Читать книгу The Rogue - Ana Seymour - Страница 12

At the risk of encountering former lovers who might not be as forgiving of past transgressions as Mollie, Nicholas vowed to spend the next few days getting reacquainted with both the Hendry lands and the people he still thought of as his tenants. He put Baron Hawse’s offer of marriage to Winifred out of his mind and asked his mother not to bring the matter up again until the Hawse’s scheduled dinner the following week.

Spring was blossoming in earnest, and riding in the rolling countryside around Hendry Hall lifted Nicholas’s spirits. His big destrier, glad to be roaming free after the difficult journey, pranced along like a frisky colt. He’d purchased the bay stallion in the Holy Lands when his own had been killed by an Arab’s lance.

Nicholas laughed out loud and bent over the animal’s neck. “Aye, Scarab, ’tis easier without three stone’s weight of armor and bloody heathens running at you like crazed devils, is it not?”

As if in reply, the horse settled into a long, smooth gallop. Nicholas threw back his head. The sun on his face and the wind in his hair made him feel truly at ease for the first time since he’d returned to England.

He pulled Scarab up as he reached the top of the hill that looked down upon Hendry. The Gilded Boar Inn stood slightly apart from the village, out on the main highway that led back to Durleigh. Nicholas’s good humor faded as he surveyed the modest inn. With a sigh he reined his mount to the north to skirt around it. Much as he’d like to see Phillip Thibault, Flora’s sister had asked him to honor their grief and stay away. He felt duty-bound to comply with her wishes, at least for the time being.

Eventually, when he’d reestablished himself at Hendry and the ownership of the estate was no longer in dispute, he’d seek Phillip out in private. He’d always liked the old man, and he felt the need to assure him that, in spite of Beatrice’s bitter accusations, he had never meant to do Flora any harm.

He steered a path straight into the village itself, heading for the third in the row of humble wooden homes. Here, at least, he would be assured of a welcome. Growing up he’d spent as much time in the Fletchers’ humble cottage as he had at Hendry Hall. More than once a manservant from the hall had to be sent to fetch him when he’d stayed on too many hours and his mother had grown worried.

The Fletcher household had always seemed much happier than his own. Ranulf the Fletcher and his wife, Enid, had raised a brood of seven children. Harold, the middle boy, had been exactly Nicholas’s age, and the two had been as close as brothers. When Ranulf had died the year Harold and Nicholas turned sixteen, Harold had taken over his father’s trade. By then Nicholas had been sent to squire at Durleigh Castle, and the difference in station had begun to put distance between the two friends, but the bond had never been entirely broken.

Harold had a workshop at one side of the cottage, and if the gray smoke billowing out from the three-sided structure was any indication, he was hard at his task.

Nicholas walked his horse around to the open side of the workshop. Harold was bent over a workbench with feathers scattered everywhere. Nicholas pulled Scarab to a halt and sat watching his old friend. Harold looked much the same as when the two lads had first begun to vie over which village lass they would next woo. But Nicholas’s mother had told him that Harold now had a wife and son of his own. It was hard to credit.

As if aware that he was being studied, Harold looked up suddenly. He squinted out into the sunlight, then let the arrow in his hand clatter to the ground, swung his leg over the bench and started toward Nicholas.

“I’d heard ye was back, Nicky!” he called. “Back from the dead, they say, but I told them all along that no bloody heathen arrow was going to put an end to Nicholas Hendry.”

Nicholas slid off his horse and met Harold halfway. With a slight moment of hesitation, Harold stopped in front of him and extended his hand. Nicholas ignored the gesture and, instead, engulfed his friend in a great bear hug, which Harold willingly returned.

“Aye, but ’tis good to see you, Harry,” Nicholas said with a broad smile.

Harold leaned back and gave his friend a critical look from head to toe. “They’ve left you none the worse, I trow.” He knocked his fist into Nicholas’s upper arm. “Ye’ve grown more solid, if anything. Might even be able to take me in a fall or two.”

“I’ve always been able to take you in a fall or two, you scrawny lout.”

The two old friends grinned at each other, for a moment lost back in their youth, ignoring the different paths their lives had taken.

Harold playfully gave a sideways kick to Nicholas’s leg in an old wrestling move, but dropped his grin when Nicholas’s bad leg buckled beneath him. “Forgive me—” he began.

Nicholas shook his head and tried to keep from wincing. “Nay, ’tis nothing. They whittled at me a bit,” he added, rubbing his thigh.

Harold frowned. “Arrow?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Lance.”

Harold gave a low whistle. “Then ’tis somewhat of a miracle after all that ye came back to us. Mayhap me mum was right to say prayers for ye.”

“Enid? How is she?”

“Salty and ornery and fit as a woman half her age.”

