Читать книгу Warrior's Deception - Diana Hall - Страница 12

“Sir Roen, I’m so glad you came along when you did,” her aunt cooed. “Poor Lenora could have been killed trying such an outlandish stunt.” She took a sip from the wine goblet she shared with Roen. The rest of the meal participants listened with rapt attention to the knight’s exaggerated account of the rescue.

Lenora felt a needlelike jab in her head and tried to fix her concentration on her meal. Under the table, her foot tapped the floor in a staccato beat. She wished it was Galliard under her foot instead of the rushes.

“You were so brave to attempt such a rescue.” Matilda continued to heap praise on Roen. Every word of gratitude triggered another pain. Lenora’s head felt like a pincushion.

“Lady Lenora, you have a fine cook. The meal is…” Her dinner partner, Sir Alric, stopped his polite conversation at her icy look.

Alric retreated into a quelled silence. Lenora grabbed their shared wine goblet without asking for help from the knight seated next to her. She dared him to comment on her breach of proper etiquette, which demanded the knight hold the goblet. The last thing she wanted was help from any of Roen de Galliard’s men.

Just as she took a huge gulp of wine, she heard Roen say, “’Twas pure luck that she stayed on the beast’s back after the first jump. Then to see her barreling down toward a second! Well, dear lady, I knew I had to intervene or a terrible accident would occur.”

Her wine almost spewed across the table. She forced the liquid down her constricted throat and was seized by a fit of coughing. All eyes at the head table turned toward her.

“It seems the lady needs my assistance once again.” Roen smiled ruefully at Matilda. He started to rise from his seat of honor next to the saltcellar.

“Nay. Nay.” Lenora waved him back to his seat. “I am fine. The wine was sour.”

“Really!” He took a long swill from his cup. “Mine is deliciously sweet.” Roen gave her a crooked smile. Mischief brought out the blue in his eyes. “Perhaps, ‘tis not the wine that’s sour.”

He turned to Hamlin, seated next to Beatrice on his right. “I have heard, my friend, that the flavor of the meal is enhanced by one’s disposition. I myself feel extremely well satisfied, and my meal was extremely savory. Perhaps ‘tis the lady’s disposition that soured her meal.” The high table exploded with laughter.

Beatrice opened her mouth to defend her dear cousin. Hamlin lightly placed his callused hand over her delicate one. “Nay, Lady Beatrice, this battle is not for one as gentle as yourself. Besides,” he whispered, “I do not think the Lady Lenora is ready to admit defeat just yet.”

As if in response to Hamlin’s statement, Lenora, her eyes aflame, parried back. “Nay, Galliard. My disposition is wonderfully content after my refreshing bath. How could one help to be otherwise when the water was so soothingly warm and scented with mint. I trust yours was the same.”

Roen tapped his index finger on his wide, generous lips, forcing his smile to remain. When he had seen the scrawny, toothless old woman sent to assist him at his bath, he suspected Lenora had arranged it. His men relaxed in hot tubs while he nearly froze in a bucket of tepid water. Not to mention he had had to bear the tale of the hag’s many ailments. Roen nodded appreciatively toward his adversary. Lenora was not a woman to give up any battle easily.

“My bath was exactly as you would expect it to be.” Roen turned toward his dining partner. “Lady Matilda, your niece sent the…”

Matilda giggled like a young girl. “Lenora is too interested in her horses and plants to be concerned with taking proper care of her guests. I am afraid the stress of managing this keep falls on my shoulders and those of my daughter.”

“Then I have you to thank for my bath and the care I received?” Roen questioned.

He was surprised to see Matilda accept the statement as a compliment when he knew Lenora was responsible for his inhospitable treatment. He turned toward the young woman, her face radiant with triumph.

“Sir Roen, my lord will see you now,” the castle seneschal announced. Roen tore his gaze from Lenora. Sir Hywel continued, “Sir Edmund apologizes for the delay in addressing you, but his illness forces him to rest at midday. If you are finished with your meal, I will lead you to his chambers.”

Roen stood and turned to face Lenora, a mocking gnn unsuppressed on his lips. It vanished when he found her seat empty.

“Sir Hywel…” Roen was surprised to find Lenora at his side as she spoke to her father’s steward. “Since ‘twas I the knight assisted, I feel that I should present the man to my father.” Turning to her aunt, the vixen transformed her waspish tongue with a demure guise. “’Tis only the proper thing to do.”

