Книга - Hers To Command

Hers To Command
Margaret Moore


Knight-errant Sir Henry is capable of impressive prowess on the battlefield…and in bed! Finding Lady Mathilde waiting in his chamber, Sir Henry is irresistibly drawn to her intelligence. Steadfast and determined, Mathilde is a proud woman and as complex as her secrets… Henry agrees to help save her lands, but as invaders close in, Mathilde must dare to trust not only her deepest desires, but the man willing to fight for all he is worth to prove his honour…‘Ms Moore is a master of the medieval time period. ’ – Romantic Times BOOKreviews







Praise for Margaret Moore

“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”

—Rendezvous

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”

—romancereaderatheart.com

“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!” —aromancereview.com


“You seem to be a most unusualnobleman.”

“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”

Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was true. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled towards her, and that, at least, was the truth.

Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous – he had given her every reason to believe he would be the opposite of dangerous to her.

The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit – enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.

Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer…


Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com




Hers To Command

Margaret Moore







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


With thanks to everyone who has offered support and encouragement during my writing career, and the readers who buy my books. I couldn’t do it without you!




PROLOGUE


London, Michaelmas, 1243

SIR ROALD DE SAYRES’S nostrils flared with disgust as he stepped over the refuse in the alley in Cloth Fair between the slaughtering yards of Smithfields and the bulk of St. Bartholemew’s Church. Aware of the sword he wore on his left, he firmly clasped the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt on his right and scanned the alley for the man he was to meet.

“Sir Roald!” a coarse Yorkshire-accented voice called out in a harsh whisper. The bulky shape of a big, brawny man stepped into the alley from a shadowed doorway. He wore breeches, tunic and cloak, patched and none too clean.

Roald peered at the figure in the dim light, trying to get a good look at his face. “Martin?”

“Aye, sir,” the man replied with a nod of his shaggy head.

Roald relaxed a little, but he didn’t take his hand from his dagger. “You told no one you were planning to meet me here?”

“No, sir,” the former garrison commander of his uncle’s castle answered.

“And you told no one in Ecclesford you were going to London?”

“Not daft, am I?” Martin replied with a hoarse laugh.

Not daft, but not clever, either, Roald thought as he regarded the traitorous fool. “It’s as you promised? The garrison—?”

“Will be like lambs to the slaughter. Taught ’em next to nowt, and their weapons are older’n my mother. Paid for the worst, told Lord Gaston—who wouldn’t know a decent sword from a pike—they was the best.”

And pocketed the difference in price, no doubt.

“Them that are left won’t know how to mount a proper defense, neither,” Martin bragged, the big brute clearly not caring a ha’penny about the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. “They’ll be running ’round like chickens if you march on ’em.”

“And his daughters? Prostrate with grief, I assume?”

Chuckling like the fool he was, Martin nodded. “They was weepin’ and wailin’ when I left. They think that father of theirs was a saint or summat.” Martin grinned again, the corner of his wide, ugly mouth lifting. “Told ’em I wouldn’t take orders from no women—and I wouldn’t, neither, especially that Lady Mathilde.”

Roald didn’t care what excuse the man gave for leaving his cousins’employ as long as it didn’t involve him. “You told no one you were meeting me tonight?”

“No, my lord.”

Pleased his alliance with this traitorous oaf was still a secret, Roald reached into his finely woven woolen tunic and produced a leather pouch. He had no immediate financial needs, thanks to the moneylenders who were only too happy to help him when they learned he was the heir of Lord Gaston of Ecclesford and soon to be in possession of one of the most prosperous estates in Kent.

As always, it wasn’t just the thought of his new wealth and power that warmed him. How he’d make that shrew Mathilde grovel before he sent her off to a convent for the rest of her life. As for Giselle…his loins tightened at the memory of her ethereal beauty. He’d marry her off to the highest bidder, but not right away. Oh, no, not right away.

Martin cleared his throat, clearly anxious for his reward.

Roald held out the pouch, mentally assessing the man’s strengths and weaknesses. A trained fighter Martin might be, but all men had their vulnerabilities. Big men were slow, and stupid men were the most easily defeated of all.

Grabbing the leather bag, the soldier eagerly emptied it into his calloused palm, the coins gleaming in the moonlight. With a slow deliberation that set Roald’s teeth on edge, the lummox began to count them as he returned them, one by one, to the pouch.

“Do you think I’d try to cheat you, Martin?”

Martin glanced up, frowning. His gaze faltered, and he swept the coins, half of which were below their proper weight and value, back into the pouch. “No, my lord.”

Roald fingered the jeweled hilt of the dagger in his belt. “What will you do now that you’re quite rich?”

Martin grinned. “Enjoy some sport, then get meself a wife. Maybe buy an inn.”

“I could always use a trained fighter,” Roald proposed.

Martin shook his head. “Beggin’your pardon, my lord, but I’m done with that. Not gettin’any younger, nor any faster. Time to take what I’ve earned and settle down.”

“Like a horse put out to pasture, eh?”

Martin frowned as if the comparison displeased him, but he nodded nonetheless. “Aye, you could say that.”

“Well, it’s a pity, but of course, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Roald said amiably. “I give you good night, then, Martin. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you, you mustn’t hesitate to come to me and ask.”

With a bow and another grin, the soldier tugged his forelock and started to pass the French nobleman, heading for the end of the alley.

He never made it. With the speed of an adder, Roald grabbed him by the neck from behind and shoved his pretty silver dagger up under the man’s ribs.

His eyes wide and wild, gasping for breath, Martin flailed like a landed fish as he tried to free himself. Unfortunately for him, while Roald was not as big or muscular, he was strong. And determined. Still holding the bigger man around the neck with his arm, he pulled out the dagger and shoved it in again.

Weak, the blood pouring from his side, Martin sank to the fetid ground, falling with a thud when Roald finally released his hold.

Out of breath and with a look of disgust, Roald pulled his dagger free and wiped it on the man’s no doubt flea-infested tunic. “Should have worn mail, you stupid ox,” he muttered as he grabbed the pouch. Twenty marks—or even a portion of that—was still worth holding on to. His greedy little whore of a mistress had been demanding a present from the new lord of Ecclesford. He would give her a ring or some such bauble, and he trusted she’d be suitably grateful. After all, there was no need to go rushing off to his estate. Mathilde and Giselle would be too upset by their father’s death to do anything but mourn for days yet.

As for Martin, when his body was found, people would assume he was just another fool who came to London and got himself murdered.

They’d be right.


CHAPTER ONE

THE FOX AND HOUND in the county of Kent lay ten miles from the castle of Ecclesford along the road to London. It was a small but comfortable inn, with a walled yard, a taproom frequented by the local farmers and food slightly better than one usually found in such places. Inside the building was the aforementioned taproom, redolent of damp rushes, ale and cheap English wine, smoke from the large hearth and roasted beef. A little natural light shone in through the wooden shutters, now closed to keep out the cool, moist morning air of late September.

Five days after Roald de Sayres killed the former garrison commander of Ecclesford Castle, two women went up the rickety steps leading to the chambers where guests could lodge for the night. One of the women, beautiful and blond, trembled with every step that brought them closer to the rooms where the guests slept. The other who led the way appeared full of confident conviction as she marched briskly upward, oblivious to the creaking of the stairs and motes of dust swirling around them. Nothing was going to dissuade Lady Mathilde from her quest, not even her own rapidly beating heart.

“Mathilde, this is madness!” the lovely Lady Giselle hissed as she grabbed hold of her sister’s light gray woolen cloak and nearly pulled the white linen veil from her head.

Grabbing at her veil to hold it in place, Mathilde turned toward her anxious sister. In truth, she knew what they were doing was outrageous, but she was not about to lose this opportunity. The innkeeper’s son, who knew of their troubles and their need, had come to them the day before and told them of the young nobleman who’d arrived alone at the Fox and Hound—a merry, handsome Norman knight with a very thin purse.

His looks mattered not to Mathilde, and indeed, she would have been happier had he been homely. But the knight’s nearly empty purse caused her to hope that he would be glad of the chance to earn some money, even if he had no personal interest in their just cause. The lordly brother and equally lordly friend the knight had mentioned also made her hope he might be the answer to her prayers.

“What else are we to do?” she asked her sister, likewise whispering. “Sit and wait for Roald to take Ecclesford from us? If this fellow is who he says he is, he could be exactly the sort of man we need.”

“Perhaps Roald will not dispute our father’s will,” Giselle protested, as she had every time Mathilde mentioned her plan to discourage Roald from trying to take what was not his. “He has not yet come and—”

“You know as well as I how greedy he is,” Mathilde replied. “Do you really believe he will accept losing Ecclesford? I do not. He may come today or tomorrow, demanding that we turn the estate over to him. We must do everything we can to prepare for that.”

Giselle still didn’t budge from her place on the step. “This knight may not want to help us.”

“Rafe said he was poor. We will offer to pay him. And after all, we aren’t going to be asking him to risk his life.”

“But why must we go into the bedchamber?” Giselle asked piteously, wringing her hands with dismay. “We should stay in the taproom. He will surely awaken and come downstairs soon.”

“We have been waiting for too long as it is,” Mathilde replied. “We cannot sit all day in the taproom, especially when there is much to be done at home, and did you not see the clouds gathering over the hills to the south? If we do not start for home soon, we may get caught in a storm.”

“We know nothing of this man beyond what Rafe has said,” Giselle persisted, “and he was only repeating what the Norman told him last night. Maybe the Norman was merely bragging. A man may say anything when he’s in his cups.”

Perhaps the young man had been drunk, or exaggerating or lying, and if that was so, obviously he wasn’t the man to help them. But if he wasn’t lying, Mathilde wasn’t about to let a knight related to a powerful Norman nobleman in Scotland and who was a friend to an equally powerful lord in Cornwall slip through her fingers without at least asking for his help. “If this fellow seems a liar and a rogue, we will leave him here.”

“How will we be able to tell if he’s honest or not?”

“I will know.”

“You?” Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.

Shame flooded Mathilde’s face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s wisdom when it came to young men.

“I’m sorry,” Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.

“I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson,” Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn’t upset, although she was. “But since I may misjudge this man, I’m glad that you are here to help me.”

Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister’s doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe’s father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.

“Maybe he’s already gone,” Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde’s knock.

“The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave,” Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.

“Perhaps he left in the night,” Giselle suggested.

“Maybe he’s dead,” Mathilde muttered under her breath.

“Dead!” Giselle exclaimed.

Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark. “I do not believe that,” she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. “More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us.”

“Oh, Mathilde!” her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. “Wait!”

It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied—by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.

He was completely naked.

With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee—until she saw Giselle’s worried face.

What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde’s plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.

That she didn’t want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn’t hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.

