Читать книгу Lord Of Lyonsbridge - Ana Seymour - Страница 9

Unlike the highly fortified castles in some parts of Europe, Lyonsbridge had no moat, no defenses. In addition to the stables, a number of other outbuildings were outside the low walls that surrounded the castle bailey. A small bridge crossed a token trench to the big wooden gates. As they approached, Ellen observed, “He’s a strange manner of man, the horse master.”

Father Martin looked at her sharply.

Ellen bit her tongue, realizing that after the way she’d dismissed the stableman, her sudden observation about him seemed odd.

“I believe you’ll find that Connor is a valuable servant, milady,” the priest replied after a moment. “You would do well to take advantage of his experience here.”

“Experience with the horses?”

Once again Father Martin seemed to hesitate. “With everything—the animals, the people, the estate itself.”

“He’s been here long, then?”

“All his life.”

Ellen looked back down the gently sloping hill that led to the stables, but the tall blond man was nowhere in sight. “All his life, yet he’s not a bondsman?” she asked.

“Nay, milady. You’d not likely see Connor Brand in bond to any man.”

“He does seem to have an obdurate nature.”

Father Martin smiled, but all he said was, “Mayhap.”

“Well, he’d best not show it with my cousin. Sebastian does not have the easiest of tempers.”

“I shall pass your warning on to Connor.”

Two yeomen had swung open the gates to admit them into the castle yard. One of the men carried a torch, as it was fast growing dark. Ellen nodded at him, then swept past to get her first look at the home she’d be inhabiting for the next several months.

Though the stone building had made an imposing sight from the road, she quickly realized that her fears about coming to this uncivilized part of the world were likely to be realized. She sighed. “Is this the central courtyard?” she asked the friar.

“This is the only courtyard,” he replied.

There was scarcely room to walk, so filled was the space with all manner of clutter. Logs for the fireplace lay in a haphazard pile, half blocking the small stairway at the far end of the bailey. A heap of what looked to be rusty armor lay scattered around to the left of the front gates, and to the right was a ramshackle wooden hut that reeked of stale urine.

Ellen wrinkled her nose as they passed it. “Who has been keeping house for Sir William?” she asked.

Father Martin kicked at a pile of bones being scavenged by two of the castle hounds. “He has no wife, milady.”

Ellen watched as the two dogs scampered off into the dusk. “That’s well evident,” she said softly.

“Here’s Sir William now,” Father Martin said, pointing to a low arched entryway on their left.

The man who appeared there was stocky and short of stature, not as tall as Ellen herself. Almost at once she sensed a belligerence in his nature that she didn’t like. But her father had spoken highly of his bailiff, and she knew Lord Wakelin was exceedingly grateful for the way Sir William had been able to put some structure into the estate with very little help from Normandy.

She’d be wrong to judge his efficiency by the appearance of the castle, particularly if he’d had no woman to help. Indeed, the neglect of this aspect of the estate justified her father’s wisdom in sending her here. Ellen felt a sudden sense of mission, which warmed her voice as she greeted the man approaching her.

“Well met, Sir William,” she said in response to his murmured welcome and bowed head. “My father sends his greetings.”

“Would that he could have accompanied you, milady. I’m anxious to have him see how his holdings are prospering.”

As he raised his face to look at her, his black eyes darted around, reminding Ellen suddenly of a rat. The back of his head was shaved in Norman fashion and his black beard was sleeked with some kind of grease, adding to the effect. It made Ellen want to giggle, but she stifled the impulse and kept her voice gracious. “I’ll see your efforts in his stead, Sir William, and make faithful report of your good work.”

“Thank you, milady.” His eyes shifted from her to the gates behind her, then to Father Martin, then back to her. “I’d understood that your father was sending his nephew to review his English estate.”

“Sir Sebastian is directly behind me,” Ellen explained. “I found myself with a spurt of energy and rode ahead, to the disapproval of your master of horse.”