Before her aunt could reply, Lenora grabbed his arm and led him across the room to the stairs. He lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl.

Roen’s battle senses noted with approval the construction of the stairs. As the stone steps reached the upper stories they narrowed and curved. Forced to climb single file, an invading army was blind to what lay ahead. A snatch of Lenora’s dress was all he could see of her as she disappeared around the curve of the step.

The creak of wood contrasted with the cold echo of the stone. Roen quickly identified the sound, wooden defense steps. The structures could be burned or demolished if invaders entered.

“Hold, Galliard!”

Roen pulled himself up short. Lenora blocked his passage. She stood on the upper step, her eyes level with his own. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle and she crossed her arms over her chest. The golden shade of her eyes signaled her state of mind. The docile lamb had reverted back into a bad-tempered lion.

Lenora held her ground. The narrow steps prevented Galliard from brushing past her and the curve of the stair hid them from people below, in the great hall, and above, in her father’s room.

“We will talk before you see my father,” Lenora commanded.

“Orders! You give far too many orders for a woman!” Roen sighed, exasperated.

Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “And would the words sound sweeter coming from the mouth of a man? Do you want me to look humbly at the ground and ask requests of you in my own home, in my own hall, after you have eaten my food and drunk my wine?

“This battle we have—” Lenora saw Roen’s startled expression. “Aye, ‘tis a battle, Galliard. But this is between you and me. You will not involve my father. The story I told him is the same we told his steward.” Lenora clenched her fists and fought to control the timbre of her voice. “My father is ill. He must not be unsettled.”

Afraid to show her tears, she lowered her head. A hand on her chin forced her face upward. She searched his face through blurry eyes for a sign that he understood her pain. His eyes, no longer the color of cold granite, warmed to mist gray. They reminded her of a stubborn fog that lingered in the morning sun. Could he really have a heart after all?

He cupped her upturned face in his large rough hand. His fingers massaged the knotted muscles at her scalp. A solitary tear escaped one eye and meandered down her cheek. Roen tenderly wiped it away with his thumb.

“Ah, Nora, if only Henry had a dozen warriors like yourself, he would have England back to rights in no time.” Roen dropped his hand from her face. He stared at it and the evaporating remains of Lenora’s tear.

“I do what I must to protect my father,” she explained hesitantly.

“I see that now,” Roen whispered. “Which is the crux of the problem.” He fought the desire to wrap Lenora in his arms, to reassure her with brave words.

The tender feelings he felt toward her must be killed. Love was an emotion for bards and women, not warriors. He stepped away and jeered at the tender emotions he accidentally felt. To push away the sentiments, he gave a brisk wave with his arm. “Come, Nora, I see your point. I’ll do nothing to upset Sir Edmund.”

Confused and surprised that the battle had been won so easily, she led him to her father’s chambers. She knocked on the heavy oak door and whispered, “One more thing.”

Her father’s reply to her knock corresponded with Roen’s disgruntled, “What else?”

“Don’t call me Nora!”

Lenora opened the door and flounced across the chamber to stand next to her bedridden father. Tall and proud, she placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “Father, this is the knight that assisted me today, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy.”

Roen’s attention moved from her to the gaunt man lying on the massive bed. Sir Edmund lay atop the ermine-trimmed coverlet, propped up by several overstuffed pillows. His long legs filled the length of the bed. His feet were bare, his torso covered by a calf-length robe of rich blue, trimmed in dark sable fur. The shadows from the one window accentuated the darkness beneath his still-lively eyes.

“Sir Roen, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your rescue today. Pray, avail yourself of my hospitality for as long as you wish.” Sir Edmund’s voice barely carried across the room. “Draw up the chair so that we may talk.”

Lenora ran to snatch the heavy oak chair from the table on the far side of the room. She struggled to drag it to her father’s side. Roen lifted the chair from her easily and placed it near the bed. She scurried to return to her father’s side.

Seated, Roen saw two sets of earth brown eyes assessing him intently. There’s no doubt she’s a Marchavel. She has the look of the old man, only softened, he thought bitterly. The strong family resemblance between father and daughter rekindled old childhood scars. Roen’s heart retreated into the emotional armor he had devised in childhood. He concentrated on the muted colors of the floral depictions on the whitewashed castle walls.