Nicholas laughed. “I’m glad to hear it. And what’s this about a new young fletcher in the village? Taking your trade yet, is he?”

To Nicholas’s amazement, his friend’s face flushed with pride. “My boy, Nick. Ah, he’s a scrappy youngster, he is. Who’d have thought ’twould be such a marvelous thing to have a son?”

“What do you call him?”

Harold hesitated a moment, then answered, “He’s named after my best friend, who I thought never to see again this side of heaven or hell.”

Nicholas swallowed and, for the second time in a week, felt tears sting the back of his eyes. For a long moment, he made no reply, then he clapped Harold on the back and said, “Well, then, take me to see the boy. He must be a scrappy lad indeed with such a name.”

“Mayhap they’ll not come into the cottage,” Jannet Fletcher said, giving Beatrice a little pat of reassurance.

The two women had heard a rider approaching and, spying through the cracks in the shutters, had seen the greeting between the two men. “I warrant they will,” Beatrice argued. “Harold will want to show off his household.”

Jannet stepped back from the window and took a quick look around the simple cottage, suddenly aware that her housekeeping was about to be under examination. She retrieved a pair of leggings that had been left by the fireplace to dry. “Well, the boys are off with Enid, so you don’t have to worry about him seeing Owen.”

Beatrice turned away from the window as well, her arms folded and her forehead creased with worry. “Your mother-in-law could come back at any moment with both boys in tow.”

Jannet straightened up from her cleaning and looked directly at her friend. “Beatrice, you can’t expect to keep Owen hidden from him forever. He’s a bright active boy and soon he’ll want to have the run of the village just like all the other children.”

Beatrice grabbed her arms, trying to keep from shaking. What incredibly bad luck that she should be visiting the Fletchers just at the moment that Nicholas Hendry chose to make an appearance. “He can’t see him, Jannet. Not yet. He’s just learned about Flora’s death, and if he sees the child, it might set him thinking.”

Jannet picked up a broom from the side of the fireplace and swept some cinders back on to the hearth. “No one knows that Owen is Nicholas Hendry’s son, am I right?”

“My father knows. But you’re the only other person we’ve told.”

“And you made me swear not to tell a living soul. I’ve kept my vow. I’ve not even told Harold.”

Beatrice crossed the room and grabbed her friend’s hands as they clung to the broom. “You must especially not tell Harold, Jannet. He’s Nicholas’s friend. You promise me?”

“I’ve promised, Beatrice. I’ll not betray your trust. But I think you might want to reconsider your decision to keep this a secret. Nicholas could do good things for Owen. Even baseborn, he could still become a squire and then a knight—”

“A knight? So he could go off to fight in faraway lands and return to us maimed or not at all? ’Tis not a life I would choose for him.”

Jannet shook her head, but her answer was interrupted by the creak of the door. Sunlight filled the room, then was blotted out as the doorframe was filled by the tall figure of Nicholas Hendry.

Harold stood just behind him, his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Jannet, ’tis Nicholas, home from the wars.” He peered over Nicholas’s shoulder, squinted into the darkness and added, “Ah, Beatrice, I’d forgotten you came to visit with—”

Beatrice stepped forward and grabbed her shawl from the table. “I was just leaving, Harold,” she said, interrupting him.

The two men moved into the room and Harold looked around, puzzled. “Where are the boys?”

“With Enid out in the meadow,” Jannet said quickly. She walked around Beatrice and gave a little curtsy in front of Nicholas, whose eyes were on Beatrice. “How d’ye do, Sir Nicholas? I’ve heard much of you from my good husband.”

Nicholas turned his head toward her and made a little bow in reply. “I’ve not yet had the opportunity to hear the same about you, mistress, but I already know you to be a canny young woman for choosing a husband like Harold.”

“For shame, Nick,” Harold protested. “’Twas I who chose her, not the other way round.”

Nicholas grinned. “’Tis always the woman does the choosing, Harold. Did you not learn any of the lessons I taught you?”

Beatrice paid little attention to the banter. She was determined to escape from the cottage and out toward the meadow to intercept Enid before the old woman could return with the two boys. “Good day to you Harold, Master Hendry,” she said, nodding to each man in turn. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”

It was his fourth encounter with Beatrice Thibault, Nicholas mused, as he stepped to one side to allow her to pass, and the ice in her voice had not thawed a bit. He supposed he should be grateful that at least she had not spat at him in front of his friend.

She brushed against him and went quickly out the door. On impulse, he said to Harold, “I’ll be back directly,” and followed her outside. “Hold a moment, Mistress Thibault,” he called to her as she walked quickly toward the road.

She turned back to him, her face set with annoyance. He took a few loping steps to catch up to her. “What is it?” she snapped.

He took a deep breath. “Is there nothing I can say to make you stop hating me?” he asked.

