Читать книгу Dragon's Dower - Catherine Archer - Страница 11

Quietly, Isabelle waited in the crowded and poorly appointed chamber she was sharing with several other ladies of the court. She had seated herself on a narrow backless chair some distance from where the other women chattered whilst pretending to attend to their sewing.

She did not know why her father had summoned her here to Windsor, nor had she wanted to come. She had only been to court on one other occasion with her father, who seemed to like court life little better than she. He preferred to be on his own lands where he was the law.

Nay, she had not wished to come. The first time she had been to court, she had been gawked at and disdained by the other ladies, though she could not understand why they would behave so cruelly to a girl of no more than fourteen years. This visit had proved no different. If only she could return home to Dragonwick. But what choice had she in it? Her father was master of her fate as he had reminded her more times than she could ever begin to count in the twenty years of her existence.

She was infinitely aware of the fact that to anyone, including her father, viewing her from the outside she would appear completely unmoved. Yet her mind rolled with questions and fear of what he might be about.

Why had he sent for her? When he had left for court he had seemed agitated about some matter. Yet he had shared nothing with her.

It had crossed Isabelle’s mind that there might be a possible suitor involved. But her father had not told her to make herself amenable as he had each time he had dangled her before a hopeful at Dragonwick. And there had been more than a few. Possible alliance to an earl drew those who would further their own positions. Thus far none of the men had offered enough on their own part. The Earl of Kelsey would not give up his pawn, for keeping her unwed had made allies of those men who still sought to win her.

She had not even seen her father except at dinner the previous evening. He had done no more than cast a sweeping glance over her, saying that she was looking well enough and that she was to garb herself carefully. She had not wasted breath in asking him to tell her what he was about in bidding her to come to court. He would say nothing until he was prepared to do so. No amount of coaxing had ever changed that, as she’d learned from early childhood.

Again Isabelle wondered why her father had her summoned here. Dared she even hope? Surely he would choose the weakest, most malleable of men, the kind who fawned and cowered before him. And when he did, Isabelle herself might hope to exert some influence over such a man. Marriage would bring the possibility of freedom from the tight fist of her father’s control.

Unfortunately until that event occurred Isabelle must play the part of dutiful and obedient daughter. It was a part she had learned to play very well.

To cover her extreme agitation she focused her attention on her clothing, her jewels and her hair. She ran her hand over the deep-blue velvet of her skirt, concentrating on the roughness of the silver embroidery beneath her fingers. She knew that the silver slippers she wore and the sheer veil with its silver circlet were the perfect complement for the gown with its tight bodice and low square neck.

Unbidden, thoughts of the stranger who had stopped to ask if she required assistance the previous day came into her head. He had indeed been very handsome with his well-formed masculine features, dark hair and warm brown eyes. Those dark-lashed eyes had also looked on her with appreciation as he raked his thick straight hair back from a high, intelligent forehead.

Unlike other times when she had been viewed thusly, his appreciation had made something shift inside her, something feminine and vulnerable. For the stranger had been seeing her—Isabelle—and with gentle eyes. He had not known that she was the only offspring of the Earl of Kelsey.

Though many men had professed to find her attractive they knew her father had no other heir to his earldom but her. They sought power, as her father had done in attaining his earldom—from betraying his own brother. That man had been her uncle, the one other warriors had called The Dragon because of his skill and fierceness in battle, and because of his fierce sense of honor, duty and love. It was to her uncle that she owed thanks for the vast dower her suitors sought.

Isabelle’s heart ached afresh at the thought of the loss of him. For though she had been a small child when he died she had loved her uncle Wallace like no other human being. He had been kind and gentle and all that was good in the world and thus became the prey of one who would do what he must to gain power and position.

Her father. She hated her father more for that than for all his many cruelties to her. But he was all she had. Her mother had died when she was very small and the only thing she knew of her folk was that they lived in Normandy. Once, not long after her mother’s death, a woman had visited, saying she was Isabelle’s aunt, but her father had sent her away and she had never returned.