Sir William scowled, and the ratlike expression that had amused her suddenly looked more sinister. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. Begging your pardon, since he be blood, Father,” he said to the friar, “but Lyonsbridge would be better off without the likes of Connor Brand.”

Ellen looked at Father Martin, questioning. “Connor is my brother,” he explained.

“Your brother!” She couldn’t decide why it was such a surprise to learn that the forceful man she’d met at the stables was brother to the friar. Now that she knew, she could see the resemblance immediately. They had the same handsome features, the same smile. The priest appeared to be bulkier under his robes, whereas the horse master had, she recalled with an uncharacteristic blush, been of a decidedly muscular build.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned it right away,” Father Martin said apologetically.

“Brother or no, he’s been a thorn in my tabard ever since I came to Lyonsbridge,” Sir William grumbled.

When Father Martin made no response to the charge, Ellen asked, “Then why haven’t you dismissed the man?”

Sir William shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. “He’s good with the horses,” he said. He made a nervous shuffle with his feet. “Enough of the stable. Let me show you inside the castle.”

Ellen put her hand on the arm Sir William offered her and let him lead her across the courtyard toward the stairway, but she remained puzzled about his answer. It seemed odd that the bailiff would keep a servant whom he professed to detest, no matter how good the man was with the livestock. In fact, there was something odd about Connor Brand himself. A strange manner of man, she had told the priest. Indeed. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she, mistress of the entire estate and acclaimed by the most noble men in Christendom, couldn’t seem to banish the stable master from her thoughts.

The previous day’s frost had disappeared overnight, leaving a mist that hung heavy and thick near the ground. It was not a good morning for a ride, but after breaking her fast with bread and strong ale, Ellen found herself wandering toward the stables. It made sense, she assured herself, to check on Jocelyn’s welfare after the grueling trip.

She was within yards of the stable and had just about decided that Jocelyn would prove to be her only mission after all, when suddenly the tall figure of the horse master emerged through the fog. Her heartbeat jumped.

Once again, he did not wait to be addressed first. “Good morrow, milady. You’re up and about early. The very sparrows still sleep, I trow.”

She put aside her annoyance at his boldness. Perhaps manners were not as formal in England. “You were here before me, Master Brand.”

“Ah, but I’m a poor laborer whose lot it is to work early and long. You’re a noblewoman, made to while away the hours in play and pleasure.”

The proper response to such an inappropriate comment would have been to ignore him, but the amused scorn in his tone made Ellen bristle and answer, “I’ve come to England to oversee a household, one that appears to be in sore need of management, I might add. I’ve not come to play.”

Connor took a step closer to her, then paused. His blue eyes boldly ran the length of her, taking on a sparkle as he smiled and said, “I’ll admit I don’t picture you quietly weaving tapestries the day through.”

She was standing uphill from him, which made their faces level, less than a yard distant. He gazed at her frankly, without apology. For a moment, she stared back. Then she realized that her face had grown warm and the breath had halted in her throat. She backed up a step. “I’d thank you not to picture me in any way whatsoever,” she said. Her tone was not as imperious as she’d hoped.

Connor smiled more broadly. “Norman rule has robbed Saxons of many things, milady, but not of their thoughts, nor yet of their fantasies.”

In Normandy a servant could have been beaten for such insolence, but instead of the reprimand that had leaped to her lips, she found herself arguing with him. “Norman rule has brought the Saxons much more than it has taken.”

Connor’s eyebrow raised. “So says the Norman lady?”

“Aye,” Ellen answered firmly. “So says the Norman lady.”

“Perhaps one of these days you’ll enlighten me about these wonders our conquerers have brought us, milady, but at the moment, I must take leave to go muck my Norman master’s stables.”

This man was like no servant she had ever encountered, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she continued to stand there like a tongue-tied maid and let him speak to her in such a fashion. It had something to do with the fact that her heart had not slowed from the time he’d first startled her, coming out of the fog.

One thing was certain. If she was going to put some good Norman order into this place, she’d have to start by regaining control of herself. “You forget yourself, Master Brand,” she said, and this time she was pleased to note that her tone was properly haughty. “If my cousin were to hear you speak the way you have to me just now, he’d turn you over to the king for sedition.”

