each time she banged into the knight’s massive torso, she winced. He made no move to prevent her discomfort.
Exasperated, Lenora finally grabbed Roen’s arm, pulled it tight around her and leaned against him. “’Tis this or bruises,” she muttered under her breath, and shot him a murderous glance when she felt the deep rumble of laughter reverberate in his chest.
The rumble stopped, as did the horse. Only her tight hold on Roen’s arm kept her from being thrown forward. The contingent of men drew close to form a barricade between her and the road ahead.
“Release Lady Lenora!” a voice ordered.
“Sir Hywel.” She craned her neck to see a group of her father’s men blocking the road. Roen’s men waited, their hands resting on the hilts of their undrawn swords.
“Release her now!” In unison the knights of Woodshadow drew their swords, their upheld blades casting a blinding reflection of the sun.
Roen moved forward, his men parting for him. He stopped his horse a few paces from her father’s seneschal. “Greetings, Sir Hywel. I and my men aided her when she lost control of her mount. See, yonder is my squire bringing the horse back.”
Sir Hywel glanced over Roen’s shoulder at Landrick, who was walking the two horses back. “Lady Lenora?”
She gritted her teeth and seethed with inner frustration. Galliard gave her a benign smile that only served to stoke her anger. If she contradicted Roen’s story, the two groups would come to blows. To admit, in front of her men and his, that she needed his help galled her.
“Tis as Galliard says,” she managed to get out through clenched teeth, “I was riding Jupiter and—”
“Jupiter! Girl, are you daft? That horse is more than most men can handle.” The steward raised his hand and signalled her protectors to resheath their swords. The knights surrounding her relaxed.
“I thank you for your aid to our lady. She is at times a trifle foolhardy.” Sir Hywel approached Roen and Lenora. “I will take her back to Woodshadow. I am sure her father would like to extend his thanks, also.”
Roen did not remove his arm from around her waist. “Lady Lenora has graciously extended the hospitality of her home to my men and me. Since we travel the same way, I will be glad to take the lady home.” Spurring his horse, he led the group of knights through the gates of Woodshadow and into the inner bailey of her home.
Damn Roen de Galliard! Lenora swore to herself. The man had caused her nothing but trouble and embarrassment since she met him. Gawking villagers lined the hard-packed road to the castle entrance. The sight of her aunt and cousin on forebuilding steps caused her to cringe with mortification. Roen swung her down and deposited her at Matilda’s feet. Dust, from the horses, stirred whirlwinds of dirt around her. She coughed as grime coated her hair, face and clothes.
Roen gave her aunt a polite smile. “Your niece was in need of help, Lady Matilda. I was more than happy to assist her.”
“Sir Roen!” her aunt gushed, as she brushed past Lenora, pulling her skirts close to avoid soiling them on her filthy niece. “I recognize you from the tourney. We are honored to have a knight of your reputation as our guest.”
A stableboy took hold of his horse. Destner tossed his mane and twisted his head to take a bite from the lad’s arm. One of Roen’s squires scrambled from his saddle and took a tentative hold of the animal. A one-word command from his master and the horse settled. Roen dismounted and Matilda latched onto his arm. She waved to her daughter and steered the knight in the direction of the steps. Eagerness and hope rushed through the older woman’s voice. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Lady Beatrice.”
“Galhard! I want a word with you.”
Roen turned casually toward Lenora. She stood covered in dust, her skirt partially tucked into her belt. Her hair formed a red gold mantle; her anger caused it to sizzle around her shoulders like tongues of flame.
“Lenora, you should not delay Sir Roen,” Matilda scolded, and tried to tug Roen up the forebuilding steps.
“I don’t mind. I am sure Lady Lenora wishes to give me her thanks in private. Pray, continue on with my men. We will follow shortly.”
Lenora held her tongue until her aunt and cousin disappeared into the keep. “Things have not changed. My cousin remains off limits to you.”
Roen shook his head in amazement. Regardless of how she looked, she sounded like the mistress of the keep. He had bested the girl in front of everyone and she still dared to oppose him. Her use of his family name needled him. She remembered Hamlin or Landrick’s title with no problem. His should not be any harder to recall.
“I am Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy. You may address me as Sir Roen or Sir Galliard.”
“The way that I address you is not what I wish to discuss.”
“’Tis what I wish to discuss.”
Lenora shook her dust-caked apron, a delighted look on her face when a light cloud of dirt hovered over Roen. Her full lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “I do not wish to keep you from your admirers, Galliard.” He heard the relish in her voice at the insult. She spun around and trudged up the step to the keep.
Left in another cloud of her dust, he started after her. “And I do not wish to keep you from your much needed bath, Nora.”
Lenora stopped, her mouth moving like a fish gasping on dry land. “My name is Lenora.”
Roen skipped up the stair past her, “I don’t wish to discuss that right now. My admirers await.” His laugh rang triumphant as he entered the great hall.
Lenora fumed. If today was Galliard’s payment for her loose tongue, then they were even.
“Lady Lenora.” Sir Hywel stood on the top step. “Your father wants to see you. Now!”
Her chin sank to her chest. The scales had just tipped. She owed Galliard now and she intended her payment to be a painful one to the arrogant lout.
Chapter Five (#ulink_164aa0e9-e0e9-5da7-8511-92eaa9e8f85e)
“Sir Roen, I’m so glad you came along when you did,” her aunt cooed. “Poor Lenora could have been killed trying such an outlandish stunt.” She took a sip from the wine goblet she shared with Roen. The rest of the meal participants listened with rapt attention to the knight’s exaggerated account of the rescue.
Lenora felt a needlelike jab in her head and tried to fix her concentration on her meal. Under the table, her foot tapped the floor in a staccato beat. She wished it was Galliard under her foot instead of the rushes.
“You were so brave to attempt such a rescue.” Matilda continued to heap praise on Roen. Every word of gratitude triggered another pain. Lenora’s head felt like a pincushion.
“Lady Lenora, you have a fine cook. The meal is…” Her dinner partner, Sir Alric, stopped his polite conversation at her icy look.
Alric retreated into a quelled silence. Lenora grabbed their shared wine goblet without asking for help from the knight seated next to her. She dared him to comment on her breach of proper etiquette, which demanded the knight hold the goblet. The last thing she wanted was help from any of Roen de Galliard’s men.
Just as she took a huge gulp of wine, she heard Roen say, “’Twas pure luck that she stayed on the beast’s back after the first jump. Then to see her barreling down toward a second! Well, dear lady, I knew I had to intervene or a terrible accident would occur.”
Her wine almost spewed across the table. She forced the liquid down her constricted throat and was seized by a fit of coughing. All eyes at the head table turned toward her.
“It seems the lady needs my assistance once again.” Roen smiled ruefully at Matilda. He started to rise from his seat of honor next to the saltcellar.
“Nay. Nay.” Lenora waved him back to his seat. “I am fine. The wine was sour.”
“Really!” He took a long swill from his cup. “Mine is deliciously sweet.” Roen gave her a crooked smile. Mischief brought out the blue in his eyes. “Perhaps, ‘tis not the wine that’s sour.”
He turned to Hamlin, seated next to Beatrice on his right. “I have heard, my friend, that the flavor of the meal is enhanced by one’s disposition. I myself feel extremely well satisfied, and my meal was extremely savory. Perhaps ‘tis the lady’s disposition that soured her meal.” The high table exploded with laughter.
Beatrice opened her mouth to defend her dear cousin. Hamlin lightly placed his callused hand over her delicate one. “Nay, Lady Beatrice, this battle is not for one as gentle as yourself. Besides,” he whispered, “I do not think the Lady Lenora is ready to admit defeat just yet.”
As if in response to Hamlin’s statement, Lenora, her eyes aflame, parried back. “Nay, Galliard. My disposition is wonderfully content after my refreshing bath. How could one help to be otherwise when the water was so soothingly warm and scented with mint. I trust yours was the same.”
Roen tapped his index finger on his wide, generous lips, forcing his smile to remain. When he had seen the scrawny, toothless old woman sent to assist him at his bath, he suspected Lenora had arranged it. His men relaxed in hot tubs while he nearly froze in a bucket of tepid water. Not to mention he had had to bear the tale of the hag’s many ailments. Roen nodded appreciatively toward his adversary. Lenora was not a woman to give up any battle easily.
“My bath was exactly as you would expect it to be.” Roen turned toward his dining partner. “Lady Matilda, your niece sent the…”
Matilda giggled like a young girl. “Lenora is too interested in her horses and plants to be concerned with taking proper care of her guests. I am afraid the stress of managing this keep falls on my shoulders and those of my daughter.”
“Then I have you to thank for my bath and the care I received?” Roen questioned.
He was surprised to see Matilda accept the statement as a compliment when he knew Lenora was responsible for his inhospitable treatment. He turned toward the young woman, her face radiant with triumph.
“Sir Roen, my lord will see you now,” the castle seneschal announced. Roen tore his gaze from Lenora. Sir Hywel continued, “Sir Edmund apologizes for the delay in addressing you, but his illness forces him to rest at midday. If you are finished with your meal, I will lead you to his chambers.”
Roen stood and turned to face Lenora, a mocking gnn unsuppressed on his lips. It vanished when he found her seat empty.
“Sir Hywel…” Roen was surprised to find Lenora at his side as she spoke to her father’s steward. “Since ‘twas I the knight assisted, I feel that I should present the man to my father.” Turning to her aunt, the vixen transformed her waspish tongue with a demure guise. “’Tis only the proper thing to do.”
Before her aunt could reply, Lenora grabbed his arm and led him across the room to the stairs. He lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl.
Roen’s battle senses noted with approval the construction of the stairs. As the stone steps reached the upper stories they narrowed and curved. Forced to climb single file, an invading army was blind to what lay ahead. A snatch of Lenora’s dress was all he could see of her as she disappeared around the curve of the step.
The creak of wood contrasted with the cold echo of the stone. Roen quickly identified the sound, wooden defense steps. The structures could be burned or demolished if invaders entered.
“Hold, Galliard!”
Roen pulled himself up short. Lenora blocked his passage. She stood on the upper step, her eyes level with his own. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle and she crossed her arms over her chest. The golden shade of her eyes signaled her state of mind. The docile lamb had reverted back into a bad-tempered lion.
Lenora held her ground. The narrow steps prevented Galliard from brushing past her and the curve of the stair hid them from people below, in the great hall, and above, in her father’s room.
“We will talk before you see my father,” Lenora commanded.
“Orders! You give far too many orders for a woman!” Roen sighed, exasperated.
Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “And would the words sound sweeter coming from the mouth of a man? Do you want me to look humbly at the ground and ask requests of you in my own home, in my own hall, after you have eaten my food and drunk my wine?
“This battle we have—” Lenora saw Roen’s startled expression. “Aye, ‘tis a battle, Galliard. But this is between you and me. You will not involve my father. The story I told him is the same we told his steward.” Lenora clenched her fists and fought to control the timbre of her voice. “My father is ill. He must not be unsettled.”
Afraid to show her tears, she lowered her head. A hand on her chin forced her face upward. She searched his face through blurry eyes for a sign that he understood her pain. His eyes, no longer the color of cold granite, warmed to mist gray. They reminded her of a stubborn fog that lingered in the morning sun. Could he really have a heart after all?
He cupped her upturned face in his large rough hand. His fingers massaged the knotted muscles at her scalp. A solitary tear escaped one eye and meandered down her cheek. Roen tenderly wiped it away with his thumb.
“Ah, Nora, if only Henry had a dozen warriors like yourself, he would have England back to rights in no time.” Roen dropped his hand from her face. He stared at it and the evaporating remains of Lenora’s tear.
“I do what I must to protect my father,” she explained hesitantly.
“I see that now,” Roen whispered. “Which is the crux of the problem.” He fought the desire to wrap Lenora in his arms, to reassure her with brave words.
The tender feelings he felt toward her must be killed. Love was an emotion for bards and women, not warriors. He stepped away and jeered at the tender emotions he accidentally felt. To push away the sentiments, he gave a brisk wave with his arm. “Come, Nora, I see your point. I’ll do nothing to upset Sir Edmund.”
Confused and surprised that the battle had been won so easily, she led him to her father’s chambers. She knocked on the heavy oak door and whispered, “One more thing.”
Her father’s reply to her knock corresponded with Roen’s disgruntled, “What else?”
“Don’t call me Nora!”
Lenora opened the door and flounced across the chamber to stand next to her bedridden father. Tall and proud, she placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “Father, this is the knight that assisted me today, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy.”
Roen’s attention moved from her to the gaunt man lying on the massive bed. Sir Edmund lay atop the ermine-trimmed coverlet, propped up by several overstuffed pillows. His long legs filled the length of the bed. His feet were bare, his torso covered by a calf-length robe of rich blue, trimmed in dark sable fur. The shadows from the one window accentuated the darkness beneath his still-lively eyes.
“Sir Roen, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your rescue today. Pray, avail yourself of my hospitality for as long as you wish.” Sir Edmund’s voice barely carried across the room. “Draw up the chair so that we may talk.”
Lenora ran to snatch the heavy oak chair from the table on the far side of the room. She struggled to drag it to her father’s side. Roen lifted the chair from her easily and placed it near the bed. She scurried to return to her father’s side.
Seated, Roen saw two sets of earth brown eyes assessing him intently. There’s no doubt she’s a Marchavel. She has the look of the old man, only softened, he thought bitterly. The strong family resemblance between father and daughter rekindled old childhood scars. Roen’s heart retreated into the emotional armor he had devised in childhood. He concentrated on the muted colors of the floral depictions on the whitewashed castle walls.
“Lenora, you may leave us now. I wish to hear news from London and swap battle tales.” Sir Edmund patted his child’s arm. “You have already heard the news and my old stories. ‘Twould only bore you.”
“Father, I don’t mind staying.” Lenora moved closer to her father, as though to shield him from Roen.
Edmund laughed and gave Roen a leering wink. “But, my dear, a father tells his daughter a story one way, and tells another warrior the same story in an entirely different manner. Certain details that he neglected to tell his wife or daughter are sometimes remembered with a fellow knight.”
Lenora pushed back a lock of her hair and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. She had hoped to remain and see that Roen kept his word. Her father’s dismissal left her no choice. To tarry longer would only make him suspicious.
She shot Roen a murderous glance, then moved to the exit. His back to the door, he heard the loud slam echo in the room and down the hall.
Edmund licked his lips and pointed toward a wardrobe near the window. “Those women seek to keep me on weak tea and watered-down wine. A man can’t regain his strength from such as that. Friend, look on the upper shelf of that closet and see if a bottle of ale can’t be found.”
Roen’s smile and mood brightened. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open the doors of the huge oak wardrobe. The piece held little, a fur-lined cloak, a green embroidered tunic and a leather jerkin. Several boots lay on the bottom. The wardrobe was so huge, Roen had to climb into it to reach the top shelf. He pushed aside the soft woolen braes and shirts folded neatly on the shelf. His hand found the smooth handle of a clay jug. Roen turned and displayed his prize.
“Well-done, man!” Sir Edmund smiled gleefully. “Grab that bowl and tea mug and we will toast each other’s good fortune.”
Relaxed, Roen retrieved the articles and returned to Sir Edmund. He drew his chair closer as he poured the strong ale into the mug and offered it to the ill man. After pouring his drink into the soup bowl, he placed the jug of ale on the floor between them. Edmund tilted his mug in salute. Forced to hold the bowl with two hands, Roen brought the drink to his lips.
“I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”
Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.
The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”
“I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.
“‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.
Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”
His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.
“Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.
Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.
“Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.
“You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.
“Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”
“And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.
“Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”
Roen paced the room before hitching a leg onto an ironbanded chest near the window. “What makes you think you are in any danger, other than from your own harebrained schemes?”
Tom stopped wheezing and started to sputter, “What—why, you…I don’t care if’n you are a lord, ye don’t go talkin’ to Sir Edmund like that.”
Sir Edmund silenced his man with an annoyed frown. “’Tis little proof I have, more of a hunch. My illness for one.” He released a long, anguished breath and eased himself back against the pillows. The stress of the recent events shone on his face.
“Aye, ‘tis a strange illness.” Tom’s muscles creaked, his bad knee popped. He used the back of the chair to pull himself up. “My lord grows weak, then grows strong, then weak again.”
“He’s old. It happens,” Roen replied nonchalantly.
“Then why is it when I bring his food myself, not from the kitchen, he gets stronger? Why is it that when I fed his kitchen food to the rats in the stable, they died?” Tom gave Roen a nearly toothless grin. “Someone’s a-tryin’ to poison ‘im.”
“Rats die, they eat spoiled food. You doped the stable with poison, they got hold of it.” Roen scrutinized the ill man, noted the paleness of his face.
“Aye, it could be so, I wish it were so,” Edmund replied wearily. “I do not wish to think someone of my house would poison me. But ‘tis true. Tom smuggles me food through a secret chamber into this room. Yet, I still suffer from bouts of illness. I know not if this is a permanent result of the poisoning, or if the traitor still reaches me, despite our precautions.”
“There’s other things. Before the lord got sick.” Tom held his back as he shuffled over to Roen. “Accidents! The lord ‘ere was nearly trampled to death when the girth broke on his saddie. Then his lance broke during a hunt. The whole castle was a-talkin’ about the lord’s run of bad luck.”
The one-eyed man gave Roen a calculated look. “All the talk scared the coward. Not too much longer, Sir Edmund starts to feelin’ poorly.”
Roen scratched his chin. “All you really have is supposition. No real proof.”
