Читать книгу Warrior's Deception - Diana Hall - Страница 9

Roen slammed his fist against the trestle table. The crash of the waves outside the castle added to the thunder of the sound. King Henry had laid a trap for him under the guise of a tourney. His victory at Tintagel became bittersweet.

The young man with his feet propped up against the table scrambled to elude the crimson wine sloshed from the goblets on the table. “Take care, Roen! You’ll stain my tunic!” he admonished his friend. “I plan on stunning some young heiress tonight.”

“Take care? I am being cheated of my due, Hamlin, and you ask me to take care.” Once again his giant fist crashed onto the table. The wine goblet rocked, nearly toppling over. Hamlin dived across the table and successfully righted the containers before the precious liquid stained his finery.

Roen crushed the letter under his friend’s nose. “I have fought his wars, defended his castles and captured his robber barons. And this is how he repays me. Henry owes me gold, not a wife!” He stared at the wilted piece of paper. “I curse the day I learned to read.”

“Your mother did you a service. The ability to read—”

“My mother never did me service. ‘Twas not a kindness she sought, but a mark. A mark to show my father and brothers I did not belong.” Roen roared his outrage. “Henry would wish on me a conniving bitch instead of relinquishing the gold he owes me.”

“Stars! Roen, he offers you not a wife, King Henry offers you any wife you want. You can have your pick of beautiful heiress maidens.” Hamlin winked at his outraged friend. “Or lusty landed widows. I wish I could be so rewarded, but alas, I am to always be covered by your exceeding large shadow.” Hamlin’s chestnut eyes took on a resigned expression.

Roen de Galliard raised his clenched hands in the air like the talons of a hawk. Cast a large shadow, indeed he did. Both in size and reputation. At well over six feet, he dwarfed most men in England and in his homeland of Normandy. His reputation as a warrior was well-known throughout King Henry’s realm.

“And what good has that shadow done me?” Roen demanded. He didn’t wait for his friend to answer. “I’m one of Henry’s elite siege commanders. The sound of my name causes any of the adulterine lords to quake in his shoes. And do you know why?”

Hamlin pointed his finger at him and opened his mouth.

Roen didn’t give his friend the opportunity to interrupt him. “Because I never give up. They know I’ll bide my time. I’ll find their weakness, no matter how formidable their stronghold.”

How many attacks had he survived? It seemed endless. He always made short work of his enemy. Fast and brutal attacks, over and over again until the besieged lord surrendered or died in battle. Study, calculate, attack. An anthem for battle, his philosophy of life.

Hamlin jumped into his friend’s one-sided conversation. “I can think of no other man who needs a wife worse than you!” He held up a hand to check Roen’s outburst. “You are happiest when planning and executing a battle. Do you wish to give up such challenge when you are landed?”

“Do not be foolish! Of course not!” Roen thundered.

“Then will you remain landless? Never to be a senior, always a landless juvenis,” Hamlin countered.

“You know I wish a keep of my own. There will be no inheritance from Normandy, my mother saw to that. You have known me since we were pages. Why ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“To make you see that a wife is the answer to your needs. I see it and the king sees it. You’re too stubborn to see the practicality of a wife. Who will oversee the needs of your villeins and keep the servants in line when you are gone on one of your battles for the king? Who will keep an accurate account of spending and entertain your guests while you plan a siege or serve your aid and knight’s fee to Henry?” Hamlin asked the questions, then took a deep gulp of his wine.

Roen pondered his friend’s words but refused to concede defeat. Self-justified anger seeped from the pores of his skin.

His second in command pushed the point further. “A wife will bring you land and make sure your castellan does not rob you blind. She is trained to be her husband’s helpmate, to take charge when her lord is away on the king’s affairs. A wife is the answer to your needs, unless of course you wish to personally oversee the making of candles, the changing of the rushes, the weaving, the—”

“Enough! I see your point. The prospect doesn’t thrill me any more than before. Women are nothing more than vessels for tricks and tears to get their way. They’re not to be trusted. My own mother…” Roen clamped his jaws tightly. The veins in his neck pulsated with hot blood.

“My friend, I know the way your family has treated you. Through no fault of your own, you have born the brunt of your father’s suspicions. But do not mark all women by your mother.”

“I have not seen any who are different.” Lowering himself to a three-legged chair, he rested his elbows on his knees. The rickety chair groaned in protest at Roen’s weight. He raised his wine goblet from the table to his lips. All those years fighting and sacrificing for the chance to own land…Whatever Hamlin and the king thought, he knew the truth. He was being cheated.