He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?

“Is he alive?” Giselle whispered behind her.

“He’s breathing,” Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. “I think he’s passed out from drink.”

Closer now, she studied the slumbering man’s remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel—albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.

She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn’t been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he’d even noticed.

Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.

She turned away. “This is not the sort of man we require,” she said to her sister. “Come, Gis—”

A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other.

“God’s teeth, wench,” the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. “No need to rouse the household.”

His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. “Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night’s rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before.”

“Our apologies, Sir Knight,” Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. “We should not have intruded upon you.”

The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde’s beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man’s staring scrutiny.

Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.

“May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady,” he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, “for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice.”

Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.

“We require a knight’s service,” Mathilde decisively announced, her dagger still in her hand, “but—”

“Indeed?” the Norman interrupted, his brown eyes fairly sparkling with delight, as if they were offering him a present.

“How charming,” he continued, addressing Giselle, “although I must confess, I usually prefer to choose my bedmates. In your case, however, my lady, I’m prepared to make an exception.”

Of all the vain, arrogant presumptions! “That is not what I meant,” Mathilde snapped, her grip on her weapon tightening.

The knight turned to look at her. “Why are you so angry? I’m the one who ought to be offended. You invaded my bedchamber when I was asleep and unarmed.”

“But not for…for that!”

“No need to dissemble if it was,” he replied with an amiable smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders, and completely ignoring her drawn dagger. “This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has sought my company in bed, although they don’t usually come in pairs.”

“You…you scoundrel!” Mathilde cried, appalled at his disgusting comment, as she started for the door.

The Norman moved to block her way.

“Let us go!” she demanded, tense and ready to fight, while Giselle shrank into the nearest corner.

“Gladly, after you explain what you’re doing here,” the knight replied, no longer amiable or merry as he grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop her dagger. He let go of her as he kicked the dagger away, but continued to regard her sternly.

Looking at him now, she could well believe he was a knight from a powerful family, and of some repute.

“Is this some sort of trick?” he asked, raising a majestic brow and crossing his powerful arms. “Should I be expecting a visit from an irate father or brother insisting that I marry this lady? If so, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I might have welcomed her into my bed, but I will never be forced to take a wife.”

Giselle let out a little squeak of dismay. “Mathilde, tell him why we are here,” she pleaded, her face as red as a cardinal’s robe.

“If we explain, will you let us go?” Mathilde asked warily.

He inclined his head in agreement.

“Then I will explain,” she replied.

Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, she planted her feet, looked him straight in the eye and said, “We require a knight, and we thought, since we heard you did not have much money, that you would—”

“Do I look like a mercenary to you?” he interrupted, lowering his arms, his face flushing and his brown eyes glowering.

“At the moment, you don’t look anything except half naked,” Mathilde replied, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. “Perhaps if you had some clothes on, I would better be able to judge.”

He snorted a laugh. “Aren’t you the coolheaded one,” he remarked, leaning back against the door and once again crossing his arms. “So, you need a knight. For what, if not for pleasure?”

Mathilde cringed at his reply, but gamely continued, still determined to get away from him as swiftly as she could. “To be at our side should our cousin come to the estate our father left us and try to take it from us.”

“You seek a knight to fight this cousin over an estate?”

“Not fight,” Giselle anxiously interposed from the corner.

The knight regarded her with confusion. “Why do you need a man trained for battle, then, if not to fight?”

“To impress him,” Mathilde said. “To show him that we are willing to defend our rights and that we are not without some means to do so.”

“I am to be for show?” the Norman asked with a hint of indignation.

“We hope to make Roald think twice about trying to steal our inheritance.”

The knight tilted his head as he studied her. “Roald is an unusual name. Might I have met him at court?”

Perhaps he had, Mathilde reflected, and if so, she would have to be careful. It could be this man was Roald’s friend, or as much as any man could be the friend of anyone so selfish as Roald. “Our cousin is Sir Roald de Sayres.”

The Norman’s lip lifted with derision. “I thought that might be who you meant. You’re related to that blackguard?”

“You know him?”

“God help me, I do, and I hate the knave.”

Sweeping the sheet behind him as a lady would the skirt of her gown, the knight strode to the table. He picked up the wineskin lying there and lifted it over his mouth, shaking out the last few drops.

Mathilde glanced at Giselle. If this man truly hated Roald… “Why do you dislike him?”

“As there is a lady present, I would rather not say,” the Norman replied as he tossed the empty wineskin back onto the table.

A lady? What did he think she was? “I am Lady Mathilde of Ecclesford,” she declared, “and this is my sister, Lady Giselle.”

The knight ran an incredulous gaze over her and her plain clothing. “You’re a lady? I took you for a servant.”

“Well, I am not.”

“Forgive me my mistake,” he replied, not very contritely, as his hand moved to his waist and the sheet wrapped around it.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, turning away.

“I want to hear more about your dilemma, so I think I should dress. Don’t you agree?”

It would be much easier to talk to him if he were dressed, so she didn’t disagree. However, since there was no reason for them to be here while he put on his clothes and indeed, every reason they should not—she retrieved her dagger and started sidling toward the door. Unfortunately, Giselle was apparently fascinated by the corner at which she stared and before Mathilde could catch her eye, the knight declared, “There. Now I am presentable.”

And so he was. He wore plain woolen breeches, a sleeveless leather tunic bound by a wide sword belt holding his scabbard and broadsword over a white shirt loosely tied at the neck. He’d put on a pair of boots that were certainly not new, although they were polished and well cared for.

Without the distraction of his near nudity, Mathilde focused on his handsome face and intelligent brown eyes—when she should be thinking only of how, and if, this man could help them.

Determined to do just that, she said, “We may be related to Roald, but I assure you, he is no dearer to us than he is to you, and not just because we dread what he may do. He has done great harm in the past, and we fear he will do more in the future. He has no honor, or kindness, or mercy.”

“That sounds like the Roald I know,” the Norman agreed.

“Our father died a short time ago,” she continued, a slight catch in her voice, for her grief was still raw. “In his will, he left Ecclesford to Giselle and me, the land to be divided equally between us, with a small sum of money for Roald.

“However, there are still many who believe inheritance should follow the male line above all other concerns. Then Roald should be lord of Ecclesford, and I am certain he will argue so, and try to steal our inheritance away.”

“And likely marry you off to form alliances to his advantage,” the knight added, proving that he knew about Roald’s greed and ambition. “So you want a knight to scare him off and stop him from making any such claim, is that it?”

“Yes. We were told you are the brother of the lord of Dunkeathe in Scotland, and the boon companion of the lord of Tregellas of Cornwall. Is that true?”

“I have that honor, yes,” the knight replied with a courteous bow, smiling in a way that made him look more handsome still. “As it happens, my lady, I have no particular calls upon my time at present and indeed, it would be my pleasure to thwart any plans of Roald de Sayres. Therefore, since it’s also my duty as a knight of the realm to help ladies in distress, I will gladly assist you. And of course, as I am an honorable knight, I would not expect to be paid.”

“Then, Sir Knight—”

“Mathilde,” Giselle interrupted. “May I have a word with you? Alone?”

Mathilde was not pleased by the amusement in the knight’s brown eyes that appeared when he heard Giselle’s request, but she wasn’t willing to ignore her sister’s plea. “Of course,” she said, moving to the door.

Giselle eagerly followed. Once on the stairs, Giselle stopped when they were halfway to the taproom, as if she couldn’t wait to speak any longer. “Mathilde, surely we need not decide about this knight right now, or even today. Let us think on it some more.”

“He might not be here tomorrow—and what more is there to think about?” Mathilde replied, once again struggling to control her impatience. “How many other knights with such associations are likely to ride through this county in the next few days? How many others will hate Roald as he does?”

“We still know very little about him,” Giselle protested. “We don’t even know his name.”

Good God, Giselle was right. Still, that was not so important as his connections. “Whatever this Norman’s name may be, we should accept the aid he offers.”

Giselle’s gaze went from wary to searching. “He’s a very handsome fellow.”

Mathilde couldn’t blame Giselle for her unease. She had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s judgment when it came to men, and this one was very handsome and charming and probably persuasive. Even so, Giselle should also believe she had learned from her mistake.

“Have no fear, Giselle,” Mathilde assured her. “I will be on my guard, as I’m sure you will be, and if it seems he is not behaving as a noble guest should, we can ask him to leave. Now will you accept his help?”

Although she looked far from certain, Giselle sighed and said, “Since I can think of no better plan myself, I will agree—with the understanding that if I think he should leave, you will not argue with me until I cannot think straight.”

Mathilde embraced her sister. “I promise.”

When they returned to the chamber, they found the knight sitting on the bed, one ankle on his knee, whistling a merry and rather complicated little tune. He rose when they entered and gave them another smile. “So, what is it to be? Do I go to Ecclesford or not?”

“Yes, if you will, Sir…?”

He laughed and made a sweeping bow. “Egad, forgive my lack of manners! I can only plead the unusual nature of our meeting. I am Sir Henry D’Alton, knight of the realm, sworn protector of women and children, guardian of the faith, brother of Nicholas of Dunkeathe, brother-in-law of the chieftain of Clan Taran and sworn comrade-in-arms of Lord Merrick of Tregellas.”

His connections were even more significant than Mathilde had been told and she was duly awed. Nevertheless, he looked so pleased with himself as he rattled them off, she was tempted to take him down a peg. But, since he’d agreed to help them, she didn’t. “Most impressive, Sir Henry. If you will gather your things, our escort is in the yard awaiting us.”

“Please ask the innkeeper to have Apollo saddled,” he said, opening the door for them, “and for a crust of bread for me to eat along the way, if you intend to leave immediately.”

“We do.” Indeed, the sooner they were back home, the better she would feel. Although they had no such word, it was possible Roald had come while they were away.

Sir Henry’s lips curved up into a smile. “I can hardly wait to see the look on Roald’s face if he comes to your castle and finds me there.”

Mathilde made no response as they hurried past him, but in truth, she would far rather never see Roald again, and fervently hoped all her precautions would prove pointless.

WEAVING THEIR WAY through scratching chickens, waddling geese and puddles left from last night’s rain, with a gray sky threatening more rain overhead, Mathilde and her sister headed toward their escort. Some of the soldiers leaned against the wattle and daub walls of the stable; others sat on the end of a hayrick. A few had hunkered down in a dry spot under the eaves, and all held cups of ale the innkeeper must have provided them.

Cerdic spotted them first. Barking an order to the rest of the men, their muscular friend set his ale down on a nearby barrel while the other soldiers scrambled to their feet or jumped from the hayrick and prepared to depart.