Tom snorted in disgust. “And what about Lady Lenora?”
Roen jumped off the chest. “What’s happened to Lenora?” he demanded. “Sir Edmund, your letter did not mention any harm to her.”
There was silence as Tom and his lord exchanged appraising glances. Edmund’s voice wavered. “No harm—yet. Just things that make one wonder. I never received an answer before—why did Lenora lie for you? I’m surprised she didn’t strip you to the bone with one of her tongue-lashings.”
Roen wandered about the room to collect and organize his thoughts. “Your daughter did not wish to upset you. Believe me, I have heard enough of her bad manners. What do you want from me?” Roen asked tentatively. He suspected the answer would not be to his liking.
Edmund reached out his hand. Tom slipped two brown leather-wrapped missives from under his worn jerkin. He placed them in his lord’s hand. The elder knight opened each, read each briefly.
“I believe this will draw the culprit out.” He held one out to Roen.
“This is a marriage contract!” Roen stared at Sir Edmund as the man’s plan dawned on him. “Nay, I’ll not marry that hellcat daughter of yours.”
“Then don’t. Read the contract, man. All you have to do is announce your engagement,” Sir Edmund replied briskly.
Roen reviewed the document. “This contract is quite generous to me. I become Lord of Woodshadow the day I marry Lenora.”
“Aye, to be passed on to your and Lenora’s children at your death.”
“This cannot be! If Lenora has no children I’m to be given a settlement of three hundred gold coins. You are that rich?” Roen asked, thunderstruck. Not even the king had that much hard coin.
Edmund chuckled slyly. “Nay. The holdings would have to be sold to pay you off. I can’t deed you Woodshadow itself. ‘Tis held through my wife’s family. But I can gift you with enough gold that whoever inherits will have nothing if Lenora dies.”
Roen slung the document onto Edmund’s chest. “You dare propose this plan. If someone is trying to kill you, Lenora’s life will be forfeit. What will prevent the cad from killing her to prevent the marriage?”
“You will.” Edmund’s eyes pinned his with their sharp gaze. “You say I have no proof, this will get it for me.” The older man lifted the contract.
“You risk the life of your daughter so easily?” Roen challenged.
“This is the most difficult thing I have ever done,” Edmund admitted. “I have fought battles with less fear than I feel now. But this is the only way I can guarantee her safety in the future. I cannot rest until this is settled.”
Roen shook his head. He crossed to the window, placed his arm against the cool wall and rested his head on his wrist. Finally, he turned to face the two elderly men.
“What’s to keep me from marrying the girl and killing her myself? That’s a handsome amount of money you offer.”
Tom stepped forward, his one eye glaring at Roen. He gave Roen the remaining leather-wrapped parcel. Edmund explained, “This is the true marriage contract. It gives the property to Lenora and her offspring. If she dies childless, the land reverts to her mother’s family. You will receive a small settlement. This is the document that will be sent to King Henry to be recorded.”
Edmund added reluctantly, “I could be frank with Lenora, tell her what I suspect.”
Roen massaged his temple as he answered, “Then she really would be in danger. She’d stop at nothing to ferret any would-be assassin. We will delay any decision until I am sure there is some danger. If—” Roen stressed the word “—I sense any real danger, I will participate in your deception. But understand this, I have no intention of carrying through with this. How will she react when she discovers the truth?”
“Better a bit of dented pride than death,” Edmund answered bluntly. “There is one more thing.”
Roen spread his mouth into a thin-lipped frown. Edmund ignored his expression and spoke quickly. “I gave Lenora a promise, that she could choose her husband. I even paid the king a fee to keep her unmarried for the remainder of the year. I cannot mandate she marry you. You must persuade her to make this match.”
“God’s blood, man!” Roen’s patience stretched beyond his tolerance. “I will do what I can to discover the culprit and protect you and your family because the king wishes it. But I am a fighting man. I will not go around at her heels like a lap dog. If I decide to marry the girl, by God, she will marry me.”
Roen turned on his heel and marched to the door. As he opened it, he pierced each man with a baleful stare. He exited, allowing the slam of the door to demonstrate his ire.
Tom sat down gingerly in the chair. He let out a long whistle of air. “What do ye think, Lord Edmund? Will your plan work?”
Edmund, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears, remained quiet for a time before he answered his trusted friend and servant. “All we can do is pray Henry sent the right man.”
“And if’n he is?” Tom asked as he returned the clay jug to its hiding place.
“Then we execute our own deception, Tom, and pray ‘tis the right decision. Lenora’s life depends on it.”
Chapter Six (#ulink_4561cdf6-d997-5703-9ff8-aaa23eee9a6f)
“I thought I told you that Beatrice was not for you.” Lenora placed her fists on her hips and glowered at the two knights. For two days the siege commander and his men had taken her hospitality; ‘twas time he left, without her cousin. The hot afternoon sun beat against her back and she purposely moved to let the sun blind the men when they looked up. Roen and Hamlin sat on a crudely fashioned bench. In the cool shade of the sprawling oak, the two men labored on their tack. Soap, oil and parts of their saddles lay about them.
Roen looked up from his task, but his tanned face showed no emotion. He continued to work lubricant into his saddle girth, his strong fingers massaging the leather. A leather thong held back his flaxen hair at the base of his neck. He looked all the more like a barbarian invader. He is an invader, Lenora thought, an invader to my home and peace of mind.
“Galliard, did you hear me?”
With a careless wave of his hand, Roen signaled Hamlin to leave. His friend threw his work rag on the pommel of his saddle and caught sight of Beatrice as she rushed toward the keep. She carried an overloaded basket of vegetables. He quickened his step to intercept the girl.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/diana-hall/warrior-s-deception/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Diana Hall
Love Had No Place In The Life Of Roen De Galiard, Knight Of NormandyFor the past had taught him well the perfidy of women, and the beauteous Lady Lenora was likely no different. But now duty called for him to ferret out a traitor - by surrendering his very heart and soul!Fate had bound the free-spirited Lenora in marriage to Sir Roen, and though the valorous knight believed not in love, he had stormed the walls of her resistance… and set her passion free! March Madness - Don't miss these talented newcomers to the field of historical romance!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u19d4993e-e566-5c42-84f3-d4f0218b0e86)
Excerpt (#u133afeb2-10f6-54a0-9984-833aa9d04820)
Dear Reader (#ufe3f69bb-682f-503e-949d-849a7f5a4b2a)
Title Page (#uf7c2c5a0-a6a5-55bf-afd0-a5eab96149f5)
About the Author (#u9ee0b8c0-2cbf-5756-b941-c656a9fd08c7)
Dedication (#u0175cfe5-cce1-5298-997f-153339654754)
Chapter One (#udcbb5ed1-ea1b-5ee7-be04-b02157af2125)
Chapter Two (#u52c677fc-4f4e-51ea-9514-c3ee511ef0e3)
Chapter Three (#uf52915e3-daac-5a2c-bf03-63822ecbdfe0)
Chapter Four (#u677ead60-20f6-5254-a62a-da592acda5da)
Chapter Five (#u9cb6cb5f-5496-5268-b8ff-3500b03267dc)
Chapter Six (#u4d07401e-b670-59f0-81a6-82e2b1b571ca)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
From the corner of her eye, Lenora saw a shadow swoop down on her.
A huge mail-covered hand appeared out of nowhere, yanking her from her horse, and her back hit against a hard wall of metal. Stunned, she found herself breathless and dumped into the lap of an armor-clad knight.
“Let go of me!” She kicked and thrashed her legs, trying to free herself. “Who are you?” She twisted in her captor’s grasp and her eyes traveled up to the knight’s face.
A wide nosepiece on his helmet obscured his face. Only his eyes were visible. The hard-fought air she had strived for escaped her lungs in a low, desperate sigh. “Nay, it cannot be!” The knight’s dark gray eyes glowered at her, and a current of fear whorled through her.
“I’ve come to settle our bet, Lady Lenora.”
Roen de Galliard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and shook his head like a mighty golden lion. “Among other things.” He wrapped his viselike arm around her waist and pulled her tightly toward him….
Dear Reader,
When we ran our first March Madness promotion in 1992, we had no idea that we would get such a wonderful response. Our springtime showcase of brand-new authors has been so successful that we’ve continued to seek out talented new writers and introduce them into the field of historical romance. During our yearly search, my editors and I have the unique opportunity of reading hundreds of manuscripts from unpublished authors, and we’d like to take this time to thank all of you who have given us the chance to review your work.
In Warrior’s Deception, Diana Hall’s powerful first book, a young woman suddenly finds herself married to a forbidding knight who has been ordered to protect her from the intrigue and danger that threaten her family.
And be sure to keep an eye out for our other three March titles. Western Rose by Lynna Banning, the story of a rancher and a schoolteacher who must work out their differences before they accept their love. Fool’s Paradise by Tori Phillips, the charming tale of a noblewoman and the jester who becomes her protector. And The Pearl Stallion, the story of an adventurous voyage by Rae Muir.
Four new talents, four great stories from Harlequin Historicals. Don’t miss a single one!
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Warrior’s Deception
Diana Hall
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DIANA HALL
If experience feeds a writer’s soul, then I must be stuffed.
I’ve worked as a pickle packer, a ticket taker at a drive-in movie, a waitress, a bartender, a factory worker, a truck driver cementing oil wells in south Texas, a geological technician with oil companies, a teacher, a part-time ecological travel agent and now an author. The only job I’ve kept longer than five years is wife and mother.
A geographical accident, I was meant to live in the South. After high school I left rural Ohio and attended college in Mobile, Alabama. There I fell in love with balmy nights and the beaches of the Gulf. I now live in a suburb of Houston, Texas, with my understanding husband, a beautiful daughter, a sedate, overweight collie and a hyperactive dalmatian.
To Rick for all his love and support. To Jessica for her wonderful character names. To Debbie, Michele, and Merydith for all their help. To Jean, Dee, and Margaret for their energy and belief.
Thanks
Chapter One (#ulink_d5098362-a000-5f52-aa34-373b23d7dba5)
ENGLAND-1154
“I shan’t go.” Lenora’s auburn braid whipped from side to side as she clipped each word.
Her aunt’s icy blue eyes narrowed and her thin lips drew up into a tight pucker. Her cousin, Beatrice, cowered behind her mother’s outraged body.
“You must go.” The woman’s voice changed from insistent to pleading. “Think of Beatrice. This may be my only chance, our only chance, to regain some dignity.” She shoved her frightened daughter forward. “The girl’s sixteen and well in need of a husband. This is the perfect opportunity to make a suitable match.”
Lenora did not miss the terror-filled look that entered Beatrice’s warm blue eyes. Her small frame trembled, tears glistened in her eyes.
“’Tis not to be, Aunt Matilda.” Her voice carried across the great hall of Woodshadow. Her tone trumpeted defiance and she gave her timid cousin a reassuring smile. No matter the consequences, she would protect her, even against Beatrice’s own mother.
The servants stopped in their preparation for the noon meal. Even the hounds paused in their hunt for scraps among the floor rushes.
The older woman’s glare encompassed the room. The serfs resumed their duties. Behind her aunt’s back, a young boy gave Lenora an exaggerated wink and clutched his throat in a comic mime. She bit the inside of her cheek to contain her laughter.
“What reason could you possibly have for not going?” Matilda pressed her argument. “King Henry will expect you there. You do not turn down a request from the king.” Her shrill voice rang out in an indignant huff.
“My father is too ill for me to be away. I cannot leave the keep now. Woodshadow needs me.” How could she tell them her real fear? Her home and security, even those she held most dear, were slipping from her. Beatrice would not be added to that list. After three years away from her home, she had returned to find emptiness.
She felt as if all that she loved and cared for were in a grain bag with a hole in the bottom. The loss became more and more visible, but for some reason, no matter what she tried, she was unable to stop it.
“Excuse me, Aunt Matilda, I want to go to the stable to check on my mare.” Lenora disregarded the summoning cry of her aunt and headed for the kitchen. She ducked down the wellworn stairs, two at a time, jumping the final steps to the ground-floor kitchen and storage room. The lad she had seen above tossed her a carrot from the basket he carried.
“Tyrus, you have my thanks and Silver’s.” She waved the green top of the vegetable at him.
“Give ‘er a pat from me, Lady Lenora. Do ye think ‘er time is soon?”
Her stride slowed and she puckered her lips into a worried frown. “Nay, ‘tis still a month or more, though I wish it were not. She gets weaker by the day.”
The servant boy gave his lady a bright smile, a large gap showing where his two front teeth should be. “Ye be a good’n for the healin’ and all. That mare’ll pull through. Ye done it afore.”
Beatrice scurried down the stairs. “Hurry, Lenora, Mother’s in a fury. She’s out to find you and convince you to go to Tintagel.”
Lenora needed no further warning and grabbed her cousin’s hand. Rushing past the kitchen scullery maids, she pushed Beatrice out the lower door and into warm spring air. Laughter came easily as she half dragged her cousin across the stone-walled inner bailey of the castle. She didn’t slow down until she passed the fortified bridge and blended into the bustle of the outer bailey.
Numerous puddles and cart tracks muddied the way to the whitewashed stables. Lenora lifted the hem of her dress and tried to navigate between the mud and the busy villeins. A herd of cattle, led by a serf, took control of the lane. She tried to dodge them and ended up ankle-deep in a mud hole. Slime oozed into her leather shoe and coated her toes.
Sounds of children at play and the chatter of their parents floated on the spring air. The dreary days of winter had finally ended and she was home. Every smell and sight gave her delight. Her time with the queen had opened her mind and taught her much but her return to Woodshadow had taught her something, also. She loved this place and these people.
Splattered with mud and grime, she looked back at her cousin and marveled that Beatrice had kept her deep blue kirtle and white apron spotless. The difference between her and her cousin was like comparing a palfrey to a workhorse.
After eighteen years, Lenora accepted the fact that her height and angular features gave her a gawky, coltish appearance. Unlike the famed foals of Woodshadow, she entertained no hopes of her appearance changing as she matured. Thoughts of herself vanished when she entered the cool darkness of the stable.
She balanced herself on the stall gate and laced her feet through the rails for support. Her heart lurched at the sight of the mare standing listless by the grain bin, head low, eyes glazed. Fresh-smelling hay and the odor of well-oiled tack, usually a comfort, did not settle the uneasiness she felt in her heart.
Hopping down, she held out the carrot and tried to entice the mare. “Here, Silver, try just a bite.” The horse nibbled her palm and let the treat fall to the ground. Rattled breaths sounded from the mare and echoed in the filtered light of the barn. A desire to cry sprouted in Lenora but the streak of stubbornness inherited from her father prevented it. She would see Silver through this; she wouldn’t allow her mount to die.
A light sprinkle of dust coated the mare’s rump. Lenora searched through the tack box in the stall for a curry comb. The slow rhythmic sweeps of the brush helped to calm her nerves.
Over Silver’s back, she saw Beatrice approach the stall gate. Her cousin halted when the horse tossed her mane in annoy ance. Sincerity mixed with the fear in her voice. “How does the animal fare? I know she is dear to you.”
“She does not look well, my friend. She’s too old to have another foal.” A masculine voice came from the shadows of the back wall. The young man, wrapped in a black woolen mantle despite the warm spring day, emerged from the darkness, and Beatrice stepped away.
Lenora held fast to the halter of the startled mare. “Geof frey, could you give some warning?” She patted the velve softness of Silver’s nose.
He removed his hood, his brown hair curled over walnut colored eyes. “You knew I was here.”
“Aye, but Beatrice and Silver did not,” Lenora repri manded her friend.
Geoffrey placed his hand over his heart and gave a half bow. “Pardon, Lady Lenora. To yourself and your mount.” His eye turned to Beatrice. His voice warmed. “And you, Lady Be atrice, do I need beg your pardon, also?”
Lenora smiled because the scarlet tint of her cousin’s cheeks gave away her response. As always, the color enhanced the young woman’s fair looks.
Beatrice placed her hand to her throat and whispered her reply. “Nay, Sir Geoffrey. I take no offense. ‘Tis glad I am to see your face after these many days.” Her eyes lowered and she fidgeted with her hands.
Lenora laughed. “Come now, Beatrice, do not be shy. Did I not hear you moon on and on about Sir Geoffrey’s fair face, his prose, his voice?”
“Lenora,” Beatrice complained, her face a deeper crimson than before.
With a soft pat on Silver’s nose, Lenora pulled herself from the sanctuary of the stall to join her friends. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged on a pillow of hay and watched Geoffrey lean against a pillar. Beatrice sat on a three-legged stool near her. Her cousin held her back straight, her hands folded in her lap.
Lenora’s gaze settled on the reed-thin knight. “What do you know of this tourney?” She spread her grass-stained apron and undertunic over her knees. “Why is Matilda so intent on going?”
“’Tis as we feared. King Henry wishes to reward his siege commanders with some festivities. There are a few to whom he owes much gold. In particular, the knight Roen de Galliard.” She saw Beatrice stiffen her back even more and begin to fold and unfold the hem of her apron. ‘Twas easy to see the girl’s nervousness at just the mention of the knight’s name.
Lenora took a quick breath. “Gold the king does not have or wish to part with. Henry will pay off his commanders with a rich wife.” The knight’s reputation had made its way even to Aquitaine. Though she had never seen him, she knew well the type, crude and self-centered. Roen de Galliard did not sound like a man with patience for Beatrice’s fears. The knight would devour her gentle cousin and leave behind only a shell of the woman.