“Lenora, you may leave us now. I wish to hear news from London and swap battle tales.” Sir Edmund patted his child’s arm. “You have already heard the news and my old stories. ‘Twould only bore you.”

“Father, I don’t mind staying.” Lenora moved closer to her father, as though to shield him from Roen.

Edmund laughed and gave Roen a leering wink. “But, my dear, a father tells his daughter a story one way, and tells another warrior the same story in an entirely different manner. Certain details that he neglected to tell his wife or daughter are sometimes remembered with a fellow knight.”

Lenora pushed back a lock of her hair and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. She had hoped to remain and see that Roen kept his word. Her father’s dismissal left her no choice. To tarry longer would only make him suspicious.

She shot Roen a murderous glance, then moved to the exit. His back to the door, he heard the loud slam echo in the room and down the hall.

Edmund licked his lips and pointed toward a wardrobe near the window. “Those women seek to keep me on weak tea and watered-down wine. A man can’t regain his strength from such as that. Friend, look on the upper shelf of that closet and see if a bottle of ale can’t be found.”

Roen’s smile and mood brightened. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open the doors of the huge oak wardrobe. The piece held little, a fur-lined cloak, a green embroidered tunic and a leather jerkin. Several boots lay on the bottom. The wardrobe was so huge, Roen had to climb into it to reach the top shelf. He pushed aside the soft woolen braes and shirts folded neatly on the shelf. His hand found the smooth handle of a clay jug. Roen turned and displayed his prize.

“Well-done, man!” Sir Edmund smiled gleefully. “Grab that bowl and tea mug and we will toast each other’s good fortune.”

Relaxed, Roen retrieved the articles and returned to Sir Edmund. He drew his chair closer as he poured the strong ale into the mug and offered it to the ill man. After pouring his drink into the soup bowl, he placed the jug of ale on the floor between them. Edmund tilted his mug in salute. Forced to hold the bowl with two hands, Roen brought the drink to his lips.

“I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”

Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.

The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”

“I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.

“‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.

Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”

His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.

“Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.

Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.

“Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.

“You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.

“Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”

“And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.

“Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”

Roen paced the room before hitching a leg onto an ironbanded chest near the window. “What makes you think you are in any danger, other than from your own harebrained schemes?”

Tom stopped wheezing and started to sputter, “What—why, you…I don’t care if’n you are a lord, ye don’t go talkin’ to Sir Edmund like that.”

Sir Edmund silenced his man with an annoyed frown. “’Tis little proof I have, more of a hunch. My illness for one.” He released a long, anguished breath and eased himself back against the pillows. The stress of the recent events shone on his face.

“Aye, ‘tis a strange illness.” Tom’s muscles creaked, his bad knee popped. He used the back of the chair to pull himself up. “My lord grows weak, then grows strong, then weak again.”

“He’s old. It happens,” Roen replied nonchalantly.

“Then why is it when I bring his food myself, not from the kitchen, he gets stronger? Why is it that when I fed his kitchen food to the rats in the stable, they died?” Tom gave Roen a nearly toothless grin. “Someone’s a-tryin’ to poison ‘im.”

“Rats die, they eat spoiled food. You doped the stable with poison, they got hold of it.” Roen scrutinized the ill man, noted the paleness of his face.

“Aye, it could be so, I wish it were so,” Edmund replied wearily. “I do not wish to think someone of my house would poison me. But ‘tis true. Tom smuggles me food through a secret chamber into this room. Yet, I still suffer from bouts of illness. I know not if this is a permanent result of the poisoning, or if the traitor still reaches me, despite our precautions.”

“There’s other things. Before the lord got sick.” Tom held his back as he shuffled over to Roen. “Accidents! The lord ‘ere was nearly trampled to death when the girth broke on his saddie. Then his lance broke during a hunt. The whole castle was a-talkin’ about the lord’s run of bad luck.”

The one-eyed man gave Roen a calculated look. “All the talk scared the coward. Not too much longer, Sir Edmund starts to feelin’ poorly.”

Roen scratched his chin. “All you really have is supposition. No real proof.”

Tom snorted in disgust. “And what about Lady Lenora?”

Roen jumped off the chest. “What’s happened to Lenora?” he demanded. “Sir Edmund, your letter did not mention any harm to her.”

