Читать книгу The Norman's Heart - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

Chapter One

Rain pelted against the stone walls of Montmorency Castle and drummed