Geoffrey gazed at Beatrice’s quiet suffering. At last, her cousin spoke, her voice colored with hope. “Rich…then it cannot be me they’ll seek. King Henry already owns all my lands. Mother and I are penniless.”
“Aye, Cousin, but Father set aside a small manor as your dowry.” Lenora did not wish to dash the young woman’s hopes but ‘twas best to tell the truth. “A knight desperate to have a keep of his own might not be averse to it. Besides, now that Louis is dead, if I do not marry, Woodshadow would be yours.”
With inborn grace, Beatrice rose from her seat to kneel at Lenora’s side. Her eyes clouded with sadness as she stared past her cousin. Old nightmares showed on her face. “Stephen and Henry’s war cost us much. You, your brother, my mother, her husband and wealth. And I, my courage.”
“Courage, Beatrice? ‘Tis a brave girl you are. You survived the pillage of your home and the death of your father. You meet your true love in secret, unknown to your mother. ‘Tis uncommon courage, that alone. Your mother is no small obstacle, despite her size.”
“With much help from you,” Geoffrey said, chuckling in agreement. He went to Beatrice’s side and waited until she placed her fingertips in the palm of his hand before helping her to rise. When she reached her feet, she stepped back and stood apart from him. The struggle between love and fear ravaged her face.
Too many memories of the night her father died kept Beatrice from Geoffrey’s arms. From hearing her cousin’s nightmares, Lenora knew that the sights and sounds of the carnage and rapes still haunted the young woman’s feelings for the young knight. She prayed that her childhood friend Geoffrey would have the patience and understanding to mend Beatrice’s tattered emotions.
“Help you?” Lenora arched an eyebrow. “Aye, I suppose I’ve smuggled in a love poem or two. Guided you through the secret passages and tunnels so that you could meet. Most important, I’ve kept Aunt Matilda at bay so she’d not know what’s going on.” She winked at Geoffrey to show her words were meant to tease.
“I wish you could help us now.” Dejection rimmed Beatrice’s words. Geoffrey carefully placed his arm around her shoulder. She stiffened but did not pull away.
A suggestion came to Lenora. “Geoffrey, you could come forth. Declare yourself to my father and Matilda.”
“Your aunt would not appreciate her only daughter considering the attentions of a poor younger son and a Champlain at that.” Geoffrey spit out his family name in disgust. “Matilda is seeking wealth and the ear of the throne. She’d not get that with me as a son-in-law. I won’t marry Beatrice until I can support her.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “I’m working on a plan. Soon, I’ll have enough money and prestige to impress her mother, regardless of my name.”
“How?” Lenora noticed the light that came to her friend’s face. Perhaps he really did have a workable plan.
Geoffrey flipped his cloak over his arm and held it just below his eyes. “’Tis a secret.” Like a night phantom, he drew the cloak away from his face.
Always dreaming, always telling stories to amuse and make them laugh. Geoffrey would never change. Beatrice placed her hand softly on his arm. Devotion to her knight shone in her sparkling azure eyes.
Lenora pursed her lips while she studied the couple and pondered the situation. “’Tis true, Beatrice. Your mother would be ecstatic to regain ties to the throne and restore her wealth. Unfortunately, as Geoffrey said, marriage to him would not accomplish that.”
“If only Father had backed Henry instead of Stephen.” Beatrice released a wistful sigh.
“So say all the adulterine lords,” Lenora answered sagely. “Their lands have been taken at siege and their castles dismantled. ‘Twas a bloody end to a bloody time.”
“Aye, that is true enough. Stephen’s reign was anarchy,” Geoffrey concurred with her. “Your father did well to send you these past few years to live in Aquitaine with Henry’s Queen Eleanor. With Louis in battle and Woodshadow under attack every few months, I’m sure it eased your father’s mind to have you safe.”
He gave Beatrice a worried look. “At least your fathers both took a side. My own is nothing but a conniver who played both sides against each other. Henry would have his head if he could find the proof.”
“The war has changed us all.” Lenora smiled at her cousin. “Queen Eleanor taught me a great deal while I was with her. She’s a woman of remarkable power and intelligence.”
“Have you decided yet if you will return to the queen?” Geoffrey pressed her for an answer. “Or have you found a nice quiet abbey to continue your studies?” His eyes searched her face. The intensity of the look made her uncomfortable.
She shook her head. “I’ve made no decision as yet. There is too much here to consume my time. My future will wait until the problems at Woodshadow are solved.”
“Of which I am one,” Beatrice berated herself.
Geoffrey took her small hand in his own. “I suffer your loss, yet I’m glad you and your mother had to come here. Without that tragedy, I might never have met you, and had my empty life filled with the pure love of your smile.” The young knight gazed into Beatrice’s sorrowful eyes, and his hand caressed the worry lines from her brow.
“And, of course, Aunt Matilda would never have so apt a student as myself anywhere else,” Lenora quipped with sarcasm. The couple laughed, the pensive mood broken.
“’Lenora, a lady of your background should not smell of a stable!’” ‘She mimicked her aunt’s voice. “’Lenora, ‘tis not proper behavior to disagree with Lord Ranulf on correct agricultural methods.’”
Her cousin joined in the laughter, then grew somber. “Mother can be overbearing at times, but she just wants to repay your father. Since your mother is dead, she feared he wouldn’t take us in.”
“So teaching her motherless niece to be an acceptable young lady helps to keep her from feeling like she’s charity.” Lenora scratched her temple. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’ll try to be more…” A word that would express her emotions politely but spare her delicate cousin’s feelings just wouldn’t pop into her mouth.
“Nay,” Beatrice admonished. “Do not be anything but what you are. If I were as clever as you, I’d be able to avoid Mother’s plans for me. My only prayer is that the lands your father set aside for me will not interest a knight.”
Though said, Lenora could tell Beatrice gave the prospect little hope.
“Perhaps, if you went with her to Tintagel, you could think of some diversion to keep Beatrice away from any prospective grooms. I will be there, also, and between the both of us we should be able to protect her.” Geoffrey paused as a portly servant woman lumbered toward the stable.
“Lady Lenora, Lady Beatrice.” The woman waddled into view as Geoffrey ducked behind a haystack. “By the saints!” She stopped in front of the two girls and paused, taking deep gulps of air. Her huge chest rose up and down like a blacksmith’s forge. “Lady Matilda sent out the word the two of ye is to go to the great hall straight away.”
“Thank you, Alyse. We will be right there.” Lenora braced her arm at the doorway and blocked the view to the interior of the stable.
“See that you hurry, Lady Lenora. That woman is on a rampage, giving commands to everyone. She’s got poor Sir Hywel running circles to get everything done.” The woman mopped her forehead with the edge of her soiled apron. “’Tis too hot for a woman of my size to be running around like a youngster.” Alyse turned and plodded back across the bailey to the kitchen, muttering to herself as she fanned her red face.
“I must leave, my love.”
Lenora peeked under her arm and saw Geoffrey emerge from his hiding place. He gave Beatrice a chaste kiss on the forehead. “I will see you at Tintagel in a fortnight. With Lenora’s help, we will keep your mother from executing her plan.”
He winked conspiratorially at Lenora. “You two go on. I’ll slip out the back.” He lifted a loose board on the back wall and disappeared into the dark alley between the outer castle wall and stable.
“Don’t worry, Beatrice. He’ll be fine. No one has caught him yet,” Lenora reassured her cousin. “’Tis time now to worry about ourselves. I imagine your mother is not in good temper.”
Lenora’s long legs outdistanced her cousin’s much shorter ones. Beatrice had only crossed half of the inner bailey green when she skipped up the steps and threw open the door to enter the great hall. At the carved lion laver, she washed her hands and inhaled the tempting aromas of the noonday meal. Warm, rich smells of roasting meats and fresh baked breads thickened the air and caused her stomach to rumble.
“She’s a-lookin’ for ye,” warned a servant. He bustled past Lenora on his way to prepare the high table for the noonday meal.
“I know,” she mouthed back.
Beatrice slid in behind her to escape the attention of several hounds. “Go on now.” Lenora waved them off after she patted each massive head. Noses to the floor, the giant beasts sniffed among the new floor rushes searching for scraps. The central fireplace smoldered. Lenora watched the smoky trail rise up the new chimney.
The pantier entered the great hall from the passage leading to the downstairs pantry. His arms filled with crocks of wine, he was followed by her father’s steward, Sir Hywel.
The steward looked up and smiled at the two girls. She saw his smile fade and he ducked down a passage leading to the buttery.
“Lenora, where have you been?” a familiar voice shrieked from behind her.
She turned to see her aunt striding toward her. Biting her lower lip, Lenora arranged an innocent look on her face. “Have you been looking for me?”
“Come here, Beatrice.” Matilda’s jet black eyes darted from one girl to the other. Although petite in size, she propelled her two captives toward a less active area of the great hall. With a firm push, she sat Lenora at one end of a massive carved pew and her daughter at the other. Her eyes traveled up and down her niece’s stained clothing and tangled hair.
Her teeth close together, Matilda launched into a lecture. “I must speak to you about this ridiculous notion that you are not attending the king’s tourney. Such behavior would not be tolerated at King Stephen’s court.” The dignified voice became more elitist. “When I was at court, a woman knew her place. She obeyed her elders without question.”
Lenora schooled her features to look attentive and copied her cousin’s repentant posture.
“Aunt Matilda, thank you so much. You are truly wonderful to show such interest in the day-to-day chores here.” Lenora grinned; she had learned quickly that flattery was her aunt’s weakness.
“I’m glad you are finally realizing that. Three years with that woman has filled your head with all kinds of nonsense. Imagine, adultery with her own uncle, divorcing the King of France, and scarcely a month passes before Eleanor manages to ensnare Henry II. Why, the man is nine years younger than her.” Matilda sniffed her nose in disdain. “Someday you must fulfill your position as Lady of Woodshadow. Your father allows you to shirk your duties. You must begin to oversee the servants, the replacing of the rushes, the soap and candle making. A keep this size must be supervised vigilantly. ‘Tis my deep sense of loyalty to your father that forces me to assume the role of Woodshadow’s mistress.”
“I understand that, Aunt Matilda.” Letting her Aunt Matilda relive her glory days as a chatelaine served both Lenora’s and her father’s interests. The action kept Matilda busy in the keep and unaware of Lenora’s actions on behalf of her father. Actions that would earn Lenora several lectures from her aunt on proper decorum and would herald the seriousness of Sir Hywel’s illness.
“Good. Enough of this foolishness. You will enjoy yourself, both of you.” Matilda tucked an imaginary strand of hair into her wimple. “The king will be at Tintagel for less than a fortnight. He will preside over a tourney and hear grievances from nearby lords. That evening there will be dancing and entertainment.”
Lenora released a slow breath of air when her aunt turned her attention away from her. Beatrice became the new target.
“You will wear the lapis necklace your father gave me at our wedding. We must make sure that you are the loveliest young woman there. I’m sure you will catch the eye of a suitable partner.” Her aunt began to rattle off a list of elaborate gowns for Beatrice to pack for the coming trip. Meekly, she nodded at each of her mother’s suggestions.
Bored with details of gowns and matching slippers, Lenora decided now would be a perfect time to escape. She jumped up from the massive carved pew.
“Wait.” Her aunt motioned for her to remain seated. “You can’t leave yet, we must also plan your wardrobe. The maids need to be directed as to which gowns you will be taking and-”
“My position hasn’t changed.” Lenora’s calm voice caused her relatives to gasp in surprise. She took leave of her vexed aunt and escaped up the narrow curved stone stair that led to her father’s chambers. On purpose, she climbed the stairs two at a time, knowing it would infuriate her aunt.
A step sagged beneath the weight of Lenora’s foot. She made a mental note of the slight wood rot in the wooden section of the defense stairs as she sped to her father’s third-story chamber. Tomorrow, she must maneuver Sir Hywel to notice the decay. Right now, she wanted to talk with her father.
Without knocking, she barreled into her father’s private chambers and announced, “She’s at it again.” Lenora bounced up onto the red velvet coverlet, tucked her long legs under her and wrinkled her nose.
Her father, Sir Edmund, smiled from his bed, the curtains pulled back to let in the welcomed cool spring air. “So, you’re having a spat with your Aunt Matilda, are you? And why are you so determined not to attend the king’s festivities at Tintagel? The occasion should be quite merry.”
“How do you know that’s what the argument was about?”
“You forget about the squints. I keep well informed of what goes on with those to help me.” Her father pointed toward the floor. Lenora was just able to make out the small peephole concealed in a knot in the lumber floor. She slid off the bed and peered down through the squint.
The old Norman device enabled her to spy on the activity of the great hall below. She stifled a laugh when she spotted the bald head of her father’s seneschal, Sir Hywel, pass below her. Light whispers of his instructions to a passing servant floated upward. The high-pitched voice of her aunt drifted up as she continued to discuss the upcoming trip to Tintagel.
“You, sir, are an unscrupulous spy.” Her voice sounded with false indignation. She stood and shook the wrinkles from her tunic and rearranged the simple rope girdle at her waist. “You promised you would remain abed.”
“You, daughter, are a mischievous wench who needs her backside warmed for talking to her father in such a manner! It wasn’t I who peeked, but Tom.” Sir Edmund’s smile abated his threat.
“With your direction, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” he agreed readily.
Laughing, Lenora wished she could transform into a little girl and once more cuddle up next to her tall, strong father. She could listen to his stories of battles and the courtship of her mother over and over again.
Although bedridden for more than a month, Sir Edmund still possessed a commanding figure. His lanky form stretched the length of the six-foot bed. Red gold hair showed no signs of gray. Clean shaven, he reflected the rugged, handsome features of his youth.
“So, tell me what you have accomplished today.” Her father punched his silken pillows and snuggled back to rest against them.
“I managed to have Sir Hywel notice that the east bailey wall needs to be fortified, and I saw the smithy as you asked. His proposal to enlarge the blacksmith shed has merit. Oh, and as I climbed the stairs I noticed there is some rot in the wooden steps.”
Sir Edmund knit his fingers together and placed them behind his head. “I’ll talk to Sir Hywel about the blacksmith. I’ll also mention those damn steps. Those wooden Norman steps are a great defense in case we are invaded, but they are in constant need of repair.” He cast her a concerned look. “It’s not been easy on you, Lenora. You are my eyes and ears while I’m stuck in here.”
“Father, I don’t mind. ‘Tis rather entertaining to invent ways for your steward to discover things.”
“Aye, I can imagine it would. Hywel is a good man. He warned me his father suffered from senility at an early age. He had to be watched for fear he would leave the keep and lose his way. Toward the end, the man didn’t even know his own name. I fear our good friend suffers from the same ailment.” Her father defended his seneschal. “Sir Hywel is as loyal as a hound and as fierce as a boar. I should replace him, but would do so when I have someone I can trust to take over. For now, I must lay this boon at your feet and trust you to do my steward’s thinking for him.”
“Aunt Matilda is doing his thinking for him now.” Lenora giggled and rotated her index finger around in the air. “She has him running circles downstairs in preparation for the King’s tourney.”
“Daughter, I believe you should go to this tourney.” Her father’s voice interrupted her musing.
“Father, I don’t want to go. I have too much to do here. Mother’s mare, Silver Maple, will foal soon. I need to be here to help. Then there are the new spring herbs to tend. I have several new ones given to me by knights from the Crusades. And of course there’s you….” Lenora stopped, bit her tongue, and wished once again she would think before opening her mouth. Her father’s eyes blazed liquid gold. Another inherited trait from her father, she recognized this sure sign of anger. She prayed the blast would be short.
“The only thing wrong with me is that I have too many women trying to tell me what to do! A few days without female company will do me good. You women are always seeing disaster. I’ve a tiny cough, a little weakness in the legs. This will pass if I’m not coddled up like a nursing babe. I’m still lord of this keep, and I can manage quite well with my seneschal. Sir Hywel may not worry about your precious plants but he and I can manage for a fortnight on our own. If ‘tis proof you need, I’ll be up out of this today.” Edmund jerked backed the ermine-trimmed coverlet and twisted his long legs toward the wooden floor.
“Nay!” She rushed to her father’s side and replaced the coverlet. “Please, Father, the physicians ordered you to rest.”
“And rest I will, but only if you attend the tourney,” Sir Edmund countered. “King Henry needs me to fulfill my vassal obligation of counsel. He intends to use the tourney as an opportunity to plan alliances and settle a dispute between Sir Champlain and Sir Ranulf. Since their claims are on land that borders ours, I want to have input into the outcome.”
“But, Father,” she protested, “surely the king will understand that you are ill. Besides, I could not speak at counsel.”
“I do not expect you to. Just keep those quick eyes and ears open and deliver a message to the king on the land dispute. I have a fear that whatever the outcome, the conflict will spill over onto Woodshadow.”
“Aunt Matilda would not approve!” Lenora cautioned.
Edmund gave her a wary look. “Then perhaps ‘twould be best for you not to mention the letter to her. Just as you neglect to mention those messages your cousin receives from her suitor.”
She wagged her finger at her father. “Nothing escapes you. You know everything that goes on in your demesne. Very well, I’m not eager to hear another lecture on how I am not in the reins of propriety. We will keep the true nature of my visit a secret.”
“Beatrice will be glad you are going, and I think ‘twill do her some good. She can’t overcome her fears if she’s never given the chance to face them,” Edmund reasoned.
Lenora’s chin lowered. “She was counting on me to help her escape Matilda’s matrimonial plans.”
“Do you really think Geoffrey is the man for her?”