His too-cheerful friend gave him a broad smile and slapped him on the back. “And what women have you-associated with these past ten years? Camp followers, a lord’s cast-off mistress, tavern wenches? We will find you a comely woman tonight with an impressive dowry and sizable inheritance. One who is properly trained to be a lady and servant to her lord husband.”

“We?” Roen arched his brow as he brought the wine goblet from his mouth.

“I do have an interest in the outcome. As your second in command and boyhood friend, I know that you will always want me near. So I want to make sure that I, um, you get the best possible arrangement.”

“By the blessed saints!” Roen finished off his wine in one huge gulp. “How do you always end up missing the manure pile, my friend? I am to be stuck with a wife and the duties of a lord, while you enjoy a home, your freedom, and serve only light duty.”

A sly smile played across Hamlin’s face. “I resent that. ‘Tis extremely hard work being your friend. See how diligently I have had to work to show you the king’s wisdom? Light duty, indeed. Come, Roen, ‘tis time to…evaluate…your choices for a bride.”

Roen followed his friend reluctantly from the chamber down the narrow steps to the great hall of Tintagel. The sound of the crashing ocean waves synchronized with the throb in his head. He did not relish the idea of sharing a trencher with a lady or the necessary polite conversation he would have to make with prospective brides to “evaluate” their identity and wealth.

An ember of hope began to flame in his chest. “Henry cannot force a woman to marry.”

“But what lord would deny the king’s request. Especially those who did not openly defend Henry against Stephen. The king’s vassals are all eager to prove their loyalty to him now that he has the throne. Do not worry, Roen. Anyone you pick will surely agree,” Hamlin reassured his friend.

“Very well.” He sighed deeply. “I will attend this function with an open mind. But remember, Hamlin, I want obedience in a wife. I will not suffer as my father did.” Closing the door, he took a deep, cleansing breath as he always did before engaging in a battle, and headed toward the enemy—the single women of King Henry’s realm.

Lenora slipped through the rough planks of the stall gate. The magnificent animal inside tossed his head to warn her off. She paid no attention to the gesture; she had itched to examine the horse since reaching Tintagel late yesterday.

“Easy, I’ll not harm you.” She crooned while the ivorycolored war-horse stomped his hooves. Convinced she could win the steed’s trust, she reached out and placed her fingertips on the velvety nose. The stallion didn’t nip or bite so she drew closer. On tiptoe, she brushed aside the mane and scratched the horse’s ears.

“Not one flaw,” Lenora marveled. “’Tis a model you are for every knight’s destrier.” A toss of the horse’s white blond mane signaled agreement. “I have some mares at home I would love to breed with you. ’Twould be a handsome sum I could call for those foals.”

“Lenora, are you in here?”

She turned to see her cousin enter the shaded stable. After the bright light of the noonday sun, it took a moment for Beatrice to spy her in the stall. Her cousin’s face drew up in mock surprise. “The stable is the last place I would think to look for you.”

Lenora squeezed through the slats of wood and the hem of her dress snagged on a splinter. The gown tugged her back and she reached to yank it free.

“That is your best kirtle.” Beatrice threw up her arms in annoyance. “Mother will have your hide if you show up at the meal with another ripped hem.” Her patient fingers extricated the cloth from the jagged piece of wood.

“See. No damage.” Lenora pushed the edge of her dress under the younger woman’s nose. “Your mother will have nothing to complain of, though ‘tis little reason she needs to complain.”

“She needs not little reasons when you are so adept at providing big ones.” Her cousin shook her head and her blond curls bobbed.

Lenora drew a piece of straw from the fresh bale and chewed on the end. After a moment of reflective munching, she announced the result of her contemplation. “Life is not fair, Beatrice. I work long hours to train and plan the breeding of Woodshadow horses, yet I cannot take credit for my work.”

Her cousin gave her a sympathetic nod. “’Twould be a surprise indeed for all the mighty lords who clamor for a Woodshadow mount to discover their perfect animal was bred and trained by a woman.”

“Aye, but I do not fear that day will ever come. Nor is it likely those men will discover ‘twas I that divided our fields into threes and planted the fallow field with grain. ‘Twill not happen because no man would believe it. Every success is attributed to my father. ‘Tis not fair.”

No offer of solution came from the petite young woman. “’Tis a woman’s lot, cousin. There is naught we can do.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

“The queen would not say so.”

“The queen has land to back her up and a husband who awaits us now,” her cousin reasoned.

“Aye, yet I will seek out the owner of this destrier. Perhaps, in Father’s name, I can contract his loan as a stud. The horse will suffer none for it.” She gave the animal one last perusal. “Come, we must find Geoffrey and lay out a plan.”