Like the knight, the tall, blond Cerdic was also a fine example of a warrior: broad shouldered, narrow hipped, with powerful arms and legs. Like many of his Saxon ancestors, he was an expert with the battle ax and if he wasn’t as handsome as Sir Henry, he was hardly homely. His strong features were framed by thick hair that hung past his shoulders. He wore a leather tunic loosely laced and his breeches were of leather, too. His dark cloak was held closed by a large, round bronze brooch that had been his father’s, and his father’s before him. He had the fur of a wolf wrapped around his booted shins, tied on with thin leather strips. All in all, he was an imposing figure.

“It is just as Rafe told us,” Mathilde said with a smile when they reached him. “The Norman knight is the brother of a powerful man in Scotland, the brother-in-law of another, and the friend of the lord of Tregellas in Cornwall. Even better, Sir Henry has agreed to help us.”

Cerdic frowned, for like Giselle, he had never been enthused about Mathilde’s plan. “What wilt thou do if this Sir Henry does not send Roald running off like a hound with its tail between its legs?” he asked, his French tinged with the accent of his people.

Although she had not expected otherwise, his disapproval stung nonetheless. “I don’t question your skill as a warrior, Cerdic,” she replied with a hint of pique. “I wish you would not be so quick to question my plan, especially when I hope it will spare the lives of many of the garrison. But rest assured, if my plan fails and we must fight, I know our men will not fail us.”

That brought a smile to Cerdic’s face, until he caught sight of Sir Henry sauntering toward them, his shoulders rolling with his easy, athletic strides. He wore a thick black cloak and carried a large leather pouch thrown over his shoulder. From inside it came the clink of metal—his chain mail and other armor, she supposed.

“Thou thinkst that little man is going to frighten Roald?” Cerdic asked with amazement.

Only Cerdic would think Sir Henry “little.” To be sure, the Norman was lean, but there was plenty of muscle on his slender frame, as she well knew, and while Sir Henry was not as tall as Cerdic, he was taller than most of their soldiers, especially the dark-haired Celts.

“If not the man himself,” she replied as she looked back to Cerdic, “then his family and friends.”

Sir Henry had to notice Cerdic’s furrowed brow and glaring gray eyes, yet when he reached them, a merry little smile played about his well-cut lips, as if he thought they were going to celebrate his arrival.

Or was he amused by her men? Did he think himself superior? That Normans were naturally better soldiers?

To be sure, her men looked a little slovenly after waiting in the yard, and Cerdic’s hair could use a trim—but Sir Henry’s hair was astonishingly long for a Norman’s, and he was hardly dressed as befit a nobleman. He looked more like a well-to-do merchant, except for his sword.

Or maybe, she thought as she remembered his behavior in the upper chamber, this was simply the man’s normal expression when he was with noblewomen, especially one as beautiful as Giselle.

“Sir Henry, this is Cerdic, the leader of our escort and the garrison of Ecclesford,” she said by way of introduction.

“Your forefathers must have been Saxons,” Sir Henry said amiably, “judging by your hair and that battle ax.”

“I knew thou wert a Norman by thy pretty face.”

Sir Henry continued to smile, yet she could see a growing determination in his brown eyes, and his knuckles started turning white. So did Cerdic’s, and for a moment, it was like watching two powerful stags about to butt heads.

She didn’t want them to come to blows. Cerdic was her friend, and they needed Sir Henry.

“Cerdic,” she interposed, her voice taking on a slightly warning note, “Sir Henry is going to be our guest at Ecclesford.”

Mercifully, Cerdic let go of Sir Henry’s arm and stepped back.

Sir Henry laughed with apparent good humor. “Well, my brawny friend, what say we get on our way? Unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s a storm brewing and I would rather not get wet.”


CHAPTER TWO

AS A COOL AUTUMN BREEZE carrying the scent of rain blew across the hedgerows, Henry studied his companions and contemplated this rather odd turn of events. It wasn’t every day he awakened to find himself being scrutinized by unknown ladies, but as he’d told them, it wasn’t the first time he’d discovered women in his bedchamber, either. Women had been chasing after him since he was fourteen years old, which meant that the flattery and pleasure of such encounters was far from fresh, or even entertaining anymore. He had been far more annoyed than happy to discover two ladies examining him, especially after another nearly sleepless night.

However, he’d also meant it when he’d said he would have considered bedding the beautiful Lady Giselle. Indeed, he had never seen a woman more lovely. She had perfect features, pale skin with a hint of a blush on her cheeks, and lustrous blond hair. She wore a fine mantle of wode-dyed, dark blue wool, held together by a broach of silver. Her gown was fine, too, of deep blue damask and belted with a supple leather girdle. Her veil was made of soft white silk that floated about her round cheeks, and she had stood with her blond head bowed, her eyes demurely downcast, as modest as a nun in a cloistered convent.

Her sister, on the other hand…she was something completely different. She wasn’t pretty, especially when her face was pinched with anger and disapproval, and she had been much more plainly attired. She had been as strong as a young man, too, at least judging by the blow she’d struck when he mistakenly—very mistakenly—grabbed her hand. Was it any wonder he’d thought her a serving wench?

Then she’d acted as if he’d burst in on them. Her nut-brown eyes had fairly snapped with displeasure, and her full lips thinned to near invisibility.

In spite of his annoyance, which he took chivalrous pains to hide after he’d seen Lady Giselle, there’d been a moment when Lady Mathilde glared at him that he recalled bold women made the best lovers, for they were never shy to tell him what they liked, or to ask for his preferences.

Once he learned Lady Mathilde was of noble birth and the beauty’s sister, however, he quickly turned his attention back to Lady Giselle. He became mindful of the sorry state of his purse, his lack of an estate and his age. He was not so young that he hadn’t started to think of marrying and starting a family, especially with the example of his brother and sister, as well as his friend Merrick, to illustrate the joys of domesticity. Years of traveling from place to place, of being always a guest, had lost their luster, too.

His brother would surely counsel him to woo and wed Lady Giselle if he could. She was rich, she was young, she was beautiful—what was lacking? Well, one thing, but at the moment, it didn’t seem like much of a hurdle. Henry had vowed he would be in love with his bride when he wed.

His smile grew as he watched Lady Giselle’s slender body swaying in the saddle. It would surely be an easy thing to fall in love with such a beauty, and he was not without some confidence that he could arouse a similar feeling within her. He had his looks and years of experience with women on his side, and to win the love of such a woman, who would bring lands and wealth as her dowry, was surely worth whatever effort it might take.

And if he won the fair Giselle, Nicholas would finally have to say something good about his younger brother. Nor would he be able to accuse Henry of leading a wastrel existence anymore.

So why not begin the wooing? Henry thought, spurring Apollo to a slightly quicker pace until he was between the ladies.

“Have we much farther to go?” he asked Lady Giselle, giving her his most charming smile. “I’m not sure how long the rain will hold off.”

“Not far now,” Lady Mathilde answered, while her sister nudged her horse forward to ride beside Cerdic.

Whether that was due to her modesty or not, Henry was slightly disgruntled at being so obviously left behind to ride beside Lady Mathilde.

That lady immediately fastened her inquisitive brown eyes onto him and asked, “Why do you hate Roald?”

God save him, she was as bold and blunt as her sister was shy and maidenly.

“You need have no fear of offending my delicate sensibilities, Sir Henry,” she said when he didn’t answer right away. “I can believe anything of Roald.”

Despite her curiosity and her confidence that his reason wouldn’t upset her, the explanation was not a tale he cared to share with a woman. “Surely any man of honor would dislike him.”

She didn’t bat an eye or look away. “He can be charming and sly, and he has more influence at court than we will ever have. Perhaps, if you don’t hate him as much as I think, you may decide it is not worth the risk to offend him. You may even decide you should help him.”

It was an insult to even imply that he was capable of such duplicitous behavior. “I’ve said that I’ll help you, so I will—and even if I hadn’t, Roald will make no overtures to me, nor would I accept them if he did. He hates me as much as I hate him.”

“I must assume, then, you quarreled. Over a wager? Over a woman?”

God’s wounds, she made him sound like a confederate who’d gotten in a bit of a tiff. “I would certainly never wager with Roald and his cronies. For one thing, they probably cheat.”

She slid him a glance that was both shrewd and appraising, but in a complimentary way. “A woman, then?”

That was close to the truth, and yet their animosity sprang from a far different cause than she surely imagined.

Rather than endure her interrogation and who knew what other implications she might come up with, he decided to tell her the truth, if not in complete detail. “When we were both at court, I came upon him trying to force himself on a serving girl.”

As always, the bile rose in his throat as he remembered the poor girl’s terrified face, and a girl she was. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but he would spare even this bold, prying lady that unsettling information. “I made him let her go at the point of my sword, so Roald has no love for me.”

At first he thought he saw grim satisfaction on the lady’s features, but it was quickly replaced by a piercing, searching gaze that was as uncomfortable as his brother’s. “When did this happen?”

“Two years ago.”

“He was not charged with trying to rape her?”

Henry winced inwardly at the harsh, if accurate, word. It was disconcerting to hear a lady speak so directly of such an act. “No.”

“So although you caught him in the process of committing a crime, you let him go?”

Henry flushed, feeling a twinge of guilt at her accusation, although he’d told himself that night, and ever after, that he had done nothing to feel guilty about when he had allowed Roald to leave. “You didn’t see the girl, my lady, or hear her sobs and pleas not to call the guard. She was sure no one would take her word over Roald’s, and that Roald would say she led him on, and then her reputation would be ruined. I could not disagree, so yes, I let him go.”

The lady tilted her inquisitive head with its pointed little chin. “Many noblemen would not interfere at all, believing a servant’s body theirs by right, whether she was willing or not.”

“I don’t,” he answered with firm honestly. “I would never take a woman against her will, whether high born or low, and I have never made a woman cry out in pain and anguish, or left her bruised and bleeding.”

Lady Mathilde looked ahead at Cerdic and her sister, and he regretted speaking with such force. He should have remembered that, no matter her appearance or her manner, she was still a lady.

“That girl was fortunate you were there to help her,” Lady Mathilde said quietly, and with sincerity and compassion—a hint of gentleness and sympathy that was rather unexpected, and not unpleasant.

Inspired to be pleasant in return, Henry nodded at Cerdic at the head of the cortege. The fellow had a sword at his side and a rather fearsome battle ax strapped to his back. The shaft of his ax had to be four feet long and the head looked sharp enough to split hairs. “It’s rather unusual to see an Englishman in a position of such responsibility and trust.”

In truth, he couldn’t think of any Norman nobleman he knew who would give an Englishman that much responsibility, or consider one a friend. It had been nearly two hundred years since the Conquest, but old enmities died hard.

“Cerdic’s family was royal before the Normans came,” she replied.