She sighed and leaned her head against the canopy bedpost. “I fear he is the only man for her. Never have I seen him take the smallest liberty with her. He treats her more like a brother than a suitor. But he is the only man I have ever seen her with that does not drive her to fits of terror. How can Matilda offer her up to the highest bidder knowing how Beatrice feels about men?”
“The girl is Matilda’s only asset and daughters are married off to improve or protect the demesne. I blame your attitude toward marriage on myself. I’ve filled your head with stories of your mother and me. Ours was a love as well as a political union. ‘Twould do you well, my daughter, to use this opportunity to search for a husband for yourself.” He raised his hand to silence her expected protests. “You have enjoyed your books, gardening and your time galloping wildly around the countryside. Before Louis died, I obliged your wishes, I paid the king’s fee so you could remain unmarried. Now you are my only heir, and Woodshadow’s future. Rest would come easier if I knew that your inheritance could not be taken from you.”
“Beatrice could inherit.” She searched for excuses to ease her father’s worry and still keep her freedom. “Aunt Matilda has mentioned many times the abbey she and Beatrice stayed at. The enormous library there, the peaceful gardens. I had thought to perhaps spend time—”
“Beatrice is not a Marchavel. I inherited most of these lands from your mother, but they were poor and ill-kept. ‘Twas I that built up these properties for my descendants. I have fought with sword and words to keep Woodshadow for my heirs, for you. I do not want all of your mother’s and my sacrifices to be handed over for another’s prosperity. This was not our dream.” Sir Edmund struck his chest with a clenched fist.
Lenora bit her lower lip. She rose from the bed and moved slowly to the window. Her gaze followed the ramblings of a small boy as he chased a multicolored butterfly through new spring grass in the bailey. The steady beat of the blacksmith’s bellows blended with the clip-clop of a passing draft horse and cart. The soft sound of the grooms sweeping out the stables, the reassuring neighs of her treasured white mares whispered to her. Everyone in the demesne carried on about their business, happy to be outside after the long confining winter.
Lenora thought, If my brother had not died, I would be out there, reading or tending to Silver, or working on the new herbs.Louis would be the one with a duty to provide an heir. She had a duty to her father and to her home.
“I’ll go, Father, and deliver your letter. My eyes and ears will be open.” Lenora breathed deeply. “And I will consider what you said. But please, Father, let me choose.”
Sir Edmund relaxed his tense muscles. He opened his arms, which were quickly filled by his dearly loved only child.
Chapter Two (#ulink_5e99fff5-644e-58c4-9fd1-33ccc4202aff)
Roen slammed his fist against the trestle table. The crash of the waves outside the castle added to the thunder of the sound. King Henry had laid a trap for him under the guise of a tourney. His victory at Tintagel became bittersweet.
The young man with his feet propped up against the table scrambled to elude the crimson wine sloshed from the goblets on the table. “Take care, Roen! You’ll stain my tunic!” he admonished his friend. “I plan on stunning some young heiress tonight.”
“Take care? I am being cheated of my due, Hamlin, and you ask me to take care.” Once again his giant fist crashed onto the table. The wine goblet rocked, nearly toppling over. Hamlin dived across the table and successfully righted the containers before the precious liquid stained his finery.
Roen crushed the letter under his friend’s nose. “I have fought his wars, defended his castles and captured his robber barons. And this is how he repays me. Henry owes me gold, not a wife!” He stared at the wilted piece of paper. “I curse the day I learned to read.”
“Your mother did you a service. The ability to read—”
“My mother never did me service. ‘Twas not a kindness she sought, but a mark. A mark to show my father and brothers I did not belong.” Roen roared his outrage. “Henry would wish on me a conniving bitch instead of relinquishing the gold he owes me.”
“Stars! Roen, he offers you not a wife, King Henry offers you any wife you want. You can have your pick of beautiful heiress maidens.” Hamlin winked at his outraged friend. “Or lusty landed widows. I wish I could be so rewarded, but alas, I am to always be covered by your exceeding large shadow.” Hamlin’s chestnut eyes took on a resigned expression.
Roen de Galliard raised his clenched hands in the air like the talons of a hawk. Cast a large shadow, indeed he did. Both in size and reputation. At well over six feet, he dwarfed most men in England and in his homeland of Normandy. His reputation as a warrior was well-known throughout King Henry’s realm.
“And what good has that shadow done me?” Roen demanded. He didn’t wait for his friend to answer. “I’m one of Henry’s elite siege commanders. The sound of my name causes any of the adulterine lords to quake in his shoes. And do you know why?”
Hamlin pointed his finger at him and opened his mouth.
Roen didn’t give his friend the opportunity to interrupt him. “Because I never give up. They know I’ll bide my time. I’ll find their weakness, no matter how formidable their stronghold.”
How many attacks had he survived? It seemed endless. He always made short work of his enemy. Fast and brutal attacks, over and over again until the besieged lord surrendered or died in battle. Study, calculate, attack. An anthem for battle, his philosophy of life.
Hamlin jumped into his friend’s one-sided conversation. “I can think of no other man who needs a wife worse than you!” He held up a hand to check Roen’s outburst. “You are happiest when planning and executing a battle. Do you wish to give up such challenge when you are landed?”
“Do not be foolish! Of course not!” Roen thundered.
“Then will you remain landless? Never to be a senior, always a landless juvenis,” Hamlin countered.
“You know I wish a keep of my own. There will be no inheritance from Normandy, my mother saw to that. You have known me since we were pages. Why ask questions you already know the answers to?”
“To make you see that a wife is the answer to your needs. I see it and the king sees it. You’re too stubborn to see the practicality of a wife. Who will oversee the needs of your villeins and keep the servants in line when you are gone on one of your battles for the king? Who will keep an accurate account of spending and entertain your guests while you plan a siege or serve your aid and knight’s fee to Henry?” Hamlin asked the questions, then took a deep gulp of his wine.
Roen pondered his friend’s words but refused to concede defeat. Self-justified anger seeped from the pores of his skin.
His second in command pushed the point further. “A wife will bring you land and make sure your castellan does not rob you blind. She is trained to be her husband’s helpmate, to take charge when her lord is away on the king’s affairs. A wife is the answer to your needs, unless of course you wish to personally oversee the making of candles, the changing of the rushes, the weaving, the—”
“Enough! I see your point. The prospect doesn’t thrill me any more than before. Women are nothing more than vessels for tricks and tears to get their way. They’re not to be trusted. My own mother…” Roen clamped his jaws tightly. The veins in his neck pulsated with hot blood.
“My friend, I know the way your family has treated you. Through no fault of your own, you have born the brunt of your father’s suspicions. But do not mark all women by your mother.”
“I have not seen any who are different.” Lowering himself to a three-legged chair, he rested his elbows on his knees. The rickety chair groaned in protest at Roen’s weight. He raised his wine goblet from the table to his lips. All those years fighting and sacrificing for the chance to own land…Whatever Hamlin and the king thought, he knew the truth. He was being cheated.
His too-cheerful friend gave him a broad smile and slapped him on the back. “And what women have you-associated with these past ten years? Camp followers, a lord’s cast-off mistress, tavern wenches? We will find you a comely woman tonight with an impressive dowry and sizable inheritance. One who is properly trained to be a lady and servant to her lord husband.”
“We?” Roen arched his brow as he brought the wine goblet from his mouth.
“I do have an interest in the outcome. As your second in command and boyhood friend, I know that you will always want me near. So I want to make sure that I, um, you get the best possible arrangement.”
“By the blessed saints!” Roen finished off his wine in one huge gulp. “How do you always end up missing the manure pile, my friend? I am to be stuck with a wife and the duties of a lord, while you enjoy a home, your freedom, and serve only light duty.”
A sly smile played across Hamlin’s face. “I resent that. ‘Tis extremely hard work being your friend. See how diligently I have had to work to show you the king’s wisdom? Light duty, indeed. Come, Roen, ‘tis time to…evaluate…your choices for a bride.”
Roen followed his friend reluctantly from the chamber down the narrow steps to the great hall of Tintagel. The sound of the crashing ocean waves synchronized with the throb in his head. He did not relish the idea of sharing a trencher with a lady or the necessary polite conversation he would have to make with prospective brides to “evaluate” their identity and wealth.
An ember of hope began to flame in his chest. “Henry cannot force a woman to marry.”
“But what lord would deny the king’s request. Especially those who did not openly defend Henry against Stephen. The king’s vassals are all eager to prove their loyalty to him now that he has the throne. Do not worry, Roen. Anyone you pick will surely agree,” Hamlin reassured his friend.
“Very well.” He sighed deeply. “I will attend this function with an open mind. But remember, Hamlin, I want obedience in a wife. I will not suffer as my father did.” Closing the door, he took a deep, cleansing breath as he always did before engaging in a battle, and headed toward the enemy—the single women of King Henry’s realm.
Lenora slipped through the rough planks of the stall gate. The magnificent animal inside tossed his head to warn her off. She paid no attention to the gesture; she had itched to examine the horse since reaching Tintagel late yesterday.
“Easy, I’ll not harm you.” She crooned while the ivorycolored war-horse stomped his hooves. Convinced she could win the steed’s trust, she reached out and placed her fingertips on the velvety nose. The stallion didn’t nip or bite so she drew closer. On tiptoe, she brushed aside the mane and scratched the horse’s ears.
“Not one flaw,” Lenora marveled. “’Tis a model you are for every knight’s destrier.” A toss of the horse’s white blond mane signaled agreement. “I have some mares at home I would love to breed with you. ’Twould be a handsome sum I could call for those foals.”
“Lenora, are you in here?”
She turned to see her cousin enter the shaded stable. After the bright light of the noonday sun, it took a moment for Beatrice to spy her in the stall. Her cousin’s face drew up in mock surprise. “The stable is the last place I would think to look for you.”
Lenora squeezed through the slats of wood and the hem of her dress snagged on a splinter. The gown tugged her back and she reached to yank it free.
“That is your best kirtle.” Beatrice threw up her arms in annoyance. “Mother will have your hide if you show up at the meal with another ripped hem.” Her patient fingers extricated the cloth from the jagged piece of wood.
“See. No damage.” Lenora pushed the edge of her dress under the younger woman’s nose. “Your mother will have nothing to complain of, though ‘tis little reason she needs to complain.”
“She needs not little reasons when you are so adept at providing big ones.” Her cousin shook her head and her blond curls bobbed.
Lenora drew a piece of straw from the fresh bale and chewed on the end. After a moment of reflective munching, she announced the result of her contemplation. “Life is not fair, Beatrice. I work long hours to train and plan the breeding of Woodshadow horses, yet I cannot take credit for my work.”
Her cousin gave her a sympathetic nod. “’Twould be a surprise indeed for all the mighty lords who clamor for a Woodshadow mount to discover their perfect animal was bred and trained by a woman.”
“Aye, but I do not fear that day will ever come. Nor is it likely those men will discover ‘twas I that divided our fields into threes and planted the fallow field with grain. ‘Twill not happen because no man would believe it. Every success is attributed to my father. ‘Tis not fair.”
No offer of solution came from the petite young woman. “’Tis a woman’s lot, cousin. There is naught we can do.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.
“The queen would not say so.”
“The queen has land to back her up and a husband who awaits us now,” her cousin reasoned.
“Aye, yet I will seek out the owner of this destrier. Perhaps, in Father’s name, I can contract his loan as a stud. The horse will suffer none for it.” She gave the animal one last perusal. “Come, we must find Geoffrey and lay out a plan.”
The idea caused Beatrice’s eyes to sparkle. Lenora surveyed the deep azure tunic and kirtle that matched the wide blue eyes. A delicate gold-link girdle accentuated her cousin’s tiny waist. “He’s sure to fall in love with you all over again.”
“Enough to speak to my mother and your father?” She lowered her head and spoke in a tight voice. “I don’t care if I’m a lady of a great castle. All I want is to be safe.”
The statement made Lenora uneasy. Too often when her cousin spoke of her feelings for her suitor she expressed them in terms of safety instead of love. But she had informed Geoffrey of the deep-seated fears the girl suffered. He accepted them as part of loving Beatrice.
She started to speak but a page barreled past her. He ran to the war-horse’s stall and began to scoop grain into the empty food bag. “Boy, to whom does this animal belong?”
“Why, milady? Is he ill?” The boy’s voice cracked with worry. “I forgot to feed him this morn but rushed here as soon as I remembered. The knight will beat me sure if he finds I’ve not taken good care of him.”
“Nay, he is fine.”
The lad gave her a doubtful look.
“Believe me, I know the beasts. He is none the worse for a late meal, though do not make a habit of it,” Lenora reassured the page.
His eyes showed the first signs of tears and his young body trembled. A flare of hot temper blazed through her. What knight would so threaten the lad? He could only be eight or nine.
“Are you sure, my lady? Sir Roen de Galliard is not a knight I wish to cross.” The boy looked hopeful. “I think I will check on the animal myself.”’ He ducked into the stall and began to inspect the horse.
Lenora shook her head in disapproval. So the great warrior scared children as well as barons. The code of chivalry demanded a knight protect women and children, not frighten innocent boys. In her eyes, Galliard fell far short of that code.
“Lenora?” Beatrice’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “What will we do about him?” Her cousin dropped her shoulders in defeat.
“You’re not to worry about Galliard. Geoffrey and I will think of a way to keep you from him.” She gave her cousin a confident wink. “Come, we need to return to the hall for the midday meal.”
During the short trip back, Lenora racked her brains for some plan to help her cousin. She entered Tintagel’s great hall and joined the assembly of people. Entertainers, nobility and servants wove through the hall. Voices chattered and dogs barked. The melodic sounds of the musicians could barely be heard above the din.
Beatrice poked her in the back. “There’s Mother.”
Across the hall, Matilda maneuvered between the gaily dressed aristocrats. The elder woman’s gaze swept from side to side, searching. Lenora pulled her cousin back. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Geoffrey squeezed his body between two heavy-set warriors.
“Come with me.” He motioned toward the wall. The noise in the hall drowned out most of his words. Lenora followed with Beatrice in tow. He led them to an indentation in the thick castle wall. An arched window allowed in midday light.
“We must plan.” Geoffrey’s sienna gaze darted about the room. “Our fears are more than warranted. The rumor is the king intends to repay Galliard with a wife.”
Beatrice’s back stiffened, color drained from her face. Her voice wooden, she stated, “If you know this, my mother is sure to, also.”
“Aye,” Lenora theorized, “but from what I hear, Galliard strikes me as a man who would want more than Father has set aside for you. Pray the man is as greedy as I believe him to be.”
“Can we take that risk?” Geoffrey held up a hand to silence her protest. His voice sounded bleak. “There is always the chance Galliard could be turned by Beatrice’s face.”
Lenora crossed her arms and began to pace back and forth in the small area. Three steps forward, a sharp pivot and then three steps back. The answer came to her on the fourth trip.
“We must make sure he does not see her.” She pointed her finger at the young couple. “There is naught we can do till after the meal. When the trenchers are cleared for the poor, that will be the time Matilda will try to introduce Beatrice to Galliard. Geoffrey, you must see that your lady removes herself from the hall.” Lenora squeezed her alarmed cousin. “The gardens will be populated but do not strike me as a site where Galliard is likely to spend time.”
“What of Matilda?” There was a critical tone to Geoffrey’s voice.
“Ah, my dear aunt.” She snapped her fingers. “Lady Marguerite is here. Matilda will jump at the chance to be introduced to one of Queen Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting.”
“Will that delay her long enough for me to spirit Beatrice away?”
“Lady Marguerite was one of the castle’s biggest gossips. I trust she has not changed. She will hold my aunt’s interest.”
Geoffrey patted Beatrice’s hand and gave her a wink. “Do not worry, my love. We need only hide you till Galliard chooses a bride. He is sure to arrange a betrothal soon.”
And I will hasten that along, Lenora vowed to herself. Before this night is over, Galliard will be betrothed to some unlucky girl. A trumpet blast intruded into her promise.
“The meal begins. When the trenchers are distributed to the poor, look for me.” The young man blended into the crowd.
“Always I am looking for you two. Have you no thought to proper etiquette?” Matilda swooped down on the girls from behind.
Lenora smothered a groan and turned to face her aunt. Her hand moved in a tiny sign of the cross in hopes her aunt had not seen Geoffrey speaking with them.
“Aunt Matilda, we were just…” She hesitated and explored the recesses of her brain for a believable excuse.
“I don’t have time for your stories now. Come, I have us seated at the far table.” Matilda gripped her daughter’s hand firmly. “Lenora, your father’s friend requested you to sit with him. Lord Ranulf is on this side of the hall.” Beatrice gave Lenora a helpless look while Matilda dragged her to the opposite side of the room.
Lenora scooted to her seat just as the royal party entered. She dutifully rose with the rest of the hall, lowered her eyes and folded her hands. The crackle of paper in her pocket reminded her of the letter she had been entrusted to deliver.
As she curtsied, Lenora ventured a peek at England’s sovereign. She met Henry’s curious eyes, alight with good humor. He gave her an impish wink when he passed. The cleric at the king’s side cleared his throat and pretended not to notice the lack of decorum. She returned the devilish wink. Servants directly behind the party almost tripped with their heavy loads. Henry’s laugh boomed out across the great hall. He took his seat at the raised table and commanded, “Food and drink.”
Great platters of artfully displayed food were presented to the guests. Four men strained to support pallets with two golden brown suckling pigs. The glistening skins made Lenora’s mouth water. Two porters carried a mountain of sweet cakes and honeyed nuts. They managed to genuflect before the king with their delicious load. Servants ladled bite-sized pieces of meat into the guests’ trenchers. Bells tinkled from the juggler’s hat. A minstrel rehearsed a ballad while he strummed a lyre.