All Isabelle could do to try to make things right was to think of the dower that would someday be hers as her father’s only heir. In memory of The Dragon she would teach her child to be like his great uncle Wallace had been.

The knock that sounded at the door did not surprise her, nor did the presence of her father’s man, Sir Fredrick, standing there when one of the other women opened it. Father had sent word this morn that she was to be at the ready for his summons.

Without haste Isabelle stood, again smoothing her hand over the skirt of her kirtle.

She kept her head high beneath the gazes of the women of the court. She was grateful when the door closed behind her and she no longer had to endure their hurtful speculation.

Sir Fredrick paid her little heed other than to clear the hallway for her passage. She did not need to be told that his efforts were more in aid of hurrying to reach her father than any concern for her. He had been with her father for as long as she had memory and made his complete loyalty to the earl known at all times. Though Isabelle was amazed that her cold and distant father could have inspired such devotion in any man, she had come to accept it.

They moved on to a more sumptuously appointed portion of the castle, finally arriving at a door, which the knight opened without knocking. Still trying to remain impassive, Isabelle moved ahead of him when he stepped aside and motioned her forward.

What she saw on the other side of the door was a surprise to test the skills of self-possession that she had spent her lifetime perfecting.

The long narrow chamber bore four occupants. At the far end of the chamber, her father, King John and another man stood with their backs to her. With them was a priest.

Her gaze went to her father, even as she felt the eyes of the king come to rest upon her face. There was something familiar about the third man, who still stood with his back toward her, his wide shoulders encased in dark-green velvet. There was something about the thick, straight dark hair that brushed the velvet of his collar.

Her questioning gaze went back to her father. He cast an approving glance over her, assessing her to determine if she was properly representing him, as he always did, but not seeing her. He nodded and said, “Very well, then. Isabelle has arrived. We may begin.”

Isabelle met the king’s sharp gaze for a brief moment as she asked, “Begin what, Father?” She was pleased at the cool unconcern of her tone. It betrayed none of the agitation that made her heart pound painfully in her chest. Peripherally she became aware that the other man had finally turned around.

Isabelle’s gaze moved to his face. Her heart stopped, then thumped to life again as she saw, saints above, that it was the very man she had met upon the road the previous day. The very man who had been so much in her thoughts in spite of her wishes to the contrary.

If the shock on his handsome face was any indication, he was as surprised to see her here as she was him.

What indeed was he doing here in this chamber with her father, the king and a clergyman? Forcing herself to speak evenly, she asked again, “Begin what, Father?”

There was a long heavy silence. “Haven’t you even told her?” It was the stranger’s deep voice. His brown eyes met hers. In them she saw resentment.

Odd. Odder still was her reaction to his expression. The ripples of annoyance and unwanted regret that rolled through her made it difficult to retain her pose of calm. She was not sorry when he turned to glare at her father.

Her father scowled. “What I tell my daughter is none of your concern.”

“It is if she is to be my bride.”

“Bride.” The word was nothing more than a whisper of outgoing breath. She had hope, but…It was so sudden.

Her shock was lost to the others as her father replied, coldly, “You have me there, Warleigh. But recall as you consider yourself master to my daughter that I am master to you.”

The man who, if she was hearing aright, was to be her husband, answered with equal lack of warmth. “’Tis only through dastardly doing that it be so. Had you not falsely accused me—”

Her father blustered. “Dastardly? I’ll have you keep your accusations to—”

King John halted them with upraised hands. “No more.” He cast her father a warning glance. “You assured me that you could see to this matter. Keep this man in check.”

Her father bowed. “That I will, Sire.”

“And you, my lord, you will recall that it is only by my mercy that you have been granted this opportunity to live. You will create no trouble for your father-by-marriage. Is that clear, Warleigh?”

Warleigh. In all these years she had not forgotten the names of the three fosterlings who had given evidence against her uncle. Shock rolled through her anew. Not only was she to marry one of the ones who had done her such ill, the marriage had clearly been foisted on the angry and resentful Warleigh as a punishment.