There was silence as Tom and his lord exchanged appraising glances. Edmund’s voice wavered. “No harm—yet. Just things that make one wonder. I never received an answer before—why did Lenora lie for you? I’m surprised she didn’t strip you to the bone with one of her tongue-lashings.”

Roen wandered about the room to collect and organize his thoughts. “Your daughter did not wish to upset you. Believe me, I have heard enough of her bad manners. What do you want from me?” Roen asked tentatively. He suspected the answer would not be to his liking.

Edmund reached out his hand. Tom slipped two brown leather-wrapped missives from under his worn jerkin. He placed them in his lord’s hand. The elder knight opened each, read each briefly.

“I believe this will draw the culprit out.” He held one out to Roen.

“This is a marriage contract!” Roen stared at Sir Edmund as the man’s plan dawned on him. “Nay, I’ll not marry that hellcat daughter of yours.”

“Then don’t. Read the contract, man. All you have to do is announce your engagement,” Sir Edmund replied briskly.

Roen reviewed the document. “This contract is quite generous to me. I become Lord of Woodshadow the day I marry Lenora.”

“Aye, to be passed on to your and Lenora’s children at your death.”

“This cannot be! If Lenora has no children I’m to be given a settlement of three hundred gold coins. You are that rich?” Roen asked, thunderstruck. Not even the king had that much hard coin.

Edmund chuckled slyly. “Nay. The holdings would have to be sold to pay you off. I can’t deed you Woodshadow itself. ‘Tis held through my wife’s family. But I can gift you with enough gold that whoever inherits will have nothing if Lenora dies.”

Roen slung the document onto Edmund’s chest. “You dare propose this plan. If someone is trying to kill you, Lenora’s life will be forfeit. What will prevent the cad from killing her to prevent the marriage?”

“You will.” Edmund’s eyes pinned his with their sharp gaze. “You say I have no proof, this will get it for me.” The older man lifted the contract.

“You risk the life of your daughter so easily?” Roen challenged.

“This is the most difficult thing I have ever done,” Edmund admitted. “I have fought battles with less fear than I feel now. But this is the only way I can guarantee her safety in the future. I cannot rest until this is settled.”

Roen shook his head. He crossed to the window, placed his arm against the cool wall and rested his head on his wrist. Finally, he turned to face the two elderly men.

“What’s to keep me from marrying the girl and killing her myself? That’s a handsome amount of money you offer.”

Tom stepped forward, his one eye glaring at Roen. He gave Roen the remaining leather-wrapped parcel. Edmund explained, “This is the true marriage contract. It gives the property to Lenora and her offspring. If she dies childless, the land reverts to her mother’s family. You will receive a small settlement. This is the document that will be sent to King Henry to be recorded.”

Edmund added reluctantly, “I could be frank with Lenora, tell her what I suspect.”

Roen massaged his temple as he answered, “Then she really would be in danger. She’d stop at nothing to ferret any would-be assassin. We will delay any decision until I am sure there is some danger. If—” Roen stressed the word “—I sense any real danger, I will participate in your deception. But understand this, I have no intention of carrying through with this. How will she react when she discovers the truth?”

“Better a bit of dented pride than death,” Edmund answered bluntly. “There is one more thing.”

Roen spread his mouth into a thin-lipped frown. Edmund ignored his expression and spoke quickly. “I gave Lenora a promise, that she could choose her husband. I even paid the king a fee to keep her unmarried for the remainder of the year. I cannot mandate she marry you. You must persuade her to make this match.”

“God’s blood, man!” Roen’s patience stretched beyond his tolerance. “I will do what I can to discover the culprit and protect you and your family because the king wishes it. But I am a fighting man. I will not go around at her heels like a lap dog. If I decide to marry the girl, by God, she will marry me.”

Roen turned on his heel and marched to the door. As he opened it, he pierced each man with a baleful stare. He exited, allowing the slam of the door to demonstrate his ire.

Tom sat down gingerly in the chair. He let out a long whistle of air. “What do ye think, Lord Edmund? Will your plan work?”

Edmund, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears, remained quiet for a time before he answered his trusted friend and servant. “All we can do is pray Henry sent the right man.”

“And if’n he is?” Tom asked as he returned the clay jug to its hiding place.

“Then we execute our own deception, Tom, and pray ‘tis the right decision. Lenora’s life depends on it.”