The idea caused Beatrice’s eyes to sparkle. Lenora surveyed the deep azure tunic and kirtle that matched the wide blue eyes. A delicate gold-link girdle accentuated her cousin’s tiny waist. “He’s sure to fall in love with you all over again.”

“Enough to speak to my mother and your father?” She lowered her head and spoke in a tight voice. “I don’t care if I’m a lady of a great castle. All I want is to be safe.”

The statement made Lenora uneasy. Too often when her cousin spoke of her feelings for her suitor she expressed them in terms of safety instead of love. But she had informed Geoffrey of the deep-seated fears the girl suffered. He accepted them as part of loving Beatrice.

She started to speak but a page barreled past her. He ran to the war-horse’s stall and began to scoop grain into the empty food bag. “Boy, to whom does this animal belong?”

“Why, milady? Is he ill?” The boy’s voice cracked with worry. “I forgot to feed him this morn but rushed here as soon as I remembered. The knight will beat me sure if he finds I’ve not taken good care of him.”

“Nay, he is fine.”

The lad gave her a doubtful look.

“Believe me, I know the beasts. He is none the worse for a late meal, though do not make a habit of it,” Lenora reassured the page.

His eyes showed the first signs of tears and his young body trembled. A flare of hot temper blazed through her. What knight would so threaten the lad? He could only be eight or nine.

“Are you sure, my lady? Sir Roen de Galliard is not a knight I wish to cross.” The boy looked hopeful. “I think I will check on the animal myself.”’ He ducked into the stall and began to inspect the horse.

Lenora shook her head in disapproval. So the great warrior scared children as well as barons. The code of chivalry demanded a knight protect women and children, not frighten innocent boys. In her eyes, Galliard fell far short of that code.

“Lenora?” Beatrice’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “What will we do about him?” Her cousin dropped her shoulders in defeat.

“You’re not to worry about Galliard. Geoffrey and I will think of a way to keep you from him.” She gave her cousin a confident wink. “Come, we need to return to the hall for the midday meal.”

During the short trip back, Lenora racked her brains for some plan to help her cousin. She entered Tintagel’s great hall and joined the assembly of people. Entertainers, nobility and servants wove through the hall. Voices chattered and dogs barked. The melodic sounds of the musicians could barely be heard above the din.

Beatrice poked her in the back. “There’s Mother.”

Across the hall, Matilda maneuvered between the gaily dressed aristocrats. The elder woman’s gaze swept from side to side, searching. Lenora pulled her cousin back. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Geoffrey squeezed his body between two heavy-set warriors.

“Come with me.” He motioned toward the wall. The noise in the hall drowned out most of his words. Lenora followed with Beatrice in tow. He led them to an indentation in the thick castle wall. An arched window allowed in midday light.

“We must plan.” Geoffrey’s sienna gaze darted about the room. “Our fears are more than warranted. The rumor is the king intends to repay Galliard with a wife.”

Beatrice’s back stiffened, color drained from her face. Her voice wooden, she stated, “If you know this, my mother is sure to, also.”

“Aye,” Lenora theorized, “but from what I hear, Galliard strikes me as a man who would want more than Father has set aside for you. Pray the man is as greedy as I believe him to be.”

“Can we take that risk?” Geoffrey held up a hand to silence her protest. His voice sounded bleak. “There is always the chance Galliard could be turned by Beatrice’s face.”

Lenora crossed her arms and began to pace back and forth in the small area. Three steps forward, a sharp pivot and then three steps back. The answer came to her on the fourth trip.

“We must make sure he does not see her.” She pointed her finger at the young couple. “There is naught we can do till after the meal. When the trenchers are cleared for the poor, that will be the time Matilda will try to introduce Beatrice to Galliard. Geoffrey, you must see that your lady removes herself from the hall.” Lenora squeezed her alarmed cousin. “The gardens will be populated but do not strike me as a site where Galliard is likely to spend time.”

“What of Matilda?” There was a critical tone to Geoffrey’s voice.

“Ah, my dear aunt.” She snapped her fingers. “Lady Marguerite is here. Matilda will jump at the chance to be introduced to one of Queen Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting.”

“Will that delay her long enough for me to spirit Beatrice away?”

“Lady Marguerite was one of the castle’s biggest gossips. I trust she has not changed. She will hold my aunt’s interest.”

Geoffrey patted Beatrice’s hand and gave her a wink. “Do not worry, my love. We need only hide you till Galliard chooses a bride. He is sure to arrange a betrothal soon.”

And I will hasten that along, Lenora vowed to herself. Before this night is over, Galliard will be betrothed to some unlucky girl. A trumpet blast intruded into her promise.