Never had she expected love, or even affection. But she had not thought to be given in such a state of resentment, had even hoped the man she wed might be malleable to her own wishes. Warleigh’s outraged pride told of a strong and commanding will. Heaven help her, it would take every ounce of her self-control to see this through without breaking.

But that was precisely what she must do.

Never could she let anyone see how devastated this turn of events had left her. Especially not the man who, for a brief moment yesterday, had made her think about what it would be like to be young and free, to be looked on with favor by a handsome young man.

From his place beside the priest, Simon watched Isabelle’s impassive and beautiful face.

So this woman, the one he had met along the road the previous day, was Isabelle, daughter to the Earl of Kelsey. He would never have guessed that she was the one he had been ordered to wed, and had he done so not even a beauty as great as hers could have moved him.

His gaze raked her face. His faint recollections of the child he had seen a few times so many years ago would never have prepared him for the woman she had become.

He had much clearer memories of her younger cousin, the scarlet-haired Rosalind, who had died the day Gerard Kelsey attacked the keep. The very thought angered him anew.

Simon’s lips thinned as he focused on the woman before him again. There was no hint of reaction to her father’s declaration that she was to be married in those astonishing lilac eyes, nor was there any rise of color in the porcelain cheeks. Those perfectly formed pink lips did not thin, nor did they purse. Her slender white hands with their long delicate fingers rested lightly on the skirt of her lavish gown. Her dark head was held at a proud but relaxed angle, further betraying her lack of concern.

How could she possibly listen to the exchange that had just taken place without reacting in some way? Yet she had.

He now realized that she was beautiful indeed, but it was more in the way of a marble statue he had seen in Rome. Unbearably lovely but lacking the animation that would fully impassion a man.

She started toward them, her slender hips drawing his gaze as she moved forward with sensuous grace. In spite of his revelations his body reacted to her grace and beauty with a will of its own. Meanwhile his mind continued to view her lack of emotion with displeasure. He told himself ’twas unnatural for a young woman to be so cold. Even the most obedient of daughters might have hoped to hear of her marriage before the moment was upon her.

Alas, he reminded himself, he could not expect more from the earl’s daughter. Simon was infinitely conscious of the pale perfection of her face as she came to a halt beside him. And, heaven help him, her slender but enticing form. The gold belt about her slim hips drew his wayward gaze but when he forced it upward he was equally captivated by her long, narrow waist and high, proud breasts made all the more enticing by the deep blue of her gown, which clung lovingly to each curve.

Determinedly he pulled his gaze to his own hard fingers, which had curled into a fist at his side. He forced himself to recall his plan to remain apart from his wife. It was his only hope of being free of her and thus her father.

Unfortunately he had not at the time of making that decision realized that the very woman who had so occupied his thoughts since he left her at the side of the road yesterday was the one he must deny himself.

King John interrupted his tormented thoughts. “Shall we have it done, then? I do have other matters to attend.”

Kelsey spoke before Simon could. “Of course, my lord. It would greatly trouble my sleep to think that I had brought you any undue inconvenience.”

Simon felt his lips twist in derision. The man was a toad. As he had always been.

He must keep this in mind. Raised by one such as the earl the girl could not be but less than honorable of character. The longing he had thought he had seen in her eyes yesterday was nothing more than the wishful thinking of a man who had found himself in the company of a very lovely woman. A man who had just been told he must marry in order to save his head. He could not afford himself the luxury of allowing one such as she to become the lady of Avington.

No matter how beautiful she might be.

An indeterminable time later Simon left the chamber where the marriage had taken place, pausing in the hall outside as he realized that he had nowhere to go. There was no sign of his bride, who had exited just moments before him with no more hint of emotion than she had displayed on entering, hardly a word having been exchanged between them, nothing save their replies to the priest’s intonations.