She obviously admired the fellow. Henry wondered just how much, and if that extended to being on intimate terms. Not that it mattered. He had no interest in the bold and brazen Lady Mathilde. “You’re from Provence, aren’t you?” he asked, commenting on her accent.

“Yes, we were born there and lived there for most of our childhood.”

Just like the queen Henry detested, the woman he believed was spurring his countrymen to rebellion with her selfish advancement of her own family.

“The same as Queen Eleanor,” he remarked, wondering how she’d react to that.

Lady Mathilde looked as if she disliked the queen as much as he did. “If what Papa said about her family is true, it is a pity for England she is married to the king.”

That was interesting. “What did your father say about her family?”

“That the only thing they produced was beautiful women, and the only intelligence they showed was in arranging marriages.”

That was so close to the mark, Henry had to laugh. Then, because he was Henry, he smoothly said, “The queen’s family isn’t the only one capable of producing beautiful women.”

Lady Mathilde frowned.

Clearly, he had erred. Obviously, this lady would never be impressed with flattery or, perhaps, reminders that her sister was beautiful while she was not.

“My father didn’t like Normans, either,” she declared. “He said they always wanted to make war and didn’t appreciate music or art.”

He had upset her with his comment, and since he was well aware of what it was like to be compared to a sibling and found lacking, he didn’t take offense at her umbrage.

Her observation was also unfortunately true, at least in his case. He had little appreciation for art or music, except a clever, ribald ditty. Yet never before had he been made to feel that was a failing. “Someone has to defend the kingdom,” he noted.

“William was defending England when he invaded it? I must have been seriously misinformed.”

He would have found her remarks more amusing if she didn’t look so smugly superior. “Well, sometimes we get carried away—and sometimes, such men are necessary to defend estates.”

A blush colored her smooth cheeks, nearly overwhelming the few freckles on her nose.

“I meant no offense, Sir Knight,” she said after a moment, and looking not nearly so well pleased, “and I do not necessarily share my father’s views about the Normans. He did admire some things about your countrymen—Magna Carta, for instance, and how it set a limit on the king’s power. That is why Papa gave up all claim to his French estates to his elder brother, Roald’s father, in exchange for Ecclesford. Then Papa discovered that the English court is not very different from that of France. He was sorely disappointed.”

Henry couldn’t disagree. Noblemen were men first, and noble second, so they brought their ambition, greed, desires and needs to court with them.

“So Papa retired to Ecclesford and never went near the royal court again.”

That would explain why he’d never seen either of the ladies there, or even heard of them.

“And that is why we have no noble friends to call upon, you see, or I would not have to ask a stranger for his help.”

He suddenly felt like a lout for being annoyed with her, or anything she said. She and her sister were ladies in need of his aid, and that should be all that concerned him.

Maybe this would be a good time to do as Nicholas was always telling him, and keep his mouth shut.

Doing just that, he rode in silence beside Lady Mathilde, listening to the soldiers behind them laughing and talking. God’s wounds, they sounded more like men on a hunt than soldiers.

The man who’d trained him and his friends in the arts of war would never have tolerated such a lack of discipline. Henry could just imagine the things Sir Leonard de Brissy would say if he were here, and the curses that would accompany his comments.

“Ecclesford is on the other side of this wood,” Lady Mathilde remarked after they’d gone another mile or so, and the wind had started to rise. It tugged at the edges of the ladies’cloaks, and sent brown and yellow leaves swirling down the rutted, muddy road.

Henry noticed that the clouds were darker, too. He hoped the rain wouldn’t start before they arrived at Ecclesford. Chivalrous knight or not, he didn’t want to get soaked to the skin.

THE RAIN didn’t hold off and Henry was soaked to the skin before they reached Ecclesford Castle. He could barely see where he was going though the downpour, although he did note that the fortress had a dry moat that encircled it, except for the road leading to the large wooden gate, and only one outer wall. It was certainly not the most well-fortified castle he had ever encountered.

Once in the cobblestone courtyard, everyone hastened to dismount. Covering their heads with their arms, stableboys ran out to help with the horses. The animals snorted and refooted, their iron-shod hooves clattering on the cobblestones and adding to the din. The soldiers, grumbling about the weather, splashed heedlessly through puddles.

In the midst of the clamor, Lady Mathilde’s voice came clear and strong. “Follow me to the hall, Sir Henry,” she commanded as she headed toward a building directly across the yard.

He required no urging. Indeed, it was all he could do not to grab her arm to hurry her along.

It wasn’t just that his clothes and hair were getting wet; it was the smell of wet stone—a potent and vivid reminder of those long hours in that cold, damp dungeon when he feared he would be dragged out and executed at any moment. That scent made him relive the beatings and, worse than any physical blow, the sickening realization that the man to whom he had sworn an oath of loyalty and brotherhood did not trust him.

Once out of the driving rain, Henry handed his soaking cloak to a servant who appeared beside him, then shook himself like a dog, as if that could rid him of not just the damp, but the unhappy memories, too.

In a way, it worked, and as the fear and dismay dwindled, he straightened and took in his surroundings while Lady Mathilde bustled off, saying something about a chamber and some food.

The hall itself was small, although comfortably furnished with benches, stools and even chairs upon a raised dais at one end. The well-scrubbed tops of large trestle tables that would be set up for meals leaned against the walls, along with their bases. Bright tapestries depicting scenes of hunting and ladies in a garden lined the wall behind the dais to keep out the chill of the stone walls. There were metal sconces for torches along the walls, and great smoke and age-darkened oaken beams held up the slate roof.

Best of all, though, was the large fire burning in the central hearth. Henry went there at once and, sighing, held out his hands to the welcome warmth. They had put in wood from an apple tree, and the scent mingled with that of wet wool, damp linen and the moist rushes below his feet.

Meanwhile, Lady Mathilde flitted about giving orders like a general in the midst of battle. Lady Giselle disappeared up some curved stairs that led, he assumed, to bedchambers and dry clothes. Cerdic and the rest of the sodden escort came in and arranged themselves on the opposite side of the fire. Each and every one of them cast hostile glances at Henry as they shuffled their feet and jockeyed for a place closest to the heat.

Henry ignored them. He was used to scrutiny, whether speculative or hostile.

Once or twice a pretty and particularly buxom serving woman wearing a gown that seemed molded to her full-figured body passed by. She made no secret of her interest in Henry, surreptitiously and coyly smiling at him.

Henry was used to this, too, and he supposed she would come to his bed if he so desired. He didn’t so desire. First, it had never been his way, despite what many assumed, to fall into bed with any young woman who happened to catch his eye. Secondly, he had already discovered the few times he’d bedded a woman since his days in the dungeon that not only did making love not inspire sleep, it actually made him more wakeful. And last, but not least, he doubted the lovely and modest Lady Giselle would be inclined to accept him as a worthy suitor if he was bedding one of her servants right under her very nose.

As for any wayward fancies concerning Lady Mathilde and such activity, they were surely borne of fatigue and the unusual events of this strange day. To be sure, she was a bold and spirited woman, but not at all the sort he preferred. She was too audacious for his taste. While he was here, he would stay as far away from her as possible.

Lady Giselle appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Now she wore a gown of soft blue velvet that matched the color of her eyes. Her white, virginal veil was shot through with matching blue threads and held in place by a thin coronet made of intricately twisted gold. The long cuffs of her gown were embroidered with gold and emerald-green threads, the green matching the silken lining of the garment. A slender gilded girdle sat upon her hips.

She was the epitome of beauty, and as she paused on the bottom step, as uncertain as a fawn, he thought that he would surely be a fool not to woo and hope to wed her.

“Would you care to change your clothes?” Lady Mathilde asked, startling him out of his reverie.

He looked down to find her at his elbow, and with a disturbingly astute expression on her face. If someone were to tell him she possessed the ability to read his mind, he’d be inclined to believe it.

“There is a chamber ready for you now,” she added.

He was aware of Lady Giselle gliding toward the hearth and decided he wasn’t that wet anymore. “No, thank you, my lady. I’m quite comfortable.”

Lady Mathilde’s pursed lips revealed her reaction to that little lie—and then her eyes lit up like a bonfire on Midsummer’s Eve.

“Father Thomas!” she cried, brushing past Henry and rushing toward a middle-aged priest who’d just entered the hall.

Maybe Lady Mathilde hoped to be a nun.

If that was so, he doubted any convent, or any Mother Superior who expected docile novices, was quite ready for her.

Instead of continuing toward the hearth, and to Henry’s chagrin, Lady Giselle seated herself on one of the chairs on the dais. He contemplated leaving the fire to join her, but Lady Mathilde was coming toward him, leading the priest like a proud mother hen with a single chick. The priest followed serenely in her wake, a gentle smile on his pleasant face topped with a graying fringe of hair and a bald pate.

“Sir Henry, this is Father Thomas, the chaplain of Ecclesford, although he refuses to live here,” she said, relaxed and happy, her eyes dancing with delight.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d started to giggle. She looked so different, it was hard to believe this was the same woman who’d confronted him not so long ago.

It suddenly seemed rather a pity she wasn’t a serving wench, and one who would welcome the chance to spend a night in his bed.

God save him, he must be more exhausted than he knew.

Father Thomas smiled at Henry with beatific apology. “I fear Lady Mathilde will never forgive me for preferring to live among the villagers,” he said, his accent marking him as a well-educated man who’d probably been the younger son of a noble household in the south of France. He shrugged his shoulders with elegant grace. “They need me more.”

“More than soldiers?” Henry asked genially. He instinctively admired men of cloth—at least, most of them. “I would think soldiers are more prone to sin.”

The priest’s patient eyes seemed to reveal a knowledge of the world few worldly men possessed. “All men are tempted, my son. At least a soldier knows he will be housed and fed. The poor in the village have no such security, although the ladies of Ecclesford are more generous than most.” He sighed. “But it is as our Lord tells us, the poor will always be with us, and their lives are difficult.”

Although Henry wasn’t ignorant of the lives of the poor, rarely did the fate of such people intrude upon his life. Standing before the kindly, soft-spoken priest, he suddenly felt rather ashamed that it should be so.

“Father Thomas says there has been no word or sign from Roald,” Lady Mathilde said. “The more days that pass and we do not see him, the more I hope he has accepted my father’s desire.”

Her words and her smile made Henry think of a very different kind of desire, one that had nothing to do with her late parent. His mind instantly conjured the image of the bold, lively Lady Mathilde in his bed beneath him, smiling that smile, laughing, then sighing with pleasure as he loved her.

“Now it is time to eat,” Lady Mathilde announced, forcibly returning him to the here and now where he was hungry and still slightly damp. “Sir Henry, you may take my father’s chair. Giselle, you will sit to his right, Father Thomas to his left.”