Connor turned his back on her and walked down to the stable, collecting a pitchfork that was leaning against the building. Over his shoulder he said, “You misjudge me, milady. I’m a man of peace.”

“I think not. You and your brother appear to be cut of wholly different cloth.”

Connor turned back to her in surprise. “Martin told you, then?”

“Father Martin? Aye.”

“We’re not so different. Our destiny has given us two different paths, but we walk toward the same end.”

Ellen shook her head in confusion and finally gave voice to the thought that had been circling in her head since meeting him the previous day. “You don’t talk like any stable master I’ve ever heard.”

Connor dug the end of the fork into the ground, threw back his head and laughed.

There was, indeed, an independence about this servant that totally discomfited her. “I’m serious,” she insisted, her voice raising a notch. “Who are you? Father Martin said you’ve lived here all your life.”

“That I have, milady. Who am I? Why, I’m your stable boy, your horse trainer, your livestock manager.” He left the fork standing by itself in the dirt and took a long step to bring himself once again close to where she was standing. Very softly he said, “I’m your faithful servant, milady.”

His voice rumbled deep into her midsection.

She stood there facing him, eye-to-eye, as blood pounded behind her ears. She swallowed once, then again, before making a reply that came out as not much more than a whisper. “Aye, Saxon, you are my servant. See that you act like it.”

Then, abandoning her intention to visit her horse, she turned abruptly and made her way up the hill toward the castle as quickly as dignity would allow.

“What worm is gnawing at your innards today, Connor?” Father Martin asked, irritated at being snapped at by his brother for the third time since he’d arrived at midmorning.

Connor set down the wooden bucket he’d been carrying and boosted himself up on the fence next to the friar. “Forgive me, Martin. ‘Tis the infernal mist, no doubt. It leads to melancholy.”

“You used to love foggy days.”

Connor looked around. It was midday, yet they could barely see as far as the castle. He sighed. “Mayhap. I used to love a lot of things in the old life.”

“You are melancholy, brother mine. ‘Tis unlike you. My guess is that it has something to do with the arrival of the Normans yestreen. Mayhap in particular the arrival of a certain female Norman.”

Connor squinted toward the castle as if expecting to see her coming toward him, as he had that morning. He’d given no sign, but her visit had hit him with visceral impact. It was not that he’d been long deprived of the company of women. There were always plenty of obliging maidens in the village to see to his needs and amusement. But he couldn’t remember ever having the sight of a female affect him so absolutely. He’d felt it the previous day, the first time he’d set eyes on her. This morning, seeing her emerging from the mist like some kind of regal faerie queen had quite simply robbed him of his senses.

It had robbed him of his reason, too. He’d spoken brashly, without a thought for the consequences, which was a luxury he no longer allowed himself. He had too many responsibilities to be so foolhardy. It couldn’t happen again.

“The lass has me muddled,” he admitted to his brother.

Father Martin looked surprised at the admission and a little worried. “Connor, you know you would never be able—” He broke off and laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “She’s a Norman, brother.”

“I know. Don’t mistake me, Martin. I’m not likely to forget my—” he looked around at the stable yard “—my place at Lyonsbridge. ‘Tis clear enough at which end of the salt I sit.”

Father Martin looked relieved. “I suspect you’ll grow used to seeing her around in time. It appears she’s something of a horsewoman.”

Connor jumped to the ground and gave his brother a grin. “Aye, there’s no law against looking at a pretty maid, is there?”

Father Martin rolled his eyes. “Not in your world, at least.”

His brother laughed. “Ah, Martin, the Lord won’t punish you for a glance or two. When you’re at Mass with her today, give it a try and tell me if you don’t think her eyes are golden.”

With more difficulty than his brother, Father Martin slid to the ground, shaking his head. He turned with a rueful smile. “I’ve already looked, brother, and, yes, a truer gold I’ve never seen.”