Simon heaved a silent sigh, aware of the angry and watchful eyes of the man who stood as if guarding the door. He had been the same man to bring Isabelle to the chamber, which told Simon that he was Kelsey’s man even if his resentful blue gaze had not. He must guard himself even now with Kelsey still inside with the king, who had informed him that he was to await them in the hall. As parting words King John had again made it very clear that Simon would be accompanying his wife and her father to Dragonwick this very day. And that he would be remaining there indefinitely.

Dragonwick.

The very thought brought back so many memories. It had been his home for two years as squire to The Dragon. He had spent many a happy day there riding, sword playing, exploring the lands with Jarrod and Christian. Not that Wallace Kelsey had been an easy mentor. He had expected much from those under him, including Simon and Jarrod and Christian.

It had been a good life until The Dragon was accused of supporting those who plotted against King Henry. Through it all, The Dragon had declared his innocence and support of the king. He had been accused of meeting in secret with two of Henry’s son, Richard’s, most loyal allies. It had been to this that Simon, Jarrod and Christian had been forced to testify.

It had not gone well and The Dragon had decided he would not give up his lands without resistance. He was determined to stand by his principles. Never had Simon or his friends imagined what would happen next. Somehow they had believed that their foster father would triumph. No one had suspected that his brother Gerard would convince the king to provide him a force to lead against him.

They had not realized how very desperate King Henry was to rid himself of Wallace Kelsey when it appeared he had allied himself against the crown. Simon had not participated in the fighting the day The Dragon’s brother attacked the keep. Under protest he, Jarrod and Christian had been locked away in a shed to keep them out of the battle.

They had only been released in time to see the bodies of The Dragon and his three-year-old daughter, Rosalind, who had been brought down to lie beside her father in the bailey. Gerard Kelsey had loudly declared his regret that his niece was dead, claimed that she had inadvertently fallen from the top of the inner stairs trying to get to her father, who had been fighting in the hall.

Simon had been sickened by the blackguard’s false regret and the sight of that tiny crumpled body, glad the nurse had wrapped the child in linens to cover her broken form from the eyes of her enemies. These many years later he remembered the sweetness of the carrot-haired child who had followed them about the castle grounds and he felt his chest tighten. He’d wished that he could give vent to the tears that threatened even now.

Aye, Dragonwick would be filled with memories and not all of them good ones.

Surely, he would eventually find a way to extricate himself from this odious situation. King John had much to occupy him with his nobles’ anger and resentment against the crown, not to mention his own recent divorce and remarriage. John could not afford to divert his attention to a favorite such as Kelsey for very long.

From behind Simon came Kelsey’s voice. “We will be leaving court within the hour.”

Simon stiffened, as he faced him. “I must only retrieve my belongings from the inn where I have been staying.”

Kelsey scowled. “Do not attempt to escape, my lord. I take the charge to keep you under my eyes most seriously.”

Simon shrugged, casting a glance over to the dark knight with the resentful blue eyes, who had moved to stand at the earl’s right. “Send a guard, if you will. It will only delay me. I have no wish to try to escape you. I hold my own lands too dear to risk them over such foolishness.”

The older man’s expression remained disapproving, but he nodded. “Very well then, but know I shall send them after you if you do not return and the king will hear of it.”

“You will have nothing to report.” Simon could not quite hide the disgust in his tone, nor could he keep it from his eyes. Quickly he turned and left the man who was now his father-by-marriage. For the moment.

As he rode to the inn Simon realized that perhaps this circumstance could be used for good purpose. Perhaps he could discover something that would aid them in their quest to see Gerard Kelsey robbed of all he had stolen.

Isabelle moved quickly to her waiting mare. She was earlier than her father had commanded but she was eager to leave this place of intrigue and unhappiness.

The task of being ever on her guard, of never showing a hint of emotion was just too difficult to maintain. At least at Dragonwick she had those moments when she was alone in her chamber to let go of her rigid self-control.

Surreptitiously, her gaze swept the mounted men. There was no sign of her new husband.