“The meal begins. When the trenchers are distributed to the poor, look for me.” The young man blended into the crowd.

“Always I am looking for you two. Have you no thought to proper etiquette?” Matilda swooped down on the girls from behind.

Lenora smothered a groan and turned to face her aunt. Her hand moved in a tiny sign of the cross in hopes her aunt had not seen Geoffrey speaking with them.

“Aunt Matilda, we were just…” She hesitated and explored the recesses of her brain for a believable excuse.

“I don’t have time for your stories now. Come, I have us seated at the far table.” Matilda gripped her daughter’s hand firmly. “Lenora, your father’s friend requested you to sit with him. Lord Ranulf is on this side of the hall.” Beatrice gave Lenora a helpless look while Matilda dragged her to the opposite side of the room.

Lenora scooted to her seat just as the royal party entered. She dutifully rose with the rest of the hall, lowered her eyes and folded her hands. The crackle of paper in her pocket reminded her of the letter she had been entrusted to deliver.

As she curtsied, Lenora ventured a peek at England’s sovereign. She met Henry’s curious eyes, alight with good humor. He gave her an impish wink when he passed. The cleric at the king’s side cleared his throat and pretended not to notice the lack of decorum. She returned the devilish wink. Servants directly behind the party almost tripped with their heavy loads. Henry’s laugh boomed out across the great hall. He took his seat at the raised table and commanded, “Food and drink.”

Great platters of artfully displayed food were presented to the guests. Four men strained to support pallets with two golden brown suckling pigs. The glistening skins made Lenora’s mouth water. Two porters carried a mountain of sweet cakes and honeyed nuts. They managed to genuflect before the king with their delicious load. Servants ladled bite-sized pieces of meat into the guests’ trenchers. Bells tinkled from the juggler’s hat. A minstrel rehearsed a ballad while he strummed a lyre.

Seated at her right, Lord Ranulf stabbed a piece of spiced meat from the trencher and offered it to her. “How is your father? When you were delayed, I feared ‘twas due to my old comrade’s health.”

“He’s much better, thank you, Lord Ranulf.” She chewed the tender morsel. One of the many pages scampered over to fill the agate wine cup. The tip of his tongue showed while he poured the red liquid into the heavy cup.

Lord Ranulf waited with patience for the lad to finish his task. “I suppose ‘twas the heavy rains that delayed you. ‘Tis a shame you missed what competition there was. The rains canceled much of the tourney, also.”

“The roads were nearly impassable, but my aunt was determined to come.” She watched the page and felt the lad’s nervousness.

With trained grace, the page returned the goblet without a spot on the white linen tablecloth. He let out a loud sigh of relief. She gave the boy an understanding smile. ‘Twas not easy to be at everyone’s beck and call. An opportunity to gain information on her adversary came to her. “I have heard that much of what victories there were belong to Sir Roen de Galliard. Is he here?” She flashed the elderly knight a brilliant smile.

“I’m sure he is.” The gray-haired man scanned the crowd, then smiled. “The knight approaches Henry now. He’s a hard man to miss.”

She turned toward the high table and knew instantly who Lord Ranulf spoke of. Roen de Galliard towered over the king and the rest of the men in the room. The modest cut of his tunic did nothing to hide the man’s brutal strength and power. Lenora wondered at the aura of self-assurance the man radiated.

Broad shoulders filled the back of the chair he sat in while he conversed with the king. Worn long and in the old Saxon style, his mane of hair flowed to just past his shoulders. The flaxen hair hid much of the man’s face.

She concentrated on deciphering what she could from his half-hidden features. His sharp profile showed rugged lines and dark color. Battle scars, white with age, gave him a fierce look but did not mar him in disfigurement. No emotion humanized his face. Like a marble statue, he sat on the dais. He seemed to dismiss the crowd of people with a bored disregard, as though they were not important enough to consider.

A sudden movement and he turned to face her intruding gaze. Eyes the color of thunderclouds pierced her own. Humiliated, Lenora broke contact, not sure if he had truly seen her or if her guilt made her self-conscious. Unwelcomed warmth burned her cheeks.

“Lady Lenora?” Lord Ranulf wrinkled his brow in concern. “You look ill.”

“Nay, I am fine.” A quick gulp of wine calmed her. She prodded the man to speak to give her a chance to recover from her embarrassment. “Pray, tell me of your daughter. I have not seen her here.”

“Expecting again. The girl has given me three strapping grandsons. I think this time she and her husband wish for a daughter to spoil.”