The lady Ellen didn’t come to the stables the next two days. Her mount—Jocelyn, she’d called it—grew restive in its stall, and Connor walked it around the stable yard. She was a fine animal, and he’d have enjoyed riding her, but decided it would be prudent to await the mistress’s orders on the matter, particularly after his outburst the other morning.

He still berated himself for losing his usual control in such a fashion. At his father’s deathbed, he’d promised to look after the people of Lyonsbridge, and at his mother’s, he’d promised to keep peace in the land. He could do neither task if he made the new masters so angry that they ran him off the place.

Since something about the beautiful new mistress of Lyonsbridge seemed to spark the defiant streak he’d worked so hard to tame, he knew he’d do well to stay out of the lady’s way. He should be glad she hadn’t come again to the stables. Still, he found himself glancing toward the castle several times a day, hoping to see her heading toward him.

This morning it was not the lady Ellen scurrying down the hill, but John the cooper’s son. Connor was repairing a shoe on one of the Norman horses. He paused in his work to greet the boy with a smile.

“Whoa, lad, slow down. What’s your hurry on such a beautiful morn?”

John skidded to a stop near Connor and took a gasping breath. “Good morrow, Master Connor.”

Connor marveled at the boy’s unfailing courtesy, even though he was obviously agitated. “Good morrow, John. Now tell me what’s troubling you.”

The words tumbled out as the boy shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to bother you, Master Connor. I haven’t forgotten your words in the village-that we have to give the new masters a chance.

Everyone’s trying, truly they are. But you know that me mum’s doing poorly. She’s hardly been able to eat these past four days, and Sarah must stay there to mind her, but Sir William’s men have ordered all tenants to the castle. No exception, they say, by order of the new mistress.”

Connor sighed and carefully lifted the horse’s hoof out of his lap. The animal didn’t move. “Did you explain to Sir William’s men about your mother? Surely they know she has the wasting sickness?”

“No exceptions, they said.” The boy gave a vigorous shake of his head, jiggling his cropped blond hair like a shaft of wheat. “They don’t care, these Normans.”

“Why are they commanding everyone to the castle?” Connor asked, laying aside his chisel.

John shrugged. “’Tis daft, if you ask me. They say the lady Ellen has ordered a scouring from floor to ceiling, every room.”

Connor couldn’t argue with the fact that a “scouring” was sorely needed. There had been times when he’d winced at the forlorn state of Lyonsbridge Castle, thinking that his mother would be lying restless in her tomb. He glanced over at the stables, where even the hay was stacked in neat bundles. Though its occupants were animals, he’d daresay his domain was a sight tidier than the great hall of the castle.

“The cleaning’s not a bad idea, lad,” Connor told the boy. “But they’ve help aplenty to carry it out. They shouldn’t need your mother, nor your sister.”

“They’ve already taken Sarah. One of the soldiers dragged her off.”

“Dragged her off?” At this, Connor stood, overturning the stool behind him. Sarah Cooper was barely thirteen years, a slight, pretty girl and much too fragile to defend herself against a randy Norman soldier.

“That’s why I came to you, Master Connor. I couldn’t stop them. There was too many of them.”

Connor’s heart went out to the lad. Only a year older than his sister, young John had tried to be the man of the cooper’s household since his father had been killed by the Normans five years earlier. Connor put a hand on his shoulder.

“You did right, John. It would have been foolish to defy an entire band of guards. It was good that you came to me.”

“They wouldn’t hurt Sarah, would they?” he asked. His voice broke, making him sound younger than his years.

“Nay, they wouldn’t dare hurt her if ‘tis the lady Ellen’s orders they’re following.” Connor had no idea if his optimistic words were true, but the boy looked relieved. “Come, we’ll go find her and straighten this out.”

“Will you talk to the lady Ellen directly?” John asked.

Connor began to lead the horse into the stable. At the boy’s words, he felt a tingle of awareness along his limbs. The image of Lady Ellen Wakelin’s golden eyes danced in his head.

“Aye, lad. I’ll talk to the lady Ellen directly.”