Like soldiers under her command, they all dutifully took their places, Lady Giselle keeping her eyes demurely lowered and never once looking his way.

As the meal progressed, Henry ignored the lively Lady Mathilde on the other side of Father Thomas and instead tried to amuse, entertain and impress the beautiful Lady Giselle. During the first course of fresh bread, butter and a dish composed of turbot cooked in a sauce of leeks and saffron, he told his best, most amusing stories of some of the people he’d met at court.

She never smiled. Not once.

When a fine frumenty of beef cooked with onions, parsley and sage followed, he spoke of the tournaments he’d been in, and the knights he’d defeated. He told her some tales of his friends, Merrick, the lord of Tregellas and Sir Ranulf, now the garrison commander there. She made appropriate gasps and exclamations of dismay as he described the combat, but with a detachment that spoke of mere polite attention. As a pudding of eggs, cream, bread crumbs and ground meat, spiced with pepper and something more exotic that he couldn’t quite name, was set before them, he tried telling her about his sister and her exciting elopement with a Scot.

That finally got a reaction from Lady Giselle. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. “To put her family through such fear and near disgrace,” she murmured. “It must have been so difficult for you.”

“Well, I wasn’t there at the time,” he admitted, delighted he’d finally gotten some kind of rejoinder from her.

But then Lady Giselle lapsed back into silence, causing Henry to subdue a disgruntled sigh. Never had he been met with less interest.

This did not bode well.

Maybe he should see if that buxom serving wench was as friendly as she seemed, even though he knew a tumble wouldn’t guarantee him a good night’s sleep. On the other hand, it might clear his mind of these ridiculous fancies featuring Lady Mathilde that persisted in dancing about the edge of his mind even as he spoke to Lady Giselle.

As the last of the baked fruit was cleared away, Lady Giselle pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “If you will excuse me,” she said quietly, her gaze on her sister and Father Thomas, and without so much as a glance in his direction, “I shall retire early tonight.”

“It’s been a tiring day,” Lady Mathilde agreed, although she herself didn’t seem the least fatigued.

“Thank you for this fine meal, my lady,” the priest said as he, too, rose. “If you will excuse me, I will take the leavings to distribute to those who wait at the gate.”

“Certainly, Father,” Lady Mathilde said. “It has been a pleasure, as always, and if there is more I can do, you have but to ask.”

“Thank you, my lady, and God’s blessing upon you and all who dwell herein.”

Father Thomas turned to Henry, who had likewise gotten to his feet. “Thank you, my son, for coming to the aid of these ladies in their hour of need,” he said, his warm expression like a benediction. “God will surely bless you for your generosity.”

Considering that his reasons were not entirely selfless, Henry couldn’t quite meet the priest’s friendly gaze. “It is my honor, Father.”

After the priest left the dais, Henry decided he might as well retire. “I should sleep, too, my lady.” Or try to. “It’s been a long and rather unusual day.”

A rush light in her hand, that pretty maidservant appeared at once, as if she’d been waiting for just this moment. “I’ll light his way, my lady.”

Lady Mathilde reached for the rush light. “You should help in the kitchen, Faiga. I shall show Sir Henry to his chamber. If you will follow me, Sir Henry.”

She briskly set off for the curved staircase, leaving Henry to trail after her as the priest had. While Henry obediently complied, he was more amused than annoyed by her proprietary attitude. Perhaps she thought Faiga required protection from the handsome young guest, although he doubted Faiga would agree. Or maybe she thought Faiga had been too forward.

Whatever Lady Mathilde thought about the servant or her behavior, Faiga slid from Henry’s mind as they went up the steps. Instead, he found himself hard pressed not to stare at Lady Mathilde’s rather attractive backside, her slim hips and rounded buttocks swaying with every step. He smiled as he thought of her happiness when she introduced him to the priest, and the way she accepted the clergyman’s preference to live among those most in need.

When they reached the second floor, Lady Mathilde stopped at the first door. “This will be your chamber while you are here. It was my father’s, so it is the largest. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Her tone made it clear she was sure he would.

“Considering some of the places I’ve had to lay my head,” he honestly replied, “I’m sure it will be.”

She made no answer as she opened the door and preceded him inside. The flickering light of the rush illuminated the large chamber, although the corners were still in shadow. A bed dominated the room, its curtains dark and thick, probably made of heavy velvet. A table with a silver ewer and basin and clean linen stood beside the door, and a chair and trestle table were near the window, where the sunlight would fall upon the surface during the day. He could smell the scent of lavender, either from the bedding or the lump of soap by the basin. Wherever it came from, it was welcome, reminding him of more pleasant times before he had been accused of treason and betrayal.

Outside, rain lashed against the walls and the wind moaned about the battlements. He didn’t envy the men on watch tonight, provided there were men on watch. Given what he’d already observed, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover that they deserted their posts in bad weather.

Lady Mathilde lit the thick yellow beeswax candle in the holder there. Another larger stand with several thinner candles stood in the corner.

For a moment, he thought her hands trembled, but she tucked them in the cuffs of her simple gown before he could be sure.

Why should her hands shake? Surely she wasn’t afraid of him.

“Your baggage,” she said, nodding at a familiar bundle in the corner near the bed.

“Thank you,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “This room is most comfortable.”

He thought she might go then, but she didn’t move.

Why not? What was she waiting for, especially if she was uncomfortable in his presence? And surely it was unseemly for her to linger here, alone with him.

Unless what she was feeling was not fear, but something else that could make a woman quiver. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one having lustful thoughts. “Is there something more you wish of me, my lady?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral in case he was wrong.

Her gaze met his, steady and determined. “I should warn you, Sir Henry, that if you think to seduce my sister, you should think again.”

He was so shocked, he actually took a step back. Seduction was not his aim, but perhaps marriage, if he and the lady suited, yet Lady Mathilde made him sound like some kind of disgusting scoundrel. “My lady, I play the game of seduction only with those willing to be seduced,” he replied. “If a woman isn’t interested, I don’t pursue her, no matter how beautiful she may be.”

“I am not blind, Sir Henry,” Lady Mathilde replied, crossing her arms over her breasts. “I watched you trying to charm her. And I do not say mere seduction is your plan. After all, Giselle is an heiress, and the man who marries her will be rich.”

His pride urged him to refute that mercenary motive, but since he honestly couldn’t, he didn’t. “Do you forbid me to speak to her?”

Lady Mathilde gave him a pitying look, as if she thought him stupid but was too polite to say so. “Not at all. You have offered to help us against Roald, and you are our guest.”

“Yet you accuse me of plotting to seduce your younger sister.”

“Not plotting, precisely. Hoping to marry her for her dowry, perhaps, and so I seek to save you a useless effort. Giselle may be beautiful, but she is not a fool. I assure you, she will not succumb to any honeyed words or meaningless promises. And Giselle is not the younger sister. I am.”

Given Lady Mathilde’s command of the household, he had assumed she must be the eldest. She certainly behaved as if she were.

Recovering as quickly as he could, he said, “If I were to make an offer for your sister, it would be because I love her. I have promised myself I will be in love with my bride when I wed.”

Lady Mathilde’s expression betrayed her skepticism.

“Believe it or not as you will,” he said with a shrug, “but I would have a marriage such as that of my brother and my sister, who care deeply for their spouses. They are very happy together. Why should I settle for less?”

Lady Mathilde’s shrewd eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You seem to be a most unusual nobleman.”

“As you seem to be a most unusual lady.”

Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was the truth. “I’m impressed with your concern for your sister,” he added as he strolled toward her, and that, at least, was true.

Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous—he had given her no reason to believe he would be dangerous to her.

“Giselle’s husband will be the lord of Ecclesford. I must protect her from handsome, charming men who seek only to enrich themselves.”

He regarded her quizzically. “If she is the elder, can she not look after herself?”

The woman before him flushed, but didn’t look away. Her mouth was half-parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit—enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.

Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closer. With her came the scent of lavender.

She gasped and in that same instance, her eyes were suddenly alive with what could only be fear as she twisted from his light grasp. “Don’t touch me!”

Shocked by the force of her reaction, he spread his arms wide. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You were going to kiss me!” she accused, as if his kiss would kill her.

Not every woman he met was attracted to him, and he was not so vain as to expect that they would be. On the other hand, never before had he been to feel as if he were somehow unsavory, and his pride was pricked. She had been tempted to kiss him, and he would prove it.

“I thought you wanted me to kiss you,” he said, his voice low and sultry, his tone one that had encouraged many a woman to express her passionate desires.

The look she gave him! It was a wonder it didn’t strike him dead. “I did not, you base, vile, lustful rogue!”

The heat of a blush—something he hadn’t felt in years—flooded his face. Embarrassed, his pride stung, he drew himself up like the knight he was. “If you would rather I leave Ecclesford, you have only to say so.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to agree, but in the next, she shook her head, her cheeks as red as his scarlet hauberk. “Forgive me, Sir Henry,” she said, twisting the cuff of her gown in her slender fingers. “I am sometimes too quick to anger.”

Suddenly he realized exactly what her reaction reminded him of. She was like a horse that had been beaten and shied away from any person who came near it. No doubt some stupid lout had been too forward and too rough with her—a selfish youth or overeager suitor. The fool had surely gotten no further than a kiss, for a woman like Lady Mathilde wouldn’t hesitate to fight off any unwelcome advances. It was unfortunate, but the damage had been done.

His annoyance fled, replaced with regret. “No, my lady, it is I who should be forgiven for presuming too much,” he replied with a courteous bow. “I assure you, it will not happen again.”

“Good,” she murmured.

Then, keeping as much distance as possible between them, as if the very thought of touching him was repugnant to her, she sidled toward the door. “I give you good night, Sir Henry.”

“Good night, my lady,” he muttered as she closed the door behind her.

He moved the large, lit candle to the table beside the bed. He might have been a fool to come here, despite their need. Nicholas would probably say so, even taking the presence of the lovely Lady Giselle into account.

Ah well, this wouldn’t be the first time his brother would think him less than wise, he thought as he started to disrobe, and Lady Giselle wasn’t completely out of his grasp.

Yet.

AFTER SHE LEFT Sir Henry, Mathilde paused on the steps and leaned back against the curved wall, her hands clasped to her breast, her heart racing, her blood throbbing, her breathing ragged. Why had she lingered? Why hadn’t she simply told him not to pursue Giselle and left the chamber at once?

Because he was handsome and friendly and charming. Because she had both feared and hoped that he would kiss her. Because she was weak and lustful, and he aroused a desire in her so overwhelming, she felt almost helpless to resist, in spite of the chiding of her conscience.

At least now one thing was very clear: she must never be alone with the handsome Sir Henry again.


CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, after another restless night disturbed by dreams of the dungeon and the beating and the pain his friend had inflicted, Henry leaned over the basin in the lord’s chamber of Ecclesford and splashed cold water over his face. God’s wounds, would he never sleep well again? It had been weeks since those terrible days. His injuries had healed. So why could he not sleep soundly? Why did the memories still come so vividly, as if he were again chained to that wall and despairing that Merrick, a man to whom he had sworn to be loyal even to death, had been so quick to believe that he was a traitor?

A soft knock sounded on the door.

When he bade the person enter, he more than half-expected Lady Mathilde to march over the threshold. Instead, it was that full-figured serving wench, carrying a tray, and with a coy smile on her face.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said brightly. “Lady Mathilde said although ye’re not an early riser, it’s well past mass, so you should be getting up and I was to bring you something to eat and wake you.”

Lady Mathilde had seemed to believe he was lust incarnate last night, so he was rather surprised by her choice of servant…unless this was some sort of test. Or perhaps it was a trap intended to “prove” his lascivious nature to her sister, and so prevent any hope of a marriage.

Clever, but doomed to fail. “What o’clock is it?” he inquired, drying off his face with a square of linen.

“Nearly noon, my lord,” the wench replied, setting the tray on the table beside the bed and running a blatantly lascivious gaze over him.

“Thank you.”

“My name’s Faiga, my lord.”

He bowed as if she were a lady. “Thank you, Faiga.”

Grinning with delight, the maidservant whipped the cloth napkin from the covered tray. “Here’s fresh bread, my lord, and honey, and ale. Good ale, too, not like some you get. The alewife here’s a good one.”

“Excellent. Now you may go.”

The maidservant’s expression could only be called a pout and her progress to the door was desultory at best, but he ignored her in favor of the delicious bread and welcome honey. The ale was excellent, too, some of the best Henry had ever tasted.

His repast complete, Henry contemplated what he should do. He had no duties here, beyond waiting for that lout Roald. A glance toward the window showed that the storm had blown itself out overnight. The sky was clear, and the sun shone as if it were still summer, so he decided to take a stroll about the castle.

As he passed through the hall, he noted that neither lady was there. Lady Mathilde was probably running around issuing orders somewhere. As for Lady Giselle, maybe she was trying on gowns or brushing her hair or whatever it was beautiful ladies did while their sisters ran the household.

He halted on the steps leading down to the courtyard and surveyed the fortress of Ecclesford. A keep—square, squat, ugly and old—stood at the southern end of the yard, while various other buildings had been built against the inside of the protective wall. The stables were to his right, with barracks above, judging by the men’s garments hanging out of the open windows to dry. At least one was a gambeson, the quilted padded jacket soldiers wore beneath their mail.

The small building in the corner opposite the stables with the carved door was probably the chapel. Good Father Thomas could have spent his days leisurely there, saying mass once a day and otherwise doing whatever he wanted. Truly, he seemed a kind and honest churchman, and Henry hoped he saw more of him.

The kitchen had to be the building attached to the hall by a covered corridor, so that should fire break out, it wouldn’t spread to the hall. He sniffed the air and recognized the wonderful smell of baking bread and gravy.

When he had been released from his imprisonment, the first thing he had asked for was wine, but what he had enjoyed most was his first bite of a loaf of freshly baked bread. It still seemed to him the very taste of freedom.

Turning his thoughts from those days, he noted the well near the kitchen, which meant that if the castle were ever besieged, water wouldn’t be a problem, unless some bloated carcass of a beast was thrown over the wall and landed in it by a stroke of luck for the attacking force. As was usually the case, several women were clustered around it, drawing water and gossiping, no doubt. He wondered what they made of his presence here.

He looked up at the wall walk, trying to determine how many men patrolled the battlements. Not enough, that seemed certain, and several of them stood together, clearly much more interested in what was going on in the courtyard than keeping watch over the village and the approach to the castle.

Sir Leonard de Brissy would have had them all in the stocks and so would he…but this was not his castle or his garrison to command. He was a guest, so he would keep his opinions to himself. Besides, he could easily imagine how Lady Mathilde would take any suggestion he attempted to make.

When Henry started across the yard, the bustle came to a momentary halt while those at their work stopped to look at the Norman in their midst. The women gathered at the well eyed him with approval, while laborers repairing the base of the wall near the gate were considerably less impressed.

As before, Henry ignored their scrutiny, paying more attention to the guards, if they could be called that, at the gate. They leaned on their spears, chatting as if they were passing the time in a tavern. As Henry strolled out the open gates, they barely glanced his way.

God’s blood, if he were in charge here, they’d be having bread and water for a week. No wonder Roald had not yet come to make his claim. He probably assumed he could simply saunter through the gates whenever it pleased him, demand the castle, and no one would be able to stop him.

How Lady Mathilde thought such a garrison could defeat Roald…

He came to an abrupt halt. In the open area between the dry moat and the village, Cerdic and another man, stripped to the waist, were fighting with clubs. Other men had formed a half circle around them, apparently offering advice or encouragement. Both combatants were intent on each other and clearly determined to win, yet he didn’t detect animosity—just determination.

Not a fight between enemies or a settling of accounts, then. A practice? God save him, could it be? Was it possible there was some kind of attempt to train these men after all? But why clubs?

One of the men in the semicircle spotted Henry and made a comment to the man next to him. Soon others were staring at him, and in the next moment, Cerdic and his opponent had turned to look at him, too.

Having nothing better to do, Henry sauntered toward them.

“What dost thou seek, Norman?” Cerdic demanded.

“I was wondering what you’re doing with those clubs.”

Cerdic and his companion exchanged amused and smug smiles. “We use clubs instead of axes when we practice lest we slice off fingers,” Cerdic replied. “We leave the swords for more dainty men.”

So, that was the way it was going to be. “Then perhaps you’ll let me watch and learn a trick or two.”

Cerdic sniffed. “Why? Thou and thy countrymen do not use axes.”

“I was taught to use any weapon that might be on a battlefield. Sir Leonard used to say a lance could be broken, a sword knocked away and a mace ripped from your grip, so the wise knight learns to fight with anything that might come to hand.”

A challenging gleam appeared in Cerdic’s storm-gray eyes. “I would see how a Norman fights with an ax.”

The blood quickened in Henry’s veins, as it always did when he was challenged. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we test each other here and now?”

The men muttered excitedly and Cerdic darted them a satisfied grin before addressing Henry again. “With these toys, or real axes?”

“Since I would rather not lose a limb, I’d prefer a club.” Henry was determined to beat Cerdic, but he wasn’t a fool. Accidents happened in practices, too, and it was obvious Cerdic didn’t like him.

Cerdic’s grin grew. “Very well, Norman. The toys.”

Cerdic nodded to the man he’d been about to fight. With a sneer and a few words Henry was sure were not compliments, the fellow handed his club to Henry.

Cerdic could call them toys if he liked, Henry thought as he tested the feel and weight of the club, but this thing could break bones.

As he swung his weapon back and forth, then up and around his head, he studied Cerdic out of the corner of his eye. He wouldn’t be easy to defeat. He was full of the confidence that came from skill, and he was one of the more well-muscled men Henry had ever seen. Although Henry didn’t believe Cerdic would kill or seriously wound a guest of the ladies of Ecclesford, he didn’t want to have to hobble about on a broken leg, or nurse a broken arm, either.

“Until the first man cries mercy?” Henry proposed.

His opponent nodded.

“Care to make a wager on who it will be?”

That brought another grin to Cerdic’s face. “Ten silver pennies ’twill be thee.”

“Done,” Henry said. He glanced at the other men. “Wonder who they’ll bet on?”

“Me to win, thee to lose,” Cerdic said in a low voice.

And then, with a blood-curdling cry, the man ran at Henry, swinging his club back and up and around, to bring it crashing down on Henry’s head—had Henry still been standing there. With lightning-fast reflexes honed by hours of practice, Henry deftly sidestepped the blow and shoved his shoulder against Cerdic, knocking him sideways.

Growling an oath, Cerdic righted himself and turned to see Henry holding his weapon with both hands, his body half-turned. Henry swung low, aiming for his calves.

Hissing like a snake, Cerdic leaped back, his arms wide with surprise. “Dog! Thou wouldst break my ankles?”

“You could have broken my head if your blow had landed. If this were an ax and I’d hit, you could have lost your feet.”

Scowling, Cerdic raised his weapon again and shuffled, by wary inches, closer to his opponent. Henry hesitated, not sure if he should try to strike low again, or knock the weapon from Cerdic’s hand.

That hesitation cost him, for Cerdic suddenly jumped forward, bringing his weapon straight down. Henry lunged to the left, nearly sprawling on the ground. He righted almost at once and managed to hit Cerdic’s club.

Cerdic struck back instantly, his club coming down on Henry’s. Shoving it off, Henry backed up a step or two, but the men watching had surrounded them, ringing them in, and he had less room to maneuver than he thought.

Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to give up. He was going to win and show these soldiers that he really did know how to fight with something other than a sword or mace or lance.

He would prove his skill and do Sir Leonard proud.

As fierce resolve coursed through his veins, he watched Cerdic like a hawk would a field mouse it wanted for its dinner and shouted at the men to give him room. They did, backing up a little, although they muttered in complaint as they did.

“I need no more room to defeat thee,” Cerdic said through clenched teeth, also keeping his gaze on Henry, no doubt seeking an opening, too. “Canst thou not fight in close quarters, Norman?”

“Aye, indeed, I can,” Henry replied, circling him in a crouch. “Very close.”

With that, and although he was right-handed, he swung his club from the left. As he’d expected, that caught Cerdic off guard and he was unprepared to defend a blow from that side. The club flew from his hand, striking an unfortunate fellow in the front row.

That would teach him to stand too close, Henry thought, even as he seized his chance, and with a deft turn of his body, shoved Cerdic backward with his left shoulder. The man landed on the ground, spread-eagled, flat on his back and weaponless.

In the next moment, Henry’s foot was on Cerdic’s throat. “I believe I have the advantage, my friend,” he said, still holding his club in case Cerdic was able to break free or grabbed his left ankle and tipped him back, as Henry would have done.

Apparently, however, that move didn’t occur to Cerdic, who gave him a disgruntled frown. “I yield.”

Henry removed his foot and reached out his hand to help Cerdic to his feet. The fellow would have none of it, however. He rolled onto his side and got up unaided. “Thou didst not say thou could use either hand.”

“I wasn’t born able to do that,” Henry replied, prepared to be friendly, especially since he had won. “I was trained to do so. It isn’t easy, but any man may learn how, with enough practice.”

Cerdic merely grunted as he went to his clothes on the ground nearby and fetched a small purse. The other men continued to regard Henry with wary caution, and perhaps—or so he hoped—a little respect.