The gregarious elder recited story after story of his eldest grandson’s strengths and wits throughout the meal. She nodded at the right moments and made the correct oohs and aahs but listened only halfheartedly. Every long tale gave her the opportunity to reconstruct her composure.

Fortified at last, Lenora hid behind heavy lidded eyes and spied on the dais table. The king sat with his advisers and the Lord of Tintagel, but the knight had disappeared. She probed the hall for his whereabouts and spotted him with no trouble. He stood near the back of the hall with a dark-haired man. At first she thought ‘twas Geoffrey he spoke to, but the smaller man carried himself differently, his stance more lighthearted than her friend’s serious one.

Lord Ranulf’s tales continued to roll from his tongue. The abundance of wine the man had drunk probably explained his exceptionally good memory. A horn blasted from the balcony above. At last, the end of the meal; time to break away from her talkative companion. “Lord Ranulf, thank you so much for the delightful entertainment. You must come and see us soon.”

“Oh, aye, I will.” The man reached for the wine cup and slurped the last few drops. “But let me finish my story. Charles, that’s the oldest boy, he grabbed the horse’s tail and—”

Lenora shot to her feet; friendship could demand only so much. “As much as I would love to hear the tale of the tail, I must speak to King Henry. Father wishes me to extend his sorrow at not being able to attend.”

“Of course, of course. I will see you later and finish the story. That boy is a rascal.” Lord Ranulf raised his hand in salute and turned to the man seated across the table from him. “Darius, my friend. Come let us share a cup of wine. Have you heard of the prank my grandson pulled?”

Lenora whistled under her breath at her escape and took off to scan for her relatives. Luck came her way; they stood not far from her. A woman in a garish blob of color flittered near them. Lady Marguerite. Thank heaven for such a stroke of luck.

Rushing to her aunt’s side, she whipped her arm through Matilda’s and swung her around. “Aunt Matilda, may I introduce you to one of Queen Eleanor’s favorite ladies-in-waiting. Lady Marguerite, this is my aunt, Lady Matilda.”

With a slingshot motion, she propelled her aunt forward and pushed the two ladies together. “I know you have much to discuss. Lady Matilda was at Stephen’s court, you know.”

The two dowagers sized each other up. Curiosity won. Each dropped a snippet of gossip, then their heads drew together and the real news began. Her plan was working.

She backed away with Beatrice behind her. After she cleared the eagle eyes of Matilda, a giggle burst from her lips. “Step one, accomplished. Hurry and find Geoffrey. I’ll take care of Galliard.”

For the first time all day, her cousin’s face glowed with hope. “Perhaps this will work.”

“You had doubts?”

“Your plans don’t always work. Remember when you tried to-”

“Don’t think failure, think victory.” A gentle push toward the window displayed her urgency. “Now hurry off. Stay in the garden as long as you can and watch for your mother.”

Beatrice merged with the crowd and met Geoffrey near the window. He leaned to whisper in her cousin’s ear, his brown curls merging with the blond ones.

“Step two, taken care of.” The blond giant of a knight came into view and she slapped her thighs. The crunch of paper reminded her of another mission. She struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’ve got to deliver Father’s letter.”

King Henry rose from the high table when she scurried to his side. Breathless, she pulled the wrinkled sealed missive from her pocket. “Your Majesty, my father wishes me to extend his regrets at not being able to fulfill his obligation of counsel due to his health. He hopes this will aid you in your decision on the property dispute between Sir Ranulf and Sir Champlain.”

“’Tis with sorrow I heard of my hunting companion’s malaise. He will improve, I’m sure,” Henry stated good-naturedly. “We’ve planned a hunting adventure this spring. I want to try out my new falcon against your father’s Swiftkill.” Henry’s bright eyes shone with warmth.

He opened the letter and browsed its contents. The king’s brows knit together. “When did your father give you this?”

“Shortly after your invitation reached us.”

“Did anyone else see this message or know you were to deliver it to me?”

“Nay, Your Majesty. We, uh, Father felt ‘twould be less of a commotion if my aunt knew nothing of it. Is something wrong?” Lenora queried.

“Your father has given me something to ponder. Don’t worry, dear, nothing to concern yourself with. Go, enjoy the entertainment.” He brushed her off and retreated from the room, the letter still in his beefy hands.

Step three, accomplished.

Now for Galliard. She surveyed the crowd for the knight. Young girls in brilliant gowns glided about, casting flirtatious glances at wealthy lords. Laughter boomed from a group of war-hardened knights as they recounted old battles. Lenora took a deep breath and began her search for Roen de Galliard, not quite certain of her battle plan but determined to protect her cousin’s happiness.