Seated at her right, Lord Ranulf stabbed a piece of spiced meat from the trencher and offered it to her. “How is your father? When you were delayed, I feared ‘twas due to my old comrade’s health.”
“He’s much better, thank you, Lord Ranulf.” She chewed the tender morsel. One of the many pages scampered over to fill the agate wine cup. The tip of his tongue showed while he poured the red liquid into the heavy cup.
Lord Ranulf waited with patience for the lad to finish his task. “I suppose ‘twas the heavy rains that delayed you. ‘Tis a shame you missed what competition there was. The rains canceled much of the tourney, also.”
“The roads were nearly impassable, but my aunt was determined to come.” She watched the page and felt the lad’s nervousness.
With trained grace, the page returned the goblet without a spot on the white linen tablecloth. He let out a loud sigh of relief. She gave the boy an understanding smile. ‘Twas not easy to be at everyone’s beck and call. An opportunity to gain information on her adversary came to her. “I have heard that much of what victories there were belong to Sir Roen de Galliard. Is he here?” She flashed the elderly knight a brilliant smile.
“I’m sure he is.” The gray-haired man scanned the crowd, then smiled. “The knight approaches Henry now. He’s a hard man to miss.”
She turned toward the high table and knew instantly who Lord Ranulf spoke of. Roen de Galliard towered over the king and the rest of the men in the room. The modest cut of his tunic did nothing to hide the man’s brutal strength and power. Lenora wondered at the aura of self-assurance the man radiated.
Broad shoulders filled the back of the chair he sat in while he conversed with the king. Worn long and in the old Saxon style, his mane of hair flowed to just past his shoulders. The flaxen hair hid much of the man’s face.
She concentrated on deciphering what she could from his half-hidden features. His sharp profile showed rugged lines and dark color. Battle scars, white with age, gave him a fierce look but did not mar him in disfigurement. No emotion humanized his face. Like a marble statue, he sat on the dais. He seemed to dismiss the crowd of people with a bored disregard, as though they were not important enough to consider.
A sudden movement and he turned to face her intruding gaze. Eyes the color of thunderclouds pierced her own. Humiliated, Lenora broke contact, not sure if he had truly seen her or if her guilt made her self-conscious. Unwelcomed warmth burned her cheeks.
“Lady Lenora?” Lord Ranulf wrinkled his brow in concern. “You look ill.”
“Nay, I am fine.” A quick gulp of wine calmed her. She prodded the man to speak to give her a chance to recover from her embarrassment. “Pray, tell me of your daughter. I have not seen her here.”
“Expecting again. The girl has given me three strapping grandsons. I think this time she and her husband wish for a daughter to spoil.”
The gregarious elder recited story after story of his eldest grandson’s strengths and wits throughout the meal. She nodded at the right moments and made the correct oohs and aahs but listened only halfheartedly. Every long tale gave her the opportunity to reconstruct her composure.
Fortified at last, Lenora hid behind heavy lidded eyes and spied on the dais table. The king sat with his advisers and the Lord of Tintagel, but the knight had disappeared. She probed the hall for his whereabouts and spotted him with no trouble. He stood near the back of the hall with a dark-haired man. At first she thought ‘twas Geoffrey he spoke to, but the smaller man carried himself differently, his stance more lighthearted than her friend’s serious one.
Lord Ranulf’s tales continued to roll from his tongue. The abundance of wine the man had drunk probably explained his exceptionally good memory. A horn blasted from the balcony above. At last, the end of the meal; time to break away from her talkative companion. “Lord Ranulf, thank you so much for the delightful entertainment. You must come and see us soon.”
“Oh, aye, I will.” The man reached for the wine cup and slurped the last few drops. “But let me finish my story. Charles, that’s the oldest boy, he grabbed the horse’s tail and—”
Lenora shot to her feet; friendship could demand only so much. “As much as I would love to hear the tale of the tail, I must speak to King Henry. Father wishes me to extend his sorrow at not being able to attend.”
“Of course, of course. I will see you later and finish the story. That boy is a rascal.” Lord Ranulf raised his hand in salute and turned to the man seated across the table from him. “Darius, my friend. Come let us share a cup of wine. Have you heard of the prank my grandson pulled?”
Lenora whistled under her breath at her escape and took off to scan for her relatives. Luck came her way; they stood not far from her. A woman in a garish blob of color flittered near them. Lady Marguerite. Thank heaven for such a stroke of luck.
Rushing to her aunt’s side, she whipped her arm through Matilda’s and swung her around. “Aunt Matilda, may I introduce you to one of Queen Eleanor’s favorite ladies-in-waiting. Lady Marguerite, this is my aunt, Lady Matilda.”
With a slingshot motion, she propelled her aunt forward and pushed the two ladies together. “I know you have much to discuss. Lady Matilda was at Stephen’s court, you know.”
The two dowagers sized each other up. Curiosity won. Each dropped a snippet of gossip, then their heads drew together and the real news began. Her plan was working.
She backed away with Beatrice behind her. After she cleared the eagle eyes of Matilda, a giggle burst from her lips. “Step one, accomplished. Hurry and find Geoffrey. I’ll take care of Galliard.”
For the first time all day, her cousin’s face glowed with hope. “Perhaps this will work.”
“You had doubts?”
“Your plans don’t always work. Remember when you tried to-”
“Don’t think failure, think victory.” A gentle push toward the window displayed her urgency. “Now hurry off. Stay in the garden as long as you can and watch for your mother.”
Beatrice merged with the crowd and met Geoffrey near the window. He leaned to whisper in her cousin’s ear, his brown curls merging with the blond ones.
“Step two, taken care of.” The blond giant of a knight came into view and she slapped her thighs. The crunch of paper reminded her of another mission. She struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’ve got to deliver Father’s letter.”
King Henry rose from the high table when she scurried to his side. Breathless, she pulled the wrinkled sealed missive from her pocket. “Your Majesty, my father wishes me to extend his regrets at not being able to fulfill his obligation of counsel due to his health. He hopes this will aid you in your decision on the property dispute between Sir Ranulf and Sir Champlain.”
“’Tis with sorrow I heard of my hunting companion’s malaise. He will improve, I’m sure,” Henry stated good-naturedly. “We’ve planned a hunting adventure this spring. I want to try out my new falcon against your father’s Swiftkill.” Henry’s bright eyes shone with warmth.
He opened the letter and browsed its contents. The king’s brows knit together. “When did your father give you this?”
“Shortly after your invitation reached us.”
“Did anyone else see this message or know you were to deliver it to me?”
“Nay, Your Majesty. We, uh, Father felt ‘twould be less of a commotion if my aunt knew nothing of it. Is something wrong?” Lenora queried.
“Your father has given me something to ponder. Don’t worry, dear, nothing to concern yourself with. Go, enjoy the entertainment.” He brushed her off and retreated from the room, the letter still in his beefy hands.
Step three, accomplished.
Now for Galliard. She surveyed the crowd for the knight. Young girls in brilliant gowns glided about, casting flirtatious glances at wealthy lords. Laughter boomed from a group of war-hardened knights as they recounted old battles. Lenora took a deep breath and began her search for Roen de Galliard, not quite certain of her battle plan but determined to protect her cousin’s happiness.
Chapter Three (#ulink_2b1e7f59-8d32-5bba-bd9d-6a69dc33b706)
“Hamlin, take your pick. They are all the same to me.” Roen turned his back on the assembly of possible brides. “Only make sure you choose one with a prosperous demesne and a proper attitude.”
“How am I to know that? ‘Tis battle we’ve spent our time in, not tallying up what riches belong to what lord,” Hamlin replied, irritated. “I’m afraid this is going to be more difficult than I thought.” He stroked his chin while Roen gave him a cynical smile.
The great hall of Tintagel blossomed with the beauty of English ladies. Overadorned children, displayed like trinkets by their mothers, danced by him. The sight nauseated him. Roen would rather have his fee paid in gold, but the chance to own land compelled him. A lord with no other feudal obligation except to the king was a prize few obtained. However distasteful, marriage enabled him to become landed.
“I suppose we could ask someone,” Hamlin ventured.
“If a decent heiress is in the room, a man with good sense would not proclaim it to us but use the information to better his own lot,” Roen said, rebuffing his friend. The two men simultaneously dropped down onto a half-log bench.
“I’m better prepared for battle than I am to search for you a wife. I say let’s just look for a pretty one,” Hamlin suggested with a shrug.
“Perhaps I can help you with this dilemma.” A feminine voice intruded on their conversation.
Roen did not stand but turned his head to view the speaker. His tone sarcastic, he asked, “In what way could you be of any help to me?” He purposely conveyed his contempt and gave the wench a look meant to dissolve her audacity.
She almost turned away, but didn’t. Her eyes changed to a shade of brown that tantalized him. They reminded him of something familiar, yet it eluded him. His inability to stamp a name on their color needled him. It did nothing to improve his impression of her.
The woman did not lower her eyes from his scrutiny. He saw her back pull up straighter. The pointed chin tilted up like a defiant child. Her eyes blazed, her voice strained to rein in her anger. “I know most, if not all, of the women present and the worth of their landholdings. I’ll give you information on any women you choose.”
Roen snorted with indignation. “I should trust you? How do I know you won’t lie to further your own cause?”
“How would being untruthful aid me in acquiring your warhorse?” The woman scrunched her brows together, perplexed.
“You want Destrier!” Roen felt an almost uncontrollable urge to shake the wench senseless. “No woman is worth that horse.”
“Destrier? You named that magnificent animal Destrier? I suppose your dog is called Dog.” The woman’s voice held back none of her scorn.
Roen opened his mouth to speak, but the truth of her words muted him. What did it matter what he called his hound?
“I don’t want to keep the animal, just use him for stud service on some of my father’s mares at Woodshadow.”
At the mention of the keep, Roen’s interest peaked. “Woodshadow, you say. Does not the king have a palfrey from your stable?”
“Aye, that he does, a gift from my father.” Pride marked her words. “A steed from Woodshadow is much desired. Your mount, Destrier—” the woman rolled her eyes “—would be no worse from the wear.”
“Perhaps she could help us at that,” Hamlin noted.
Not willing to concede yet, Roen sneered. “An idiot could tell that Destrier is an unsurpassable mount. That she recognizes the fact hardly merits us trusting her judgment. How do we know she doesn’t wish to marry me herself?”
The words were no sooner uttered than Roen knew exactly what her eyes reminded him of—molten gold. He had seen a man in the Holy Lands melt down the precious metal to form items for the church. The woman’s eyes reminded him of hot gold, rich in color, scalding in temperature. Her eyes seared his with their intensity.
“I can think of no greater purgatory than to be your wife. For a number of reasons, most of them dealing with you.” She blasted out her words in a fiery voice. Nearby, heads turned toward them. The woman lowered her voice and gritted her teeth. She turned from him to face Hamlin, who looked both shocked and amused.
“Pray, knight, you seem to have a sensible nature,” she began placatingly. “Kindly tell your friend that not all women seek the confinement of marriage. Some wish time to study and learn. I am one such woman. Marriage is not what I seek for myself.” She smiled, and the embers of anger in her eyes began to fade. “Besides, I’ll be honest.” Her smile twisted into a mischievous grin. “I am cursed with three faults which make marriage not an option for me.”
Cursed! Her smile kindled a twinge of arousal but he quickly doused it. She seemed too intelligent to believe in superstition. Roen started to terminate the conversation with her but her eyes held him. They no longer burned, but had mellowed to the shade of warm cider. A half-hidden smile twitched at her full lips. She dared to tease him!
“Only three? You do yourself service, woman.” Roen arched his brow cynically.
The smile became more animated. “Aye, only three, but as far as men are concerned, major ones. The first is plain to see, I am no beauty.”
His gaze raked down the length of her body. She stood almost to his shoulder, and he savored the length of time it took to explore her body. With caged patience, she waited while he noted her generous mouth and elflike chin. He let his gaze linger on the mature breasts. The unpretentious gown hugged at the gentle swell of her hips. Dark braids hung between the valley of her breasts. Wisps of curls escaped the confines of the butter-colored ribbons of her plaits.
Roen studied the wavy mass of hair. At first it appeared dark brown, but as the sunlight filtered through the window, it highlighted the copper tresses. He smiled despite himself when, once more, the maverick lock of hair escaped from behind her ear and she replaced it yet again.
Aye, no English beauty: she was too dark and her features too irregular. Yet, she intrigued him, especially her eyes. Never had he seen eyes the color of gold, or ones that expressed so much of the person’s inner self. Now those eyes stayed on him. Surprised, Roen realized she was evaluating him.
Humph! Roen admitted to himself. The chit has backbone. A mere look does not send her off in tears. Finally, when he saw she would stand her ground, he answered, “I concede, and the other faults?”
The wench relaxed: he could see the tension leave her body. A grudging look of admiration tinted her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve already had a taste of the other two. I’m exceptionally intelligent, and not afraid to let others know it. Lastly, I have a bit of a temper.” She held her fingers apart slightly to demonstrate how small a “bit.”
Hamlin bubbled with laughter, while Roen quirked his mouth into a reluctant smile. “I can readily see how those three particular faults might make it hard to find a husband, Lady…” Hamlin paused. “You know our names but yours remains a mystery.”
“I am Lenora de Marchavel of Woodshadow. My father is Sir Edmund. Now, do we have a bargain?”
Roen racked his memory for information on Sir Edmund. The king spoke of him often and considered the man a loyal friend. From what he had heard, the girl’s father was a man of honor and integrity. Would the same hold true for the daughter? Still reluctant to enter an agreement with a woman, Roen assessed his alternatives.
“You drive a hard bargain.” Lenora’s eyes gleamed. “I will give you the choice of one foal your animal sires. The foal will be worth a hefty bag of gold, not to mention the prestige of owning a Woodshadow mount.”
“Agreed. You will tell me truthfully of any woman I choose. In return, Destrier is yours for a month.” Roen knew he had the better deal, yet Lenora’s eyes troubled him. Instead of defeat, her warm spice-colored eyes shone with victory. Roen nodded toward the ladies milling about in the great chamber. “Pick one and tell me what you can.”
“Roen, there is no use wasting Lady Lenora’s time on all of these women.” Hamlin gave Lenora a crooked smile and pointed toward the crowd. “How about that one in the yellow gown? The one seated at the feet of the rather large dowager.”
“Lady Daphne. She is two years my junior. Her father is Sir George Champlain. He lays claim to much land, though ‘tis spread widely and difficult to oversee.”
“The condition of her inheritance?” Roen asked impatiently. He barely registered the presence of the flaxen-haired young girl.
“Well, she stands to inherit a sizable fief on the birth of her first child. In fact, that property is the major income for Sir Champlain.” Lenora bit her upper lip, the edges of her mouth upturned in an engaging grin.
Roen eyed his informant carefully. A faint light danced through her eyes. She held something back. “The rest,” he demanded.
An impish smile slid across her lips. “The only thing I could add is the fact that she is thrice widowed.”
“Three husbands!” Hamlin jumped up and peered at the innocent-looking beauty across the room. Daphne, her eyes downcast, continued to listen to the never-ending complaints of the older woman. “What happened to them?” Hamlin asked in a hushed voice.
“The usual—hunting accident, illness, thrown from a horse—things like that,” Lenora replied matter-of-factly.
“Why so many husbands lost to accidents?” Roen queried. He noted the intelligent sparkle in Lenora’s eyes. A ripple of admiration intrigued him, but he brushed the emotion aside.
“’Tis no secret, Daphne’s father does not wish to part with her dowry land. By allowing his daughter to marry but not to conceive, he keeps control of his best property and gains from Daphne’s inheritance as a widow.”
Roen slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “He should be hanged. Why have you not taken this matter before King Henry?”
“Because I have no evidence. Though I nursed the poor girl through two miscarriages, I’ve no proof her father caused them or the demise of her husbands. A village woman who came to me to speak of the tea Sir Champlain forced upon his daughter prior to her miscarriages died on her return home. Daphne knows what her father and brothers are capable of, as do I. She would never live to testify against them.”
Lenora drew back and leaned against the cold stone wall. Misery dulled the glow in her eyes and face. “Someday that man will pay for the way he treats his daughter.”
Brittle agate eyes displayed anger, sadness and fear. Roen knew Lenora did not lack spirit, for few men stood up to him as she had. Lord Champlain must be a monster to cause her such dread.
“Your counsel is well taken, go on to the next.” Roen waved his hand dismissively toward the great hall. For the next hour lie listened to Lenora recite all she knew on each woman Hamlin pointed out. She informed them of gambling debts, land disputes, how complex their obligations to area lords and the disposition of each woman. Roen sat on the pew with his long powerful legs stretched out, ankles crossed, disinterested. If he bothered to ask a question, it dealt with the woman’s holdings or family reputation. Finally, he rose, his frustration and disdain erupting.
“I have had enough. Every woman here has either a poor dowry, a plain face or some other shortcoming.” Roen paced in front of his two confidants. He stopped and turned to face Lenora. “Are there no women here capable of meeting the most basic of standards?”
“What do you expect?” Lenora could hold her anger no longer. “You look over a possible wife with the same enthusiasm as purchasing a…a cow for pasture. Do you feel that you are so great a prize? Think what the woman gets in return from a marriage to you. Nothing, since you bring no land and she becomes the brood mare for an overbearing oaf. A dullard who can’t even think up a proper name for his own horse.” Lenora took a breath, ready to continue her tirade.