Husband. The word seemed strange. The ceremony had been accomplished so quickly and with so little fanfare that it seemed completely unreal. At no point had the baron so much as touched her. Then her father had dismissed her, informing her that she was to make ready for the return to Dragonwick within the hour.

Even as she told herself she had no real interest in Simon Warleigh, he came galloping through the castle gate. She could not help noting that he rode his enormous chestnut stallion as if he were one with it. His straight thick hair was drawn back by the wind of his passage, leaving those well sculpted, masculine features bared to her lingering gaze. He looked handsome, strong and untamed.

Her heart thudded in her chest.

Quickly she busied herself with getting fully settled in the saddle. Isabelle was determined to set her attention on the ride ahead. She loved riding, lest it involved hunting. She cast a quick glance at her father.

Her father called out, “Where is my horse?” An expression of impatience had replaced the one that had told her he had been congratulating himself on his ability to control everything and everyone around him.

For a moment, watching him, she could almost feel sympathy toward her newly wedded husband. That emotion was quickly dismissed as her gaze went to Warleigh’s face. There was no mistaking the pride and arrogance she saw there, the confidence. Again she was reminded that her hope of eventually gaining the ear of a pliant husband would never come to pass. The man was nothing more than her father’s prisoner and yet he retained this prideful stance.

She could not help wondering from whence his self-confidence came. She had always admired strength.

It was a quality she knew her father lacked, for all his ability to control others. If he had not wrought such misery and pain by his actions she would have felt pity for him. She felt her lips twist wryly. God help her, she did pity him still. Yet she could not allow herself to display it in any way for he would simply use it against her. As he had always used the weakness of others against them.

That she was his own daughter had no bearing on his behavior. He had no loyalty greater than that toward his own power and greed.

Isabelle found her gaze going back to her husband. He seemed to have no fear of facing her father. Yet that was no good to her, for he clearly felt nothing but resentment toward her for her part in his imprisonment.

Then the sound of pounding hooves drew her gaze back to the gate as two more riders came galloping into the bailey. One was quite young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, with a thatch of unruly blond hair and strong features that were too large for his face. The other was an older man, wide shouldered, gray haired and steady of regard, his bearing and accoutrements marking him a knight. They rode directly to Simon Warleigh and halted.

The knight spoke to Simon Warleigh, “My lord, we are at your disposal.”

Warleigh scowled, his wide brow creasing. “I appreciate your sense of duty, Sir Edmund, but I do not require your service at the moment, else I would not have informed you that you were to return to Avington.”

The knight raised his head high as he held his overlord’s gaze. “Aye, my lord. But there were others who agreed that it would be best if we were to accompany you.”

Isabelle watched as her husband took a deep breath before replying. “I say again, I do not require your attendance.” His gaze flicked to the young rider, who, from the look of him must be a squire. “You must take Wylie home to Avington.”

The older man frowned, “But, my lord—”

Her father’s voice interrupted. “This will not serve.” He made a sweeping motion. “You may not accompany us.”

They ignored him, continuing to look to their overlord with genuine concern, even love. Isabelle was amazed by loyalty that seemed to have no basis in fear.

The boy, whom Warleigh had called Wylie, cried, “My lord, we can not go off and leave you to…” His angry gaze raked the assembled company.

His patience obviously at an end, Isabelle’s father motioned to his men. “Remove them from the bailey.” Two of them moved forward to take hold of the reins of the man and boy who voiced such concern for their master.

The lad resisted, making his horse dance away from the reaching hands.

Simon Warleigh again told his men, “Go in peace. Have no concern for me. I will be well.”

Her father laughed coldly. “Nicely said, Warleigh, but you really have no say in this. Take them.”

Seeing the way her father was enjoying this display of power Isabelle felt an unexpected sense of rebellion. She had no connection to Simon Warleigh, no reason to set aside her accustomed mask of disregard. Yet it was her own voice that said, “Pray let them come, Father. You are most equal to the task of keeping them at heel.”