He’d probably made more of an enemy of Cerdic, though. However, if a man hated you on sight for something that was not your fault—your birth, or your rank, or your looks—there was little to be done to change it, and Henry did have his pride. Even so, had he been staying at Ecclesford for the winter, he would have willingly lost the contest, if only to ensure himself a little less animosity from the men of the garrison.

“Here,” Cerdic said, handing him ten silver pennies.

“Thank you,” Henry replied, sincerely happy to have them. As Lady Mathilde had been informed, he had nearly nothing in his purse, and while he wouldn’t take payment for helping ladies, he would certainly pocket the winnings of a wager fairly won, and with some effort. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll see what sights the town has to offer.”

From the smirks on the faces of the men, he could guess how they thought he’d be spending his money. In that, they were quite wrong. He enjoyed wine, to be sure, and women, but not today, and not here. Not when there was a lady to woo.

So instead, the pleased, triumphant and slightly richer Henry sauntered through the village of Ecclesford, surveying the buildings and the wares in the marketplace, and trying not to notice that everybody stopped and stared at him as he passed by. He could also easily imagine what they’d be saying about him in the tavern and around the well when they heard of his defeat of Cerdic, and that it wouldn’t be flattering. That was only to be expected, and since his visit here was not likely to be long, he wouldn’t let their hostility disturb him.

All in all, Ecclesford seemed a fairly prosperous place. The main road skirted a green, and several two-story structures—stalls on the bottom, living quarters above—surrounded it. Women were both selling and purchasing goods ranging from bread, to chickens in small wooden cages, to bolts of woven cloth. He spotted the sign for an inn called, to his amusement, the Cock and Bull, and the ringing of a hammer on an anvil proclaimed the smithy. Another group, this time of men, were gathered outside the entrance, some standing, the older men on a bench that faced the west and setting sun. A massive oak grew near the smithy, and its spreading branches, now yellowing in the autumn, still provided some cooling shade on this warm day.

On the other side of the village beside the millpond, he paused to take a deep breath and realized that he stank of sweat. He needed to wash, and well.

He could always ask the servants at the castle to prepare a bath, he mused, until he thought of the very friendly Faiga. He was tired after his contest with Cerdic and didn’t particularly feel like fending off any unwelcome advances.

He glanced at the pond. It looked deep and inviting. A dip in those cool waters would be just the thing—except that he would be in plain view of half the village if he did that here.

Seeking a more secluded spot, he kept walking until he rounded a curve in the road and came upon a grove of willow trees along the riverbank, their graceful branches hanging to the ground, some grazing the river itself as it made its leisurely way toward the sea. Yes, this was much more to the purpose, he thought, ducking under the branches and removing his clothes.

Naked, he waded gingerly out into the water, wincing as he walked barefoot over the rocks and pebbles. When the water was up to midthigh, he dove.

The shock of cold water hit him like a blow, but he didn’t come up for air immediately. He struck out with strong, clean strokes.

Sir Leonard had insisted his charges learn to swim, too. All had succeeded, more or less, and this was one skill in which he’d excelled. Merrick, who was otherwise the best warrior, had proven to be surprisingly awkward in the water, while Ranulf always seemed to be rowing Sir Leonard’s boat.

Smiling at the memory of the time he and Merrick had overturned the boat and dumped Ranulf into the shallow water before Sir Leonard had embarked, Henry broke the surface and rolled over onto his back. Ranulf had been furious—but he’d deserved it.

How merry they’d been in those long-ago days, even the usually silent Merrick. Now Merrick was a great lord, married and with a child on the way. As for Ranulf, Henry wondered, and not for the first time, what exactly had happened that time Ranulf had been at court without them. Something certainly had, for he’d returned a colder, more cynical man.

No doubt it had to do with a woman. Who could understand the fairer sex? They were mysterious, unfathomable creatures, bold and haughty one moment, fearful and uncertain the next….

What the devil? When had Lady Mathilde become the model for her sex? If anything, she was the opposite of what a noblewoman ought to be—quiet, demure, gentle…dull, boring, lifeless.

He was being ridiculous. If there was any woman here worth pursuing, it was the beautiful Lady Giselle who, fortunately, wasn’t already betrothed.

He wondered why. If Lady Mathilde had been the eldest, he would have assumed that their father believed that the younger daughter shouldn’t marry before the eldest. Certainly finding a man willing to marry the brazen, outspoken Lady Mathilde would prove a difficult task. Since Lady Giselle was the eldest, perhaps no suitable candidate for either lady had been forthcoming.

Cooler now, and cleaner, and still determined to ignore any wayward thoughts involving the younger lady of Ecclesford, Henry walked out of the river. He swiped the water from his body as best he could, then tugged on his breeches. He threw on his shirt, but decided against putting his tunic and sword belt back on. He sat to draw on his hose and boots, then rose, grabbed his sword belt and, with his tunic hanging over his arm, started back to the poorly defended Ecclesford.

“Sir Henry?”

He halted and slowly turned around when he heard Lady Mathilde call his name. What in God’s name was she doing here and had she seen him naked—again? He wasn’t normally the most modest of men, but he didn’t enjoy feeling as if his entire body was available for her perusal.

Fortunately, Lady Mathilde was far enough away that she probably hadn’t seen him in the river or on the bank. Thank God.

Her head was uncovered and she carried a basket in her hand. Her chestnut hair hung in a single braid down her back nearly to her waist; that must be her veil tucked into her girdle. With her plain light brown gown and uncovered hair, she looked like a simple country girl.

The first woman he had ever made love to had been a dairymaid.

God’s blood, it had been years since he’d thought of Elise, and the passionate excitement, unique to youth, to be found in her welcoming arms. That must explain the sudden heating of his blood and the rush of desire in his loins.

Whatever Lady Mathilde looked like and whatever she aroused, she was no milking maid eager to instruct him in the ways of love.

“My lady,” he said, bowing in greeting as he waited for her to reach him, glad his shirt hung loose to midthigh.

She ran a puzzled gaze over him. “Have you been in the water?”

“It’s a warm day,” he replied, “and I thought I’d save your servants the trouble of preparing a bath. Cerdic challenged me to show my skill and I obliged. Afterward I wanted to wash more than my face and hands.”

Her brows knit with concern. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

He couldn’t help smiling a little. “He was the one left lying on the ground.”

“You defeated Cerdic?” she asked incredulously.

He shrugged with chivalrous modesty. “As I said, I can wield more than a sword.”

She started walking toward the castle, her strides betraying her agitation.

He’d better keep quiet about the wager, he decided as he fell into step beside her. “Would you rather I let him hurt me?”

“I don’t know why you had to involve yourself at all,” she snapped, her full lips turned down in a peeved frown.

“I had nothing better to do. Neither you nor your sister were in the hall to offer suggestions as to how I might spend my time while I was your guest.”

He let the implication that they had been remiss in their duty hang in the air between them.

“I thought Giselle would be in the hall when you finally deigned to get out of bed,” Lady Mathilde replied, her voice betraying some slight remorse. “She usually does her sewing there, and there was no need for her other skill today.”

“Other skill?” he asked, curious as to what that might be and trying not to get annoyed with Lady Mathilde’s less-than-ladylike tone.

“She tends to the sick in the castle and the village.”

A most excellent quality in a knight’s wife, Henry reflected. His recent recovery would surely have been aided, and made all the more pleasant, had he been cared for by such a physician. “And you, my lady?” he inquired politely. “Are you similarly skilled?”

“The smells of the sickroom make me ill and the sight of a bloody wound turns my stomach.”

Blunt and to the point, as always, and should he ever require another reason that this lady would not make a suitable bride, there it was. “I take it you weren’t visiting the sick in the village then,” he remarked, nodding at her basket.

“No,” she curtly replied. But then her lips curved up in a secretive and surprisingly intriguing little smile. “I was visiting one of my tenants whose wife just had a baby.”

He suddenly noticed a little beauty mark on the nape of Lady Mathilde’s neck, like a target for a kiss—a light kiss, no more than the brush of a moth’s wing. A caress of the lips before they traveled toward her full mouth and…

God’s wounds, what was the matter with him?

“You shouldn’t have gone out of the castle by yourself,” he said, sounding not a little annoyed, although he wasn’t angry with her.

“Why shouldn’t I go by myself?” she demanded. “This is my home, after all.”

Obviously, since she couldn’t really read his mind, she’d taken his tone of voice to imply criticism and condemnation rather than anger at himself. Yet even though he shouldn’t have spoken so brusquely, he did think she’d taken a risk. “You and I both know Roald is without scruples or honor. I can well believe he’d stoop to abduction to get what he wants.”

Which was perfectly true.

When Lady Mathilde faced him, her expression was as stern as that of any man. “Even if Roald did something so stupid, it would avail him nothing.”

“You think not?” Henry replied. “You don’t think your sister would give in to any demands he might make if your life depended on it?”

For one instant, her gaze faltered, but in the next, she boldly, defiantly declared, “No.”

She wanted to believe her sister would be strong and resist, but Henry knew otherwise.

“I think she would, not because she’s a woman and a woman is supposed to be weak, but because I’ve seen how love can make even the strongest man vulnerable,” he said. Merrick had beaten him nearly to death when he believed Henry had attempted to abduct his wife.

“I will not cower in the castle like a frightened child,” Lady Mathilde retorted, intense and resolute. “I will not live in fear of Roald.”

“I’m not suggesting that you cower, my lady,” he replied, finding it difficult to imagine this woman being afraid of anything. “I’m not suggesting that you stay within the castle walls. What I am suggesting is that you take a guard with you when you leave the castle. That’s not so much, is it?”

“No,” she answered, sounding suddenly weary as she again started toward the castle.

“I can appreciate that you don’t want anyone to think you’re afraid,” he said as he caught up to her. “But my old teacher, Sir Leonard, used to say there’s bravery and then there’s bravado, and bravado can get you killed. I would rather you be safe, my lady.”

She bowed her head. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice much more like her sister’s dulcet tones than her usual confident declarations. “Once again, I have let my feelings get the better of me. I should not have gotten so upset when you sought only to offer well-meaning advice.”

Henry himself hated being offered advice, well-meaning or otherwise, and he had to admit he had been rather domineering—an attitude he usually never took with women. But then, Lady Mathilde more often seemed his equal than a mere woman. Not now, though. Now he was forcibly reminded she was a member of the weaker sex, and a young one, at that. “No, my lady, forgive me. I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me. It must be the heat, or perhaps the fight with Cerdic momentarily addled my wits.”