She blinked, obviously taken aback by the question. “I…I don’t know.”

Nicholas took her confusion as encouragement. “We may meet again, you know, here in the village or at church or at your sister’s grave. By my reckoning, ’tis pointless to carry on as if there were some kind of feud between us. Flora would be the last person to want that, you know. She was too sweet a soul to tolerate enmity of any kind.”

Beatrice stiffened. “I don’t need you to tell me what kind of person my sister was, Master Hendry,” she said. But her voice was less harsh than it had been moments ago.

“I’d never presume to do so,” he said softly. “They say the bond between sisters is a very special one.”

His gentleness seemed to have some effect. Her eyes misted as she answered, “Aye. Though raised apart we were no less close.”

For the first time her expression held more sadness than anger. It made her look softer. Nicholas felt a sudden urge to put his arms around her in comfort. Instead he said, “She often spoke of you, mistress, in the short time we had together.”

Beatrice blinked back the threatening tears and looked as if she was about to make some reply when suddenly there were childish shouts in the distance. Her face blanched. “I must leave,” she said. Before Nicholas could protest, she’d whirled around and began running down the road.

He watched her for a few moments, sorry that the sudden swell of emotion had made her flee just when it looked as if they might be able to heal some of the hard feeling between them. He’d made a start, he thought, uncertain as to why the idea gave him such satisfaction.

Belatedly remembering his manners and the purpose of his visit, he turned back to the Fletchers’ cottage. Harold and Jannet were waiting for him, looking concerned.

“It appears that ye’ve already made the acquaintance of Beatrice,” Harold said when Nicholas ducked his head under the lintel.

“She’s less than fond of me, I fear. If you remember, Harold, I kept company with her sister, Flora, yjust before I left for the Crusades,” he explained. “I could scarce believe it when they told me of her death.”

“It hit Beatrice hard,” Jannet said. Then her voice lightened as she added, “Well, now, here comes my baby boy.”

She moved past Nicholas and held out her arms as a little bundle of arms and legs burst through the door and jumped into them.

Harold laughed and said to Nicholas, “There he is, the little hedgehog.”

Nicholas smiled at his friend’s obvious pride. “A fine boy,” he said, though in truth he could scarcely judge the squirming toddler who had nearly knocked his mother to the floor with his robust embrace.

It was hard to believe that it was Harold’s son he was seeing, hard to countenance that the youth he’d played and fought and wooed with was now a serious man with a family.

“Aye, and when does an old lady get the proper respects due from a rapscallion like yourself, Master Nicholas?” Enid’s voice sounded the same as the day he’d left. He turned to her with a grin.

“If I see an old lady, I’ll consider it,” he shot back. “In the meantime, I intend to collect a hug from my Mama Enid.” He proceeded to do so, lifting her off the ground.

“Put me down, Nicky. Ye’ll have this old back in pieces, ye will,” she protested with a pleased laugh.

Nicholas’s plans to meet a number of the villagers that afternoon were curtailed as the Fletchers insisted that he stay for supper and get to know his namesake. Little Nick’s shyness with the big stranger lasted only for minutes. Soon he was climbing over Nicholas as readily as he did his own father. The two men took turns keeping the lively youngster entertained until the lad curled up next to the fire and went instantly to sleep.

“You’ve worn him out, Harry,” Jannet remonstrated, but her voice was rich with affection. Harold reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. She rewarded him with a smile that had a hint of seduction at its depths. Nicholas imagined that when their child and Enid were sleeping up in the loft, Harold and Jannet made lusty use of the large pallet in the corner of the room. He felt a pang of envy.

Growing up, the two boys had taken it for granted that Nicholas was the lucky one. He had the fine home, the opportunity to become a valiant knight, the chance to ride off and see the world. But at the moment, Nicholas thought to himself watching the satisfied look on his old friend’s face as he helped his wife lift a kettle off the fire, he’d willingly trade his knighthood and all his adventures abroad for the riches Harold had found.

Nicholas knew from the pains his mother had taken preparing for the upcoming dinner that she was hoping that he would agree to Baron Hawse’s proposal and marry Winifred. After his visit to the Fletchers, there were moments when Nicholas found himself wondering if the idea had some merit.

It would mean getting the Hendry estate back without a fight, and Winifred would probably give him little trouble as a wife. If she was too frail for the baser pleasures of matrimonial life, he knew he’d have no problem finding lustier partners in the vicinity. Though some of his former lovers were now, like Mollie, wives themselves, he’d already seen two girls in the village who had let him know that a resumption of their frolics would not be unwelcome.

He sighed as he gave Scarab over to the stable lad and headed for the house. In truth, he’d been dreading this meal all week, and now that it was here he was still not ready to give the baron the answer he sought.