“Who is that?” Hamlin interrupted the tongue-lashing and pointed to the opposite side of the room. Lenora swiveled, looked at the young woman Hamlin pointed at and groaned. She swallowed hard and cursed Beatrice’s timing. Why couldn’t she have remained hidden for just a while longer? By Hamlin’s dropped jaw, she could tell Beatrice had made an impression, the wrong impression. Lenora stepped back and stumbled into the wall-like chest of Roen de Galliard. His strong arms wrapped around her and pulled her tight against him.
“Steady, Lady Lenora,” Roen whispered in her ear. His breath caused gooseflesh to race down her neck. She closed her eyes to regain her composure. Instead, it fortified the sounds and sensations about her. She heard the pounding of his heart, felt the rise and fall of each breath he took. Suddenly, the sensations stopped. Roen released her as if she were a cocklebur bush. He stepped away from her and moved toward Hamlin. The siege commander took a deep breath and surveyed the room. His eyes settled on her cousin. Lenora knew his thoughts, what size dowry did Beatrice possess and would she act the docile servant of her husband.
“Who is she?” Hamlin did not drag his gaze away from Beatrice. Lenora hesitated. When she did not answer, Hamlin looked over his shoulder, misery evident on his boyish face. “She’s married to someone already, isn’t she. A beauty like that could not remain unclaimed for long.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. His ashen locks swayed with the movement.
“Tell him,” Roen ordered.
Lenora thought fast. If she told them Beatrice was married it might work for a time, but Aunt Matilda would find a way to introduce Beatrice to Roen and eventually her lie would be discovered. The greedy lout might marry her cousin just to get even with her; he was mean enough. The knight had more pride in himself than any man she had ever met. Pride! The answer to her problem unfolded. She could save Beatrice.
Lenora straightened up to her full height and crossed he arms. She looked the knight in the eyes and stated, “That is my cousin, Beatrice de Greyere. She is unmarried, but unavailable.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she is in love with someone.”
Roen stared at her, incredulous. “And why should that deter me? Women are always falling in and out of love. It means nothing as long as she has an acceptable dowry and is obedient to her vows.” He laughed like a satyr and turned to his friend. “Come, we will introduce ourselves to this beauty that has so bewitched you.” Roen pretended to close Hamlin’s gaping mouth and lead him toward Beatrice.
“Very well, then.” Lenora took one more chance, a dangerous one, but calculated to prey on the man’s overbearing pride. “I’ll introduce you, but you do not strike me as the type of man who could make love to his wife knowing she wished he were someone else.”
The sound of his quick intake of breath warned her to brace herself for the storm of his anger. She contemplated running, but where could she go that he could not find her? Roen advanced, his square jaw clenched, neck veins visible. His huge hands were balled up into fists at his sides. Lenora had a momentary vision of those two clubs pummeling the life from her body. She steeled herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were no longer the color of thunderclouds. Now they reminded her of a full-blown gale, one that would wreak havoc for days.
“By God’s Wounds, woman, you go too far,” Roen snarled. “Do you doubt I can command obedience from my wife? I will not tolerate a whore for a wife.”
“I’ve no doubt you would try to command your wife’s very thoughts. You can use those powerful hands to control a body, but not a mind, and never a heart.” Lenora stood firm, anger overruling her fear as usual.
“Sir Roen,” the young page from the stable interrupted. He smiled at Lenora and handed Roen a message. He turned with a smart bow to the lady and started to leave.
“Hold, boy.” Roen’s voice stopped the page in a dead halt. “When you deliver a message, you wait on a reply.” His gaze dropped from Lenora and spotted the insignia of King Henry scrawled across the bottom of the missive. Damn! He would have to attend to the business of royalty before the woman’s punishment. Lenora’s jabs had hit close to home. His father’s attempt to control his mother’s heart with fists and cruel punishments had been to no avail. His mother still had betrayed him and left Roen to suffer the painful taunts of his brothers and the mental and physical blows of his father. How many times had his father told him not to trust the heart of a woman? No woman would ever hurt him again, least of all a mouthy shrew.
“This is not over.” Roen glanced up from the message, but the woman had vanished. There were many dark recesses and support beams in the great hall, too many places that could cast shadows even in daylight. He could not keep Henry waiting. Cursing under his breath, he barked at the page, “Where is the king?” Roen did not wait on a reply but marched ahead. The boy scurried to catch up with the knight’s long strides. Hamlin followed behind, craning his neck to watch Beatrice.
When she saw the two men leave, Lenora stepped out of the shadows, shaking her head in disbelief. What a bore, an unimaginative mass of brutality. No matter what the cost, she would not let this brute have gentle Beatrice. He would have her cowering in some corner at his first angry glare. Lenora picked up the edge of her gown and raced across the hall to her cousin. Beatrice must be warned; they must leave immediately. For Beatrice’s sake and, as she thought of the knight’s fury, her own.
Roen climbed the stairs to the king’s bedchamber and wondered why the need for such privacy. In the close confines of the castle, the king’s chamber was the most secure place. After instructing his second in command to patrol outside the room, he entered and greeted his king.
“Your Majesty.” He approached the red-haired man seated near a table. Henry stood and grasped his extended hand in a bone-crushing handshake. Not as tall as Roen, the king was still an impressive man. His love of hunting and riding kept him trim and washed his freckled face with healthy color. Faint laugh lines creased his mouth and eyes.
“Roen, my dear friend, so how goes the hunt?” The king gave him a wicked grin. Roen knew to which “hunt” the king referred. Henry had followed the same hunt several times. With his wife, Eleanor, living in Aquitaine, the king consoled his loss with several mistresses, the Lady Rosmund in particular. Roen wondered how wise it was of Henry to parade his lovers at court so openly. Queen Eleanor was a shrewd and jealous woman. Henry could not afford an arranged annulment and lose his wife’s overseas holdings.
“I prefer to speak of more pleasant subjects,” Roen answered dryly. There was more on the king’s mind than just teasing him.
Henry crossed to the table and retrieved a letter. “Read this. Tell me what you think.” The king sat down, arms folded across his barrellike chest.
Roen browsed through the letter to the king. The sender stated his opinion on a nearby land dispute. Odd choices of words made the letter somewhat convoluted but the gist could be easily understood. He stroked his chin and looked at the missive again. From the corner of his eye, he spied King Henry watching him for a reaction. There must be something he had missed. He restudied the letter.
“’Tis in code!” A familiar pattern emerged from the confusing phrases. “We used this code during the war with Stephen!”
King Henry nodded and reached for the paper. “It took me some time to discover it. If I did not know the sender so well, I might have missed it. He has purposely mentioned battles where the code was used.”
Roen glanced through the letter again, using the code to glean the true message. “He asks for help to protect his family and his land. A traitor is in his midst.” He turned toward the king. “What will you do?”
“This—” Henry took the letter from his hands “—could simply be a letter on a land case and the code a coincidence. Or a good and loyal friend could be in need. Sir Edmund has aided me countless times. I shan’t abandon him now. That is why I need you to help him. First, because he is a loyal compatriot. Secondly, there are still those who secretly oppose me as king. I cannot afford to let his keep fall into a traitor’s hands.”
The dull ache in the back of his head turned into a crashing storm of pain. Sir Edmund! Heaven would not punish him like this. He searched his memory for every knight named Edmund he had served with. Unconsciously, he massaged his left temple. Sharp daggers of pain lanced through his head. Roen asked, “Is the man Sir Edmund de Marchavel?”
“Aye. I’m surprised you could tell that from his letter. I want you to think of some excuse and investigate this matter. His daughter—”
“I’ve met!” Distaste flavored his voice. “Why hasn’t Sir Edmund married the shrew off to some poor fool?”
Henry threw back his head, and his laugh boomed across the room. “So you’ve met the sharp-tongued Lenora. I see no blood. Her wounds could not have been too deep.” The king chuckled while he poured a tankard of ale for himself and Roen. “Ah, Lenora, she’s a favorite of mine. Always asking questions and demanding answers. She must be what Eleanor was like in her younger days. Before life made her hard.” The king paused thoughtfully and sipped his drink.
“The girl has a tongue as hideous as Medusa’s hair.” Roen took a long gulp of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll warrant ‘tis just as deadly to a weaker man.”
The king slapped his knee and gave a belly laugh. Then he pointed his finger at Roen and warned, “Don’t let the girl fool you into thinking she’s had no suitors. There have been several, but she spurned them all. Books and horses hold her interest more than marriage. Since her older brother stood to inherit, Sir Edmund paid the fee to keep her unmarried. Allowed her to follow her fancies at home. There was some discussion of her entering a convent to further her education.”
“I pity the abbess who receives her as a novitiate.” Roen could not picture the fiery girl in drab gowns and the bleak surroundings of an abbey. Nor could he see her taking vows of silence and obedience.
“Things have changed recently, perhaps the reason Edmund is in danger. Her brother died last year in battle against one of Stephen’s men, which leaves Lenora as Edmund’s only heir to Woodshadow. The girl must marry and have a child in order for the keep to stay in the family.” The king shook his head and muttered under his breath. “So many good men lost their lives for me. I owe England much in restitution.”
“Who inherits if Lenora remains childless or—” Roen hesitated “—dies?” Although the woman vexed him sorely, the thought of the spirited girl dead did not sit well with him.
“The property is held through Lenora’s mother. If she dies or is without an heir, then Woodshadow will revert to her aunt, the Lady Matilda and her daughter, Lady Beatrice. Both have motive. They are landless and living on Edmund’s good graces at Woodshadow.”
“They should be easily dealt with. Bring the women in and let them view the rats and roaches of the dungeon. A few threats and they will break quickly.” Roen took a gulp of his drink and considered the matter settled.
“And what if ‘tis not them? Then the traitor will know we are on to him. We may push the treacherous party too far and forfeit the lives of both Sir Edmund and his daughter. We must go carefully and gain the proof we need.”
Roen gave him a resigned nod. “What is it you want me to do?”
The king stood and continued, “So far, Lenora has not been harmed and is unaware of the danger. The traitor may hope she will still enter the convent and thus give .up her inheritance. But if she had plans to marry, it might flush our prey out.” King Henry gave him a speculative look.
“Nay!” Roen roared his refusal. “I would never consider marrying that sharp-tongued hellcat. Nay, Henry, you are my liege lord, but do not ask this of me.”
“’Twas—” the king spread his hands out eloquently “—a suggestion. A possible solution to two problems. But if ‘tis unacceptable…”
“Unacceptable? Your Majesty, can you imagine a lifetime with that woman? She’d drive a man insane.” Roen didn’t think Henry understood the depths of his strenuous protest. “‘Tis obvious her father has not kept a strong rein on the girl. I doubt she even knows how to run a household.” A groan erupted when he saw the king fold his hands across his chest and give him a steely look. “Your Majesty, the Lady Lenora is definitely not what I want in a wife….”
Henry leaned back in his chair, pursed his lips and contemplated the strong ale in his goblet. He knew Roen well, and the knight’s protest intrigued him. The man was more interested in Lady Lenora than he cared to admit, or he would not still be cursing the girl. Perhaps marriage was a viable solution to his problem. His siege commander would be repaid for his military aid with a wealthy keep, Woodshadow would be secure with a vassal loyal to the throne, and his old friend’s daughter would be protected. He just had to deliver the solution to Roen in a more digestible form.
“Perhaps you are right,” King Henry agreed. “After all, since the fee has been paid, she would have to agree to marry you. I could not command it or even request it. She may refuse you.”
“She wouldn’t dare!” Roen could not believe that any woman would not be eager to jump into the marriage bed with him. “I may be landless, but I don’t enter the contract with nothing. I’ve enough in booty and ransom money to impress even the likes of the Lady Lenora.”
“Nevertheless, we must think of a ruse for you to visit Woodshadow for a time. Long enough for you to discover if there is a threat, and if there is, the source.”
“I already have one,” Roen admitted with reluctance. His mood did not improve when the king raised his brows in mock surprise. Above all things he respected loyalty; he would help his liege’s friend. “I need a few days to collect my winnings from the tourney. I’ll be in Woodshadow before the next fortnight.” He took leave of the king and met Hamlin at the end of the hall.
“What happened?” Hamlin asked. “I heard you bellowing from here.”
“Come with me.” He strode out of the hall, leaving his friend behind. Unmindful of Hamlin’s pleas to slow down, he strode toward the stables. Reaching Destrier’s stall, he checked the horse’s feed and well-being.
“Well, my friend,” Roen said, patting the horse’s neck. “At least one of us will be enjoying himself at Woodshadow. You’ll be busy with the mares and I’ll be…” His mouth grew dry and his voice died out. Like a bit of fog, a dream of Lady Lenora enticed him. An image of her long, slender white legs wrapped around his waist seized his imagination. Her hair, like copper bracelets, tangled in his fingers. The ragged sound of his breath shook him from the spell. He ran his hand across his forehead and down the back of his head. His body’s reaction to this woman did not make sense.
A quiet, demure, obedient wife was what he sought. He would go to Woodshadow and protect the girl and her father because the king had asked him. But he would use the opportunity to exact his revenge against the woman’s dagger-sharp words. As with any battle, Roen intended his revenge to be costly to his opponent, Lenora.
Chapter Four (#ulink_efeb64ac-c00f-57d1-83c2-648ccee16bcf)
“By the blessed saints!” The gnarled old man threw down the twig broom in disgust. “Lady Lenora, I’ll never be gettin’ my morning work done with ye tramping back and forth.”
Lenora halted her relentless pacing and looked down at her feet. The stableman’s neat piles of dirt lay scattered, her footprints visible in each.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I was so worried about Silver I didn’t look where I was walking. I promise to be more careful.”
“Aye, ye promise to look out. Just like ye promised to not be worrying yeself sick over this mare…and Gladymer…and ye father…and…” Tom poked an arthritic finger at her. “And about whatever happened over at that tourney.”
The desire to deny the charges stuck in her throat. Tom’s one-eyed stare silenced all her rebuttals. He pointed to the black patch that covered his left eye and added, “I may ‘ave lost an eye in battle, but the one I still got works good enough for me to know somethin’s amiss. What was it that made ye have to leave Tintagel so quick ye barely had time to brush the sweat marks off your horses?”
“I was homesick. I wanted to be at Woodshadow with Father and Silver Maple.” Lenora smiled. “And you.”
“Humph! There’s no need to be trying to grease me. It won’t work like it does on your aunt. So ye don’t want to talk to me. A loyal servant all my life. Served with your father, saved his life countless times, taught some pesky little miss to ride.” Tom began to number off on his fingers all of his numerous sacrifices.
“Believe me, nothing out of the ordinary happened.” She fixed a bright smile on her face to reassure her father’s retired infantryman. To escape from Tom’s prodding questions, she moved to her mare’s stall. Leaning her elbows on the gate, she rested her chin on her hands.
How could she tell her father’s man about her confrontation with Roen de Galliard? Anything she told the old man would be channeled to her father’s ear. She wanted desperately to talk to someone about her fears and confused emotions concerning Galliard. Beatrice had her own concerns, Aunt Matilda was out of the question and she didn’t dare tell her father. Lenora knew she had pushed the golden giant beyond the safety point. ‘Twas only luck that had spared her from the man’s bad temper.
Closing her eyes, she sought the comfort the stable always offered. Images of thunder gray-blue eyes and wide shoulders splintered the stable’s calming aura, leaving her tense and full of nervous energy.
Tom scrutinized the young girl he had watched grow up and mature into a spirited young woman. So, something happened at the tourney you don’t want me or your father to know, he deduced to himself. He winced when his troubled mistress, lost in thought, once more paced through the dirt, destroying his morning’s work.
“There’s only one answer for this, your ladyship,” Tom announced in a loud voice. Her worried eyes broke from their trance. He shuffled toward the back of the stable. Hoof stomps and angry snorts cracked the silence.
Lenora heard several grunted curses before Tom reappeared moments later with a prancing dapple-gray stallion, tacked with her father’s saddle. Shoving the reins into her hands, he commanded, “Ride him.”
“You want me to ride Father’s stallion, Jupiter? Astride?” The horse pawed the smooth dirt floor of the stable, irritated with Tom’s restraining hands. The stallion jerked his head, almost dislodging the reins from her hands.
“Aye, lass. I know ye can handle him and he needs the workout. With the lord ailin’, Jupiter here is sorely in need of his daily gallop.”
“But Father has always been with me when I rode him. I don’t know if I should.”
Tom’s twinkling eye squinted and studied her. “You’re needin’ to ride your worries away, a ride that’ll make ye one with the wind. Ye can’t do that perched on a saddle like a pet bird. Ye gotta dig your talons into the saddle, hold on and outride the devils that are a-plaguing ye so. Jupiter is the horse that can outride any demon ye’ve got tagging after ye.”
The truth of his words hit home. She paused a moment, then lifted the back of her grass-stained work dress and tucked it into the front of her girdle. Tom tossed her a coarse woolen hood from a peg. She stuffed her thick auburn braid into the loose hat. In her makeshift braes, she mounted Jupiter. The long, well-oiled reins cut into her hands as the stallion strained to break free. A quick nod of her head to her old friend and she clicked her tongue against her teeth.
Tom dropped his hand from the bridle and watched the girl he loved like a daughter—and the horse he cursed like the devil—walk out of the stable toward the outer bailey and the open fields beyond the castle gate. “Don’t worry, Lady Lenora, there are those of us here a-watchin’, out for ye,” he whispered to himself, and then retrieved his twig broom.