That brought a smile to her face. It wasn’t the most joyous he had ever seen, but he was pleased nonetheless. “When we return to the castle, my lady,” he said, offering her his arm, “I shall regale you with the story of my impressive defeat of your brawny friend. It’s very exciting, I assure you.”

She lightly laid her hand on his arm, and he considered that something of a triumph, too. “I will ask Cerdic for his version of the tale, as well,” she said, sliding him a wry, sidelong glance that implied friendship between them was a distinct possibility, if not yet a certainty. “I suspect the truth will lie somewhere in the middle.”

He laughed, happy that they had made peace. “You wound me, my lady—but you’re probably right.”


CHAPTER FOUR

SINGING SNATCHES of a dirty little ditty, Sir Roald de Sayres staggered down a street poorly lit by flickering flambeaux. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright to light his way, and this was Westminster, home of the king and court, not the slums. A man like himself, well dressed, well armed and obviously noble, need not fear being set upon and robbed.

“Say what you like, I’ll like what you say,” he sang, his voice wavering and off-key.

Not that he cared what he sounded like. He was happily thinking about the brothel he’d just left. If only he could have stayed longer. If only he’d brought more money. There had been that one glorious creature with the full breasts and long legs ready to pleasure any of them. And the dark-haired lovely who would do anything if you paid enough. God’s blood, if only he were richer, he’d spend every night he could there.

Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he remembered that he was rich. Well, almost. All he had to do was claim Ecclesford. He should go there soon. It had been, what—five…six days since he’d killed Martin? Maybe he had enough in his purse for one more night before…

Suddenly a man shrouded in a long cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, stepped out of the shadows to block Roald’s way. He seemed huge in the darkness, like an ogre or other supernatural creature.

“Sir Roald de Sayres?” a low, rough voice rasped.

Not an ogre or devil, Roald told himself as he felt for the hilt of his sword. Just a man. A very big man, but a mortal man nonetheless, and men could be killed or captured and imprisoned by the watch.

The fellow laughed, a sound more ugly than his voice. “Don’t bother calling for the watch. They can’t help you. I’d be gone before they get here.”

As he spoke, the blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Roald’s chest.

“My purse is empty!”

“All the worse for you, then.”

Nudging him with his sword, the man backed Roald against the nearest wall, then threw back his hood, revealing his face—and a horrible face it was, heavy and brutish, and scarred from several wounds. His nose had been broken at least twice, and he was missing most of one ear. A jagged scar ran down his cheek in a puckered, red line. “You owe a lot of money to some of the Goldsmiths’ Guild.”

“This is about a debt?”

The sword moved close to Roald’s heart. “A big one, or so they say. Big enough they’re willing to pay me to make you honor it.”

Those stinking, money-grubbing merchants. “I will repay them,” Roald said haughtily, now certain this blackguard wouldn’t kill him. “They have my word.”

Still the sword remained where it was. “They don’t seem to think your word counts for much. That’s why they sent me.”

“Haven’t they heard my uncle’s died?” Roald retorted, sounding only a little desperate. “I’ve got an estate in Kent now, so of course I can pay.”

The tip of the sword flicked upward, touching Roald’s chin. “That news reached their ears, but if the estate’s yours, why haven’t you gone there, eh?”

“Because I saw no need,” Roald replied with all the dignity he could muster, very aware of the blade so close to his face.

Suddenly, the man’s powerful left hand wrapped around Roald’s throat and he shoved him hard against the wall. “You’ve got a fortnight to come up with the money, or I’ll be taking a finger. Then a hand.” His sword moved lower, pressing against Roald’s groin. “Then something else, until your debt’s paid. Understand, my lord?”

“Yes!” Roald hissed, fighting the urge to cup himself protectively.

“Good.”

The man let go and, gasping, Roald fell to the ground on his hands and knees, the cold cobblestones cutting his palms, his knees bruising. He looked up at the figure looming over him. “Who the devil are you?”

“Can’t you guess?” the man said with a snort of a laugh. “I’m Sir Charles De Mallemaison.”

Roald felt the blood drain from his face. Charles De Mallemaison was the most notorious, vicious mercenary in England, possibly even Europe. He’d appeared in the service of a lord in Shropshire, claiming to be a knight from Anjou. The one man who’d questioned De Mallemaison’s nobility had been found hacked to small pieces on the side of the road; no one had questioned it since.

“A fortnight,” De Mallemaison repeated as he disappeared into the shadows, his cloak swirling about him. “The whole amount. Or you start losing bits.”

AS ROALD was staggering back to his lodgings, no longer drunk but shaking with the aftermath of fear, Giselle slumbered peacefully in the large bed she shared with her sister. Mathilde, however, dressed in a shift and bedrobe and, with soft leather slippers on her feet, paced anxiously by the window.

No terrible dreams troubled Giselle’s sleep, Mathilde reflected. No remorse kept her awake. No shame disturbed her rest. No lustful yearnings robbed her of peace. Giselle was good and honorable and free of sin, whereas she….

What else could she be feeling for Sir Henry but lust? That day by the river, simply seeing him with his damp hair and loose shirt unlaced to reveal his chest, had been enough for her to recall, with vivid clarity, the sight of him in that tavern bed—his back, his taut buttocks and long, muscular legs. Thinking of him swimming, gliding through the water like an otter, had kept her awake for hours.

When he’d described his mock combat with Cerdic, she’d laughed harder than she had in months. He’d been both entertaining and self-deprecating, claiming that he’d managed to defeat the other warrior only by luck and the skin of his teeth.

She’d read another reason for his victory in his animated features, seen it in his sparkling brown eyes—Sir Henry was confident of his skills, and determined to win. It was a heady combination.

Aware of her own weakness, she kept reminding herself that this merry knight, whose very appearance could excite her, would not always be there—unless he won Giselle’s heart. So, determined to keep him at a distance, she’d made certain he had activities with which to amuse himself and that kept him away from both her and her sister for the past few days, such as hunting and riding about the estate. She’d insisted that he take a guard whenever he rode out. As she’d told him, he was vulnerable to attack, too.

He’d taken no offense, but simply laughed in that appealing way of his. Then he’d said he was pleased she had so much concern for his person.

And she did—too much. He was so handsome and well built, she could hardly stop from staring at him as he sauntered through the hall, or spoke to Giselle or Father Thomas.

Now every night she lay awake, restless and uneasy, and prayed to forget the memory of his body and his smiling face. She prayed for the strength to ignore the lust she couldn’t control, the feelings she thought forever destroyed by her past mistake, only to discover that they rose, strong and almost overwhelming, when she was with Sir Henry, and away from him, too. How could she be tempted when she knew where giving in to desire might lead?

Yet she was tempted. She’d nearly kissed Sir Henry that first night, until the fear and panic had come, overpowering her and making her act like a frightened child.

Sighing, Mathilde went to the arched window and looked into the quiet courtyard. The sentries’ torches burned on the wall walk, little flickers of light in the darkness—darkness that even now might cloak Roald’s progress toward Ecclesford.

Had she done enough to prepare for his eventual arrival?

They had as many soldiers as they could afford and Cerdic had to be a better commander than Martin, who she would have sent away even if he hadn’t immediately declared he wouldn’t take orders from a woman. If her father had been stronger this past year, she would have asked him to select a new garrison commander months ago, but he’d been ill, and she’d thought to spare him any more trouble.

If only he had lived! If only she’d been stronger. If only Roald had not come last year and brought disaster with him.

Rubbing her hands up and down her arms for warmth, she tried not to think about Roald or Sir Henry anymore as she went to pour herself some water in which to bathe her face.

The ewer was empty. No matter. She would get more water from the kitchen.

Opening the door, she peered down the corridor toward her father’s bedchamber, temporarily Sir Henry’s. A torch burned in a sconce on the wall, providing some light, although it was dark near the door to her father’s chamber. To her surprise, a shaft of light spread out from below the door.

Sir Henry was still awake? Or had he fallen asleep with the candle lit? A guest had once set his bedding aflame by leaving a lit candle too close to the bed curtains.

Even so, she was not about to enter that room now, in the dead of night, and with him abed and perhaps… naked. Commanding herself not to think about that, she headed for the stairs leading to the hall.

When she passed the door to the lord’s chamber, a low moan came from within. God help her, did he have a woman with him? Was he as lustful as Roald? Was it Faiga?

As long as he helped them as he’d promised, did it matter if he bedded a servant? Faiga would have gone to him willingly; she’d seen the way the serving woman had looked at Sir Henry. There would be no force or coercion.

Mathilde prepared to continue on her way, until she heard a groan from inside the chamber, as if Sir Henry was in pain.

What if he was sick? What if he had brought some illness to Ecclesford?

What if he had knocked the candle over and the bedclothes had caught fire and the room was filling with smoke—

She put her hand on the latch and opened the door. There was no smoke, and a single lit candle stood upon the table beside the bed, its weak flame wavering. Sir Henry was alone, the sheets twisted around his lower body, his hair damp on his forehead and his naked chest beaded with sweat.

Moaning again, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes.

Perhaps he had the ague, with its chills and fever that came and went. Maybe he’d traveled to the south of Europe and contracted it there. She’d heard that sickness could come and go for years.

Or perhaps he was only having troubling dreams. How many times had she awakened from a nightmare to find her shift clinging to her sweat-soaked body?

For the sake of the household, she should find out if he was feverish or not. She would be risking more illness if she didn’t.

She crept slowly, carefully closer. He didn’t make any noise, or move again, so with the same cautious deliberation, she took hold of his wrist and eased his arm away from his forehead before placing her palm lightly there.

No fever, thank God.

Sir Henry’s eyes flew open. He grabbed her wrist in a vicelike grip and sat up abruptly. “Constance!” he cried, staring at her. “Is she safe?”

Mathilde’s heart seemed to stop, then began beating rapidly when she realized that this was not a true awakening. He was still in the hold of his dreams.

“Yes, she’s safe,” Mathilde whispered, wondering who Constance might be as she tried to extricate her wrist from his grasp and push him back down. “Rest now, Sir Henry.”

Instead of relaxing, his grip tightened. He blinked, his eyes coming into focus and she realized he was waking.

She yanked her hand free and turned to run to the door before he found her there.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Henry cried, grabbing her bedrobe to tug her back, nearly pulling it from her body as he tugged her down onto the bed atop him.

Panic seized her, giving her strength as she struggled to get away.

He threw his leg over hers and grabbed hold of her hands, so that they were lying face-to-face on their sides. “I’m not going to hurt you!” he said softly, but firmly. “My lady, I’m not going to hurt you!”

Sir Henry’s words finally penetrated through the grip of her fear. Panting, she stilled, and his face came into focus.

“I assure you, I won’t hurt you,” he said, his gaze intently searching her face.

“Then let me go!”

“Gladly,” he said, releasing her hands and moving his leg.





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