His uncertainty had made him extend his afternoon ride beyond usual, and now he was late. Hawse and his daughter had arrived before him. Nicholas knew that the breach of etiquette had annoyed his mother, but there was no evidence of her disapproval in her smile of greeting. “Our guests are here, Nicholas,” she said calmly.

The baron, Winifred and Constance were already seated at the table. Once again, Baron Hawse had taken the chair of the master of the household. Nicholas felt the anger he had kept in check for the past week rise to the surface again. He struggled to keep it hidden as he turned to Winifred and bent over her proffered hand.

“Welcome to Hendry Hall, milady,” he said.

Winifred’s eyes darted away from him. Her thin fingers were icy. He grasped her hand more firmly and rubbed it between both of his. “You’re freezing,” he said, frowning. He looked to the end of the room at the larger of the two fireplaces, then at his mother. “We need to get the servants to build up the fires.”

The baron, who had not stood at Nicholas’s entry, said smoothly, “Sit down, lad. I’ve already ordered it. They’re bringing in more wood now.”

Indeed, as he finished speaking, the big doors across the hall opened and four men entered, each carrying an armful of wood.

“You can’t keep your dining hall like an ice house when there are delicate ladies present,” the baron said to Nicholas. “I’ve given orders that the fires are to be kept well stoked from now on.”

Nicholas looked at his mother, who merely shrugged. Steaming, he took the seat next to Winifred, who blushed and shyly offered to share the trencher that had been placed in front of her.

Nicholas scarcely tasted the food his mother had spent so much time planning. He was sitting in his home, at his table and yet he’d been made to feel as if he were some kind of schoolboy who was only playing host when the real master was gone. And not doing a very good job of it. Is this how things would be if he accepted the baron’s offer and became his son-in-law?

Realizing that it was unfair to take his irritation out on poor Winifred, he made several attempts to engage her in conversation, but as before, she replied in a voice so soft that often he could not hear her, and she refused to meet his eyes.

“Don’t they make a handsome couple?” the baron asked Constance in a loud voice, looking down the table at his daughter and Nicholas.

“Aye, milord,” his mother answered dutifully.

To Nicholas’s surprise, Winifred bit her lip and her brown eyes filled with tears. He leaned close to her and said in an undertone, “Pay him no mind. Neither you nor I are puppets to dance to your father’s strings.”

She lifted her gaze to his face for a moment, and her eyes held unmistakable gratitude.

That put a new perspective on things, he thought with some amusement. It appeared the baron’s daughter was no more eager for the proposed marriage than Nicholas. He held back a chuckle of irony. When he’d left England he’d had women fighting over who would win him. Since his return, he’d met one who had spit in his face and another who looked terrified at the very thought of sharing a life with him.

He leaned over to the girl again. “But I’m not as bad as all that,” he told her with a grin.

Winifred made no reply and continued staring at her soup.

The meal seemed to last forever.

His anger did not boil over until the moment when the baron and Winifred were leaving. Winifred had already offered thanks to Constance and had touched Nicholas’s hand with fingers that were not any warmer than when she had first arrived, in spite of the built-up fire and the hot food. She then descended into the yard to allow her manservant to help her into the small covered cart in which she had traveled. It was hard to picture fragile Winifred mounted on a horse, Nicholas realized.

A stableboy brought up the baron’s horse, but Hawse lingered a moment to speak with Nicholas. “I’ve made you a fair proposition, boy. One that any knight in the land would jump at in a frog’s croak, hey? I know you’ve just returned and are still getting your land legs, but if you let this thing go on much longer without an answer, I’ll have to start considering it an insult.” His eyes narrowed. “And I’ll warn you, I don’t suffer insults lightly.”

Nicholas had had enough of listening to Baron Hawse stand in the Hendry family home and tell Nicholas what he had to do. “If ’tis to be settled at once, Baron,” he said, “then I’ll have to turn you down. You are correct. Any daughter of yours must surely be considered a prize, but I’m not ready to take a wife. Nor am I sure that Winifred is entirely in favor of the proposition.”

The veins on the baron’s face seemed to bulge. “Winifred will favor what I tell her to favor. And you’d be wise to do the same. Otherwise, you’ll be left with nothing.”

Nicholas said calmly, “I’ll take your advice under consideration. For the time being, I’ll continue to enjoy my single state.”

“Your father was right,” the baron spat. “He’d have been better off to have bred no son at all.” He whirled around, let his manservant boost him up on his horse, and rode off at a gallop, leaving his daughter’s cart in the dust behind him.

His parting words seemed to hang in the cold evening air. They could have been merely the product of the baron’s venom, but in his heart he knew that his father had probably uttered that exact sentiment.

Winifred’s cart lurched and headed off down the road after her father. For a long time after the dust from their departure had settled, Nicholas stood without moving in the chilly stableyard, staring at the black night sky.