Lenora’s fingers curled tight around the reins to keep the powerful stallion at a bouncy walk. She maneuvered her impatient mount among the working villeins and freemen of Woodshadow. Once past the smithy, she entered the more open space of the outer bailey courtyard.
Her attention gravitated toward managing her excited horse. Jupiter’s muscles contracted and he arched his neck, impatient for the signal from his rider to break into a more taxing gait. When she reached the marshal’s tower at the castle gate, the dewy rolling hills of the meadow became visible. New spring grass sprinkled with just-opened multicolored wildflowers swayed in the still-cool air, beckoning horse and rider.
She leaned forward and whispered into the stallion’s ear, “Let’s see if we can outrun that nagging Roen de Galliard.” The horse sprang forward, almost unseating her. Her fingers wove into the gray black mane, and a breeze of refreshing air blew the hair from her eyes. The rhythmic beat of Jupiter’s hooves on the dirt road became hypnotic.
Tender shoots of grass blurred with the darker green of hedges and trees. She swept past peasants toiling in the black soil of recently furrowed fields, past huddled flocks of woolly, bleating sheep and grazing cattle. The tension pulled away, left behind in the dust of the stallion’s thundering hoofbeats. Her anxiety tumbled away from the force of the wind. She smiled, then laughed. To her right, she spied a low hedge. A quick move of the reins guided the galloping horse toward the emerald hedges.
“Come on! Let’s do it!” Horse and rider concentrated on the obstacle ahead. The hedge seemed to grow in height as they approached it. ‘Twas not a low-lying wild brush but a natural fence, grown to keep out deer and roving cattle. Jupiter sensed the challenge ahead of him, and she felt the horse’s hard muscles contract as he prepared for the jump. The hedge loomed before them.
Her heart pounded against her chest. Even to her own ears, her breath sounded ragged. Her conscience berated this latest folly but ‘twas too late to change course now.
Two strides from the hedge, Lenora laced her fingers into the flying mane, leaned forward in the saddle and gave the stallion his head. She felt the surge of strength course through Jupiter’s body, a lurch, then she was airborne. Her body transcended the confines of the earth and she became weightless, suspended in midair. Air whipped around her and tore the hood from her head. Her waist-length braid came unbound and streamed about her. Pleasure, excitement, complete freedom sprouted within her. Too soon, she saw Jupiter’s long legs reach the fast-approaching ground. The hard impact jarred her backbone and jerked her back in the saddle.
Exhilaration made her giddy. Another hedge lay a short distance away. Laughter bubbled from her. Lenora pushed her long tresses from her face and pivoted Jupiter toward the next jump. Thoughts of the bad-tempered knight cleared from her mind.
She dug her heels into Jupiter’s flanks, and the pounding of horse’s hooves drummed in her ears. She prepared for the jump, mentally picturing when she would need to ease off the bit to give the stallion his head. Just a few more strides, five more, three more, “Now!” She loosened her hold on the reins, grabbed the flying mane, and leaned forward in the saddle. From the corner of her eye, a shadow swooped down on her. A huge mail-covered hand appeared out of nowhere, yanking her from Jupiter’s back just as the horse sprang. Jupiter cleared the hedge as her back hit against a hard wall of metal. The blow knocked the air from her lungs. Stunned, she found herself breathless and dumped into the lap of an armor-clad knight.
“Let…go…of…me.” The words came in several wheezes while she attempted to fill her empty lungs with air. She kicked and thrashed her legs, trying to free herself. “Who are you?” She twisted in her captor’s grasp and her eyes traveled up to the knight’s face.
A wide nosepiece on his helmet obscured his face. Only his eyes were visible. The hard-won air she had strived for escaped her lungs in a low, desperate sigh. “Nay, it cannot be!” The knight’s dark blue gray eyes glowered at her, and a current of fear whorled through her.
“I’ve come to settle our bet, Lady Lenora.” Roen de Galliard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and shook his head like a mighty golden lion. “Among other things.” He wrapped his viselike arm around her waist and pulled her tightly toward him. His deep musky smell filled her nostrils. The hard steel links of his chain hauberk bit like metal teeth into her back. Pain shot through her shoulders and festered her outrage.
“I had no need of rescue, Galliard. I was in control of my mount. I demand you release me immediately!” Hot blood rushed to her face. The heat of her ire changed to humiliation when Roen moved his mount toward a group of knights and squires. The wind carried hoots and cackles from the men.
“’Tis not you I’m worried about,” Roen retorted calmly. “My concern is for the horse. I don’t want your stupidity to risk hurting a good mount.”
“Oh!” Lenora floundered for a sarcastic reply, but her mind was frozen, like a pond in midwinter. Instead, she shot him an icy look, crossed her arms and retreated into an angry silence. She was forced to look either ahead at the jeering men or down at Roen’s thick muscular arm, imprisoning her. The tension of the past few days returned and her will weakened. She chose to look down, centering all her fury on the ironlike arm that held her captive.
Roen rejoined his men at a leisurely gait and savored the feel of the woman against his chest. He chuckled to himself, amused by her silence and angry indignation. The faint hint of lavender mixed with the familiar scent of hay wafted from her windswept coppery locks.
When his men pointed out the young lad on the horse, he had admired the boy’s horsemanship. ‘Twas obvious the vigorous stallion was well under control. Admiration had changed midjump when the boy’s hood blew off. The “lad” transformed into a tall, copper-haired lass. He had held his breath until horse and rider came down to earth. Heaven’s grace had spared the girl once. Why had she tried to push her luck by trying again? She could have broken her neck. His arm tightened instinctively around her.
“That hurts!” Lenora gasped. “I’m not fool enough to jump from horseback.”
He forced his arm to relax and stared down into her upturned face. Auburn tresses lay in disarray around her face and gave her a Gypsy look. Faint golden brown freckles were sprinkled lightly across her straight nose and high cheeks. Her eyes no longer burned from the fire of her anger, but he could still see smoldering embers of gold in the earthen-colored orbs. His fingers played with her unbound waist-length hair. They wove into the thick strands and took a light but possessive hold.
“Really?” he questioned. “You jump a hedge that is waisthigh to me, you barely regain control of an animal that is clearly too much for you to handle, and then you try to jump a hedge even higher than the first. Aye, you have need to warn me you’re no fool. Your actions do not show it!”
Lenora wanted to smack the smug smile from his face and scream at him that it was all his fault. If not for him, she wouldn’t have been riding in such an outlandish fashion in the first place.
Determined not to let him see how upset she was, Lenora arranged her features into a mask of calm and serenity. “Galliard, I suppose that in your own misguided way you were trying to be chivalrous, although there was no need. So why don’t you stop, let me down to catch my horse, and each of us may travel our own way?”
His smile turned to an irritating smirk. “But, Lady Lenora, my way is your way. Remember our bargain?”
“Let us say that your…aid to me just now more than fulfills your obligation.”
“That would be true, if the aid had been needed. Since you have mentioned several times that it was not, I cannot feel justified in letting this small act be your…reward for all you have done for me.”
She bit her upper lip to help keep her tongue in check. Mentally, she questioned the possible double meaning of his words. Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud laughter from the men ahead.
“Roen! You’ve caught your prize, but poor Landrick is still chasing his.”
Lenora recognized Hamlin, sitting astride a sturdy chestnut stallion. She followed his gaze toward the rolling hills and saw a mounted young man, armorless, trying to outmaneuver the still-galloping Jupiter.
“He’ll get him. If Roen gives an order, Landrick won’t give up till it’s completed,” a young squire declared.
“I’ll clean your tack and that of your knight for a week if he does.” Another young knight gave her a wink and wagered with the squire.
Her elbow jabbed into Roen’s side as he moved to join his men. He paid no attention. The move only caused her to yelp in pain when the sharp metal of his haubrek pinched her skin.
Lenora bridled. The knave’s quiet chuckles proclaimed his amusement with her predicament. Her mask of composure cracked. She was not about to let Galliard’s men think she needed rescuing. “I’ll take that bet, to get Jupiter, if you’ll include all my knights.” She gave the wagering knight an innocent smile.
“Forget the bet, Roderick,” Roen warned. “She’s not leaving me until she is safely dumped at the gates of Woodshadow.”
“I have no need to leave your side to capture Jupiter.” She broadened her smile. “And I do believe the squire is quite tired by now.”
The group watched as once again Landrick tried to steer the running horse toward the waiting men. At first, the young squire appeared successful, then Jupiter broke. With a sharp turn the stallion evaded Landrick’s rope and the strange men ahead. The action diverted her captor’s attention.
Lenora saw her chance. She slid out from between Roen’s arms and dropped to the ground. Her feet hit the earth hard and she stumbled a few steps away to escape the knight’s reach. “This is as far as I need to be. Is it a wager, Sir Roderick?”
Roderick took one peek at the black look of his commander’s face and shook his head. “Nay, Lady Lenora, I do not doubt your skill with the animal. If you can bring him in, pray do so, and save our friend further loss of pride.”
A warmth of satisfaction cloaked her. She had escaped the moody knight and his man admitted her horsemanship. A challenging neigh caused her to turn. Jupiter feigned surrender, then just as the sweat-soaked squire drew close, the horse pivoted and raced away. When her stallion paused, she pursed her lips together and emitted three sharp, shrill tones. The animal’s ears twitched toward the sound. Once again, she whistled three sharp blasts.
Hearing the call, Jupiter reeled and galloped toward her. Sides heaving and sweat-stained, the horse skidded to a stop at her side. She captured the loose reins and swung up into the saddle. Relaxed from his workout, the charger stood docile, waiting for his rider’s command.
Roen gave his horse a slight squeeze, nodded to his second and moved nonchalantly toward her. The set of his rocklike chin mirrored his granite-colored eyes. She did not doubt that he felt he had one more score to settle with her.
Gathering the reins tightly, Lenora pumped a cheerful tone into her speech. “I would like to extend the hospitality of Woodshadow to you all. I hope you will join me for the nooning.” Secretly, she prayed they would all ride away and she would never see Roen de Galliard again.
She kept her eyes on the leader of the group of men. The hard line of his jaw, the bulging neck veins and the scowl announced his emotions. His eyes narrowed as he moved his mount next to hers. The brush of his leg against her own sent currents of excitement speeding up her thigh, settling in the pit of her stomach.
“Drop your reins!” Roen commanded. “Return to my horse.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I’ll ride into Woodshadow on my own mount.” She squeezed Jupiter with her knees, but the horse did not move. Glancing from Roen, she saw Hamlin firmly holding on to her horse’s bridle. He gave her a dimpled smile of apology.
“The horse needs to be cooled down or he’ll colic. Give the reins to Landrick. He also needs to cool his mount.” At the mention of his name, the boyishly lean squire held on to his saddle and slid his feet to the ground. He grasped the girth until his feet would support him. Sweat streaked his red face.
“My grooms will see to my horse. You have no need to be concerned, Galliard.” She tried to wrench control from Hamlin but the knight’s hold persisted. Roen lifted her from her saddle and plopped her down onto his lap.
“But it is my concern, Lady Lenora. ‘Twas my man that ran the horse. ‘Tis his responsibility to care for it now. He will return to your home when the horses have been walked and cooled down. I will be glad to offer you a ride back to your home.”
She opened her mouth to utter several of Tom’s more colorful curses but she was slammed back against Roen when his charger cantered toward the castle. Her back kept colliding with Roen’s powerful chest from the horse’s rocking movement. Each time she banged into the knight’s massive torso, she winced. He made no move to prevent her discomfort.
Exasperated, Lenora finally grabbed Roen’s arm, pulled it tight around her and leaned against him. “’Tis this or bruises,” she muttered under her breath, and shot him a murderous glance when she felt the deep rumble of laughter reverberate in his chest.
The rumble stopped, as did the horse. Only her tight hold on Roen’s arm kept her from being thrown forward. The contingent of men drew close to form a barricade between her and the road ahead.
“Release Lady Lenora!” a voice ordered.
“Sir Hywel.” She craned her neck to see a group of her father’s men blocking the road. Roen’s men waited, their hands resting on the hilts of their undrawn swords.
“Release her now!” In unison the knights of Woodshadow drew their swords, their upheld blades casting a blinding reflection of the sun.
Roen moved forward, his men parting for him. He stopped his horse a few paces from her father’s seneschal. “Greetings, Sir Hywel. I and my men aided her when she lost control of her mount. See, yonder is my squire bringing the horse back.”
Sir Hywel glanced over Roen’s shoulder at Landrick, who was walking the two horses back. “Lady Lenora?”
She gritted her teeth and seethed with inner frustration. Galliard gave her a benign smile that only served to stoke her anger. If she contradicted Roen’s story, the two groups would come to blows. To admit, in front of her men and his, that she needed his help galled her.
“Tis as Galliard says,” she managed to get out through clenched teeth, “I was riding Jupiter and—”
“Jupiter! Girl, are you daft? That horse is more than most men can handle.” The steward raised his hand and signalled her protectors to resheath their swords. The knights surrounding her relaxed.
“I thank you for your aid to our lady. She is at times a trifle foolhardy.” Sir Hywel approached Roen and Lenora. “I will take her back to Woodshadow. I am sure her father would like to extend his thanks, also.”
Roen did not remove his arm from around her waist. “Lady Lenora has graciously extended the hospitality of her home to my men and me. Since we travel the same way, I will be glad to take the lady home.” Spurring his horse, he led the group of knights through the gates of Woodshadow and into the inner bailey of her home.
Damn Roen de Galliard! Lenora swore to herself. The man had caused her nothing but trouble and embarrassment since she met him. Gawking villagers lined the hard-packed road to the castle entrance. The sight of her aunt and cousin on forebuilding steps caused her to cringe with mortification. Roen swung her down and deposited her at Matilda’s feet. Dust, from the horses, stirred whirlwinds of dirt around her. She coughed as grime coated her hair, face and clothes.
Roen gave her aunt a polite smile. “Your niece was in need of help, Lady Matilda. I was more than happy to assist her.”
“Sir Roen!” her aunt gushed, as she brushed past Lenora, pulling her skirts close to avoid soiling them on her filthy niece. “I recognize you from the tourney. We are honored to have a knight of your reputation as our guest.”
A stableboy took hold of his horse. Destner tossed his mane and twisted his head to take a bite from the lad’s arm. One of Roen’s squires scrambled from his saddle and took a tentative hold of the animal. A one-word command from his master and the horse settled. Roen dismounted and Matilda latched onto his arm. She waved to her daughter and steered the knight in the direction of the steps. Eagerness and hope rushed through the older woman’s voice. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Lady Beatrice.”
“Galhard! I want a word with you.”
Roen turned casually toward Lenora. She stood covered in dust, her skirt partially tucked into her belt. Her hair formed a red gold mantle; her anger caused it to sizzle around her shoulders like tongues of flame.
“Lenora, you should not delay Sir Roen,” Matilda scolded, and tried to tug Roen up the forebuilding steps.
“I don’t mind. I am sure Lady Lenora wishes to give me her thanks in private. Pray, continue on with my men. We will follow shortly.”
Lenora held her tongue until her aunt and cousin disappeared into the keep. “Things have not changed. My cousin remains off limits to you.”
Roen shook his head in amazement. Regardless of how she looked, she sounded like the mistress of the keep. He had bested the girl in front of everyone and she still dared to oppose him. Her use of his family name needled him. She remembered Hamlin or Landrick’s title with no problem. His should not be any harder to recall.
“I am Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy. You may address me as Sir Roen or Sir Galliard.”
“The way that I address you is not what I wish to discuss.”
“’Tis what I wish to discuss.”
Lenora shook her dust-caked apron, a delighted look on her face when a light cloud of dirt hovered over Roen. Her full lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “I do not wish to keep you from your admirers, Galliard.” He heard the relish in her voice at the insult. She spun around and trudged up the step to the keep.
Left in another cloud of her dust, he started after her. “And I do not wish to keep you from your much needed bath, Nora.”
Lenora stopped, her mouth moving like a fish gasping on dry land. “My name is Lenora.”
Roen skipped up the stair past her, “I don’t wish to discuss that right now. My admirers await.” His laugh rang triumphant as he entered the great hall.
Lenora fumed. If today was Galliard’s payment for her loose tongue, then they were even.
“Lady Lenora.” Sir Hywel stood on the top step. “Your father wants to see you. Now!”
Her chin sank to her chest. The scales had just tipped. She owed Galliard now and she intended her payment to be a painful one to the arrogant lout.
Chapter Five (#ulink_164aa0e9-e0e9-5da7-8511-92eaa9e8f85e)
“Sir Roen, I’m so glad you came along when you did,” her aunt cooed. “Poor Lenora could have been killed trying such an outlandish stunt.” She took a sip from the wine goblet she shared with Roen. The rest of the meal participants listened with rapt attention to the knight’s exaggerated account of the rescue.
Lenora felt a needlelike jab in her head and tried to fix her concentration on her meal. Under the table, her foot tapped the floor in a staccato beat. She wished it was Galliard under her foot instead of the rushes.
“You were so brave to attempt such a rescue.” Matilda continued to heap praise on Roen. Every word of gratitude triggered another pain. Lenora’s head felt like a pincushion.
“Lady Lenora, you have a fine cook. The meal is…” Her dinner partner, Sir Alric, stopped his polite conversation at her icy look.