Her father seemed surprised that she would concern herself with such a matter. But he nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, you advise me well, daughter.” His superior gaze then swept the men. “I would not wish for them to think I fear their ability to free their master from my guardianship.”

Simon Warleigh, her husband, cast her a glance that was at first surprised and then puzzled. But his puzzlement was quickly masked behind an unreadable expression.

Again she noted that Warleigh’s men had made no visible reaction to her and her father’s conversation. Their attention was all for Simon, who said, “You may accompany me but you—” he looked to the boy “—will remember yourself and do nothing but what you are instructed to do, lest I send you home.”

The boy nodded.

Her father said, “You must first consult me before giving any order, even that of sending your men away from Dragonwick. I must answer to the king for your actions.”

Simon eyed him closely. “As you will, my lord. I will certainly consult you before giving such orders. My instructing my squire against foolhardy behavior should certainly come under close scrutiny.”

Isabelle had to restrain a smile at the look of shocked displeasure in her father’s face. Once more she was surprised at her reaction to the man’s open defiance of her father. It was admirable, but completely mad. Gerard Kelsey always succeeded in getting what he wanted.

Had he not succeeded in seeing Simon Warleigh placed beneath his very thumb? Not that she doubted her husband deserved it. From what she had heard in the king’s chamber it appeared he had been caught plotting against the crown.

Whatever madness had prodded her to interfere between him and her father was now overcome. She had no interest in Warleigh. Her hope of attaining some influence with her husband was dead. Her hope to have a son whom she could love was not.

She chose not to dwell on accomplishing that deed. Somehow she would find the courage when the time came. Any hardship could be faced in order to see her goal of having a son realized.

But when would it happen? When would she and…

No one had even so much as alluded to the coming night.

Almost of its own accord her gaze went to her husband’s undeniably handsome face. What would it be like—to be taken into his arms, to feel his body against hers? She felt a strange rush of warmth that shocked her.

As if he sensed her attention, Simon Warleigh’s gaze met hers. His was assessing, raking the sheer silver veil, which was pinned atop her carefully arranged hair, and her face. It then passed over the length of her blue gown, which was visible through the opening of the scarlet cloak she wore. Isabelle knew the gown was overfine for a journey, but she had been so eager to leave that she had refused when her maid Helwys had suggested changing it.

His gaze did not in any way lead her to believe that he was interested in…

In point of fact, nothing he had done or said during that painfully tense marriage ceremony or afterward had made her think he had even considered the wedding night, let alone wished for it to happen. Isabelle tore her gaze away from his coolly assessing one as her father called out again, “My horse.”

At last his squire, Karl, came leading the wildly straining black stallion from the stable. The lad was disheveled as he tried to hold the horse steady and his uncertain gaze fixed itself on her father’s face.

Isabelle felt her whole body tense at the cold anger she saw there. He strode to the lad, reaching out for the reins with one hand, while back of the other snaked out to connect with Karl’s cheek.

The squire sprawled in the dust of the courtyard, his hand going to his cheek. There was utter stillness as her father mounted without a glance in the lad’s direction. Into the achingly heavy silence Simon cried, “Are you mad?”

Her father swung to face him. “You dare not question me concerning my treatment of my own folk, Warleigh. Lest you care to go back and tell King John that his will for you is not to your liking?”

Seeing the familiar icy fire in her father’s gaze, Isabelle knew how near they were to being taught one of his lessons. Not even Simon could stop him no matter how confident he might be. Desperately Isabelle cried out in a hoarse tone as her eyes met her husband’s, “You have no power here. Pray leave be.” She knew he would see the pleading in her gaze, but cared not. She would spare Karl, nay all of them, the harsh reality of her father’s enmity.

Her face flaming with emotions that she could not quite identify, Isabelle was filled with relief as her father flicked her an approving glance and gave the order to ride out. Guiding her horse out onto the road that would take them south to Dragonwick gave her something to do besides think about what would come next between her and Simon Warleigh.