Alric retreated into a quelled silence. Lenora grabbed their shared wine goblet without asking for help from the knight seated next to her. She dared him to comment on her breach of proper etiquette, which demanded the knight hold the goblet. The last thing she wanted was help from any of Roen de Galliard’s men.
Just as she took a huge gulp of wine, she heard Roen say, “’Twas pure luck that she stayed on the beast’s back after the first jump. Then to see her barreling down toward a second! Well, dear lady, I knew I had to intervene or a terrible accident would occur.”
Her wine almost spewed across the table. She forced the liquid down her constricted throat and was seized by a fit of coughing. All eyes at the head table turned toward her.
“It seems the lady needs my assistance once again.” Roen smiled ruefully at Matilda. He started to rise from his seat of honor next to the saltcellar.
“Nay. Nay.” Lenora waved him back to his seat. “I am fine. The wine was sour.”
“Really!” He took a long swill from his cup. “Mine is deliciously sweet.” Roen gave her a crooked smile. Mischief brought out the blue in his eyes. “Perhaps, ‘tis not the wine that’s sour.”
He turned to Hamlin, seated next to Beatrice on his right. “I have heard, my friend, that the flavor of the meal is enhanced by one’s disposition. I myself feel extremely well satisfied, and my meal was extremely savory. Perhaps ‘tis the lady’s disposition that soured her meal.” The high table exploded with laughter.
Beatrice opened her mouth to defend her dear cousin. Hamlin lightly placed his callused hand over her delicate one. “Nay, Lady Beatrice, this battle is not for one as gentle as yourself. Besides,” he whispered, “I do not think the Lady Lenora is ready to admit defeat just yet.”
As if in response to Hamlin’s statement, Lenora, her eyes aflame, parried back. “Nay, Galliard. My disposition is wonderfully content after my refreshing bath. How could one help to be otherwise when the water was so soothingly warm and scented with mint. I trust yours was the same.”
Roen tapped his index finger on his wide, generous lips, forcing his smile to remain. When he had seen the scrawny, toothless old woman sent to assist him at his bath, he suspected Lenora had arranged it. His men relaxed in hot tubs while he nearly froze in a bucket of tepid water. Not to mention he had had to bear the tale of the hag’s many ailments. Roen nodded appreciatively toward his adversary. Lenora was not a woman to give up any battle easily.
“My bath was exactly as you would expect it to be.” Roen turned toward his dining partner. “Lady Matilda, your niece sent the…”
Matilda giggled like a young girl. “Lenora is too interested in her horses and plants to be concerned with taking proper care of her guests. I am afraid the stress of managing this keep falls on my shoulders and those of my daughter.”
“Then I have you to thank for my bath and the care I received?” Roen questioned.
He was surprised to see Matilda accept the statement as a compliment when he knew Lenora was responsible for his inhospitable treatment. He turned toward the young woman, her face radiant with triumph.
“Sir Roen, my lord will see you now,” the castle seneschal announced. Roen tore his gaze from Lenora. Sir Hywel continued, “Sir Edmund apologizes for the delay in addressing you, but his illness forces him to rest at midday. If you are finished with your meal, I will lead you to his chambers.”
Roen stood and turned to face Lenora, a mocking gnn unsuppressed on his lips. It vanished when he found her seat empty.
“Sir Hywel…” Roen was surprised to find Lenora at his side as she spoke to her father’s steward. “Since ‘twas I the knight assisted, I feel that I should present the man to my father.” Turning to her aunt, the vixen transformed her waspish tongue with a demure guise. “’Tis only the proper thing to do.”
Before her aunt could reply, Lenora grabbed his arm and led him across the room to the stairs. He lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl.
Roen’s battle senses noted with approval the construction of the stairs. As the stone steps reached the upper stories they narrowed and curved. Forced to climb single file, an invading army was blind to what lay ahead. A snatch of Lenora’s dress was all he could see of her as she disappeared around the curve of the step.
The creak of wood contrasted with the cold echo of the stone. Roen quickly identified the sound, wooden defense steps. The structures could be burned or demolished if invaders entered.
“Hold, Galliard!”
Roen pulled himself up short. Lenora blocked his passage. She stood on the upper step, her eyes level with his own. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle and she crossed her arms over her chest. The golden shade of her eyes signaled her state of mind. The docile lamb had reverted back into a bad-tempered lion.
Lenora held her ground. The narrow steps prevented Galliard from brushing past her and the curve of the stair hid them from people below, in the great hall, and above, in her father’s room.
“We will talk before you see my father,” Lenora commanded.
“Orders! You give far too many orders for a woman!” Roen sighed, exasperated.
Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “And would the words sound sweeter coming from the mouth of a man? Do you want me to look humbly at the ground and ask requests of you in my own home, in my own hall, after you have eaten my food and drunk my wine?
“This battle we have—” Lenora saw Roen’s startled expression. “Aye, ‘tis a battle, Galliard. But this is between you and me. You will not involve my father. The story I told him is the same we told his steward.” Lenora clenched her fists and fought to control the timbre of her voice. “My father is ill. He must not be unsettled.”
Afraid to show her tears, she lowered her head. A hand on her chin forced her face upward. She searched his face through blurry eyes for a sign that he understood her pain. His eyes, no longer the color of cold granite, warmed to mist gray. They reminded her of a stubborn fog that lingered in the morning sun. Could he really have a heart after all?
He cupped her upturned face in his large rough hand. His fingers massaged the knotted muscles at her scalp. A solitary tear escaped one eye and meandered down her cheek. Roen tenderly wiped it away with his thumb.
“Ah, Nora, if only Henry had a dozen warriors like yourself, he would have England back to rights in no time.” Roen dropped his hand from her face. He stared at it and the evaporating remains of Lenora’s tear.
“I do what I must to protect my father,” she explained hesitantly.
“I see that now,” Roen whispered. “Which is the crux of the problem.” He fought the desire to wrap Lenora in his arms, to reassure her with brave words.
The tender feelings he felt toward her must be killed. Love was an emotion for bards and women, not warriors. He stepped away and jeered at the tender emotions he accidentally felt. To push away the sentiments, he gave a brisk wave with his arm. “Come, Nora, I see your point. I’ll do nothing to upset Sir Edmund.”
Confused and surprised that the battle had been won so easily, she led him to her father’s chambers. She knocked on the heavy oak door and whispered, “One more thing.”
Her father’s reply to her knock corresponded with Roen’s disgruntled, “What else?”
“Don’t call me Nora!”
Lenora opened the door and flounced across the chamber to stand next to her bedridden father. Tall and proud, she placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “Father, this is the knight that assisted me today, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy.”
Roen’s attention moved from her to the gaunt man lying on the massive bed. Sir Edmund lay atop the ermine-trimmed coverlet, propped up by several overstuffed pillows. His long legs filled the length of the bed. His feet were bare, his torso covered by a calf-length robe of rich blue, trimmed in dark sable fur. The shadows from the one window accentuated the darkness beneath his still-lively eyes.
“Sir Roen, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your rescue today. Pray, avail yourself of my hospitality for as long as you wish.” Sir Edmund’s voice barely carried across the room. “Draw up the chair so that we may talk.”
Lenora ran to snatch the heavy oak chair from the table on the far side of the room. She struggled to drag it to her father’s side. Roen lifted the chair from her easily and placed it near the bed. She scurried to return to her father’s side.
Seated, Roen saw two sets of earth brown eyes assessing him intently. There’s no doubt she’s a Marchavel. She has the look of the old man, only softened, he thought bitterly. The strong family resemblance between father and daughter rekindled old childhood scars. Roen’s heart retreated into the emotional armor he had devised in childhood. He concentrated on the muted colors of the floral depictions on the whitewashed castle walls.
“Lenora, you may leave us now. I wish to hear news from London and swap battle tales.” Sir Edmund patted his child’s arm. “You have already heard the news and my old stories. ‘Twould only bore you.”
“Father, I don’t mind staying.” Lenora moved closer to her father, as though to shield him from Roen.
Edmund laughed and gave Roen a leering wink. “But, my dear, a father tells his daughter a story one way, and tells another warrior the same story in an entirely different manner. Certain details that he neglected to tell his wife or daughter are sometimes remembered with a fellow knight.”
Lenora pushed back a lock of her hair and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. She had hoped to remain and see that Roen kept his word. Her father’s dismissal left her no choice. To tarry longer would only make him suspicious.
She shot Roen a murderous glance, then moved to the exit. His back to the door, he heard the loud slam echo in the room and down the hall.
Edmund licked his lips and pointed toward a wardrobe near the window. “Those women seek to keep me on weak tea and watered-down wine. A man can’t regain his strength from such as that. Friend, look on the upper shelf of that closet and see if a bottle of ale can’t be found.”
Roen’s smile and mood brightened. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open the doors of the huge oak wardrobe. The piece held little, a fur-lined cloak, a green embroidered tunic and a leather jerkin. Several boots lay on the bottom. The wardrobe was so huge, Roen had to climb into it to reach the top shelf. He pushed aside the soft woolen braes and shirts folded neatly on the shelf. His hand found the smooth handle of a clay jug. Roen turned and displayed his prize.
“Well-done, man!” Sir Edmund smiled gleefully. “Grab that bowl and tea mug and we will toast each other’s good fortune.”
Relaxed, Roen retrieved the articles and returned to Sir Edmund. He drew his chair closer as he poured the strong ale into the mug and offered it to the ill man. After pouring his drink into the soup bowl, he placed the jug of ale on the floor between them. Edmund tilted his mug in salute. Forced to hold the bowl with two hands, Roen brought the drink to his lips.
“I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”
Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.
The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”
“I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.
“‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.
Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”
His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.
“Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.
Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.
“Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.
“You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.
“Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”
“And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.
“Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”
Roen paced the room before hitching a leg onto an ironbanded chest near the window. “What makes you think you are in any danger, other than from your own harebrained schemes?”
Tom stopped wheezing and started to sputter, “What—why, you…I don’t care if’n you are a lord, ye don’t go talkin’ to Sir Edmund like that.”
Sir Edmund silenced his man with an annoyed frown. “’Tis little proof I have, more of a hunch. My illness for one.” He released a long, anguished breath and eased himself back against the pillows. The stress of the recent events shone on his face.
“Aye, ‘tis a strange illness.” Tom’s muscles creaked, his bad knee popped. He used the back of the chair to pull himself up. “My lord grows weak, then grows strong, then weak again.”
“He’s old. It happens,” Roen replied nonchalantly.
“Then why is it when I bring his food myself, not from the kitchen, he gets stronger? Why is it that when I fed his kitchen food to the rats in the stable, they died?” Tom gave Roen a nearly toothless grin. “Someone’s a-tryin’ to poison ‘im.”
“Rats die, they eat spoiled food. You doped the stable with poison, they got hold of it.” Roen scrutinized the ill man, noted the paleness of his face.
“Aye, it could be so, I wish it were so,” Edmund replied wearily. “I do not wish to think someone of my house would poison me. But ‘tis true. Tom smuggles me food through a secret chamber into this room. Yet, I still suffer from bouts of illness. I know not if this is a permanent result of the poisoning, or if the traitor still reaches me, despite our precautions.”
“There’s other things. Before the lord got sick.” Tom held his back as he shuffled over to Roen. “Accidents! The lord ‘ere was nearly trampled to death when the girth broke on his saddie. Then his lance broke during a hunt. The whole castle was a-talkin’ about the lord’s run of bad luck.”
The one-eyed man gave Roen a calculated look. “All the talk scared the coward. Not too much longer, Sir Edmund starts to feelin’ poorly.”
Roen scratched his chin. “All you really have is supposition. No real proof.”
Tom snorted in disgust. “And what about Lady Lenora?”
Roen jumped off the chest. “What’s happened to Lenora?” he demanded. “Sir Edmund, your letter did not mention any harm to her.”
There was silence as Tom and his lord exchanged appraising glances. Edmund’s voice wavered. “No harm—yet. Just things that make one wonder. I never received an answer before—why did Lenora lie for you? I’m surprised she didn’t strip you to the bone with one of her tongue-lashings.”
Roen wandered about the room to collect and organize his thoughts. “Your daughter did not wish to upset you. Believe me, I have heard enough of her bad manners. What do you want from me?” Roen asked tentatively. He suspected the answer would not be to his liking.
Edmund reached out his hand. Tom slipped two brown leather-wrapped missives from under his worn jerkin. He placed them in his lord’s hand. The elder knight opened each, read each briefly.
“I believe this will draw the culprit out.” He held one out to Roen.
“This is a marriage contract!” Roen stared at Sir Edmund as the man’s plan dawned on him. “Nay, I’ll not marry that hellcat daughter of yours.”
“Then don’t. Read the contract, man. All you have to do is announce your engagement,” Sir Edmund replied briskly.
Roen reviewed the document. “This contract is quite generous to me. I become Lord of Woodshadow the day I marry Lenora.”
“Aye, to be passed on to your and Lenora’s children at your death.”
“This cannot be! If Lenora has no children I’m to be given a settlement of three hundred gold coins. You are that rich?” Roen asked, thunderstruck. Not even the king had that much hard coin.
Edmund chuckled slyly. “Nay. The holdings would have to be sold to pay you off. I can’t deed you Woodshadow itself. ‘Tis held through my wife’s family. But I can gift you with enough gold that whoever inherits will have nothing if Lenora dies.”
Roen slung the document onto Edmund’s chest. “You dare propose this plan. If someone is trying to kill you, Lenora’s life will be forfeit. What will prevent the cad from killing her to prevent the marriage?”
“You will.” Edmund’s eyes pinned his with their sharp gaze. “You say I have no proof, this will get it for me.” The older man lifted the contract.
“You risk the life of your daughter so easily?” Roen challenged.
“This is the most difficult thing I have ever done,” Edmund admitted. “I have fought battles with less fear than I feel now. But this is the only way I can guarantee her safety in the future. I cannot rest until this is settled.”
Roen shook his head. He crossed to the window, placed his arm against the cool wall and rested his head on his wrist. Finally, he turned to face the two elderly men.
“What’s to keep me from marrying the girl and killing her myself? That’s a handsome amount of money you offer.”
Tom stepped forward, his one eye glaring at Roen. He gave Roen the remaining leather-wrapped parcel. Edmund explained, “This is the true marriage contract. It gives the property to Lenora and her offspring. If she dies childless, the land reverts to her mother’s family. You will receive a small settlement. This is the document that will be sent to King Henry to be recorded.”
Edmund added reluctantly, “I could be frank with Lenora, tell her what I suspect.”
Roen massaged his temple as he answered, “Then she really would be in danger. She’d stop at nothing to ferret any would-be assassin. We will delay any decision until I am sure there is some danger. If—” Roen stressed the word “—I sense any real danger, I will participate in your deception. But understand this, I have no intention of carrying through with this. How will she react when she discovers the truth?”
“Better a bit of dented pride than death,” Edmund answered bluntly. “There is one more thing.”
Roen spread his mouth into a thin-lipped frown. Edmund ignored his expression and spoke quickly. “I gave Lenora a promise, that she could choose her husband. I even paid the king a fee to keep her unmarried for the remainder of the year. I cannot mandate she marry you. You must persuade her to make this match.”
“God’s blood, man!” Roen’s patience stretched beyond his tolerance. “I will do what I can to discover the culprit and protect you and your family because the king wishes it. But I am a fighting man. I will not go around at her heels like a lap dog. If I decide to marry the girl, by God, she will marry me.”
Roen turned on his heel and marched to the door. As he opened it, he pierced each man with a baleful stare. He exited, allowing the slam of the door to demonstrate his ire.
Tom sat down gingerly in the chair. He let out a long whistle of air. “What do ye think, Lord Edmund? Will your plan work?”
Edmund, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears, remained quiet for a time before he answered his trusted friend and servant. “All we can do is pray Henry sent the right man.”
“And if’n he is?” Tom asked as he returned the clay jug to its hiding place.
“Then we execute our own deception, Tom, and pray ‘tis the right decision. Lenora’s life depends on it.”
Chapter Six (#ulink_4561cdf6-d997-5703-9ff8-aaa23eee9a6f)
“I thought I told you that Beatrice was not for you.” Lenora placed her fists on her hips and glowered at the two knights. For two days the siege commander and his men had taken her hospitality; ‘twas time he left, without her cousin. The hot afternoon sun beat against her back and she purposely moved to let the sun blind the men when they looked up. Roen and Hamlin sat on a crudely fashioned bench. In the cool shade of the sprawling oak, the two men labored on their tack. Soap, oil and parts of their saddles lay about them.
Roen looked up from his task, but his tanned face showed no emotion. He continued to work lubricant into his saddle girth, his strong fingers massaging the leather. A leather thong held back his flaxen hair at the base of his neck. He looked all the more like a barbarian invader. He is an invader, Lenora thought, an invader to my home and peace of mind.
“Galliard, did you hear me?”
With a careless wave of his hand, Roen signaled Hamlin to leave. His friend threw his work rag on the pommel of his saddle and caught sight of Beatrice as she rushed toward the keep. She carried an overloaded basket of vegetables. He quickened his step to intercept the girl.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/diana-hall/warrior-s-deception/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Diana Hall
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Love Had No Place In The Life Of Roen De Galiard, Knight Of NormandyFor the past had taught him well the perfidy of women, and the beauteous Lady Lenora was likely no different. But now duty called for him to ferret out a traitor – by surrendering his very heart and soul!Fate had bound the free-spirited Lenora in marriage to Sir Roen, and though the valorous knight believed not in love, he had stormed the walls of her resistance… and set her passion free! March Madness – Don′t miss these talented newcomers to the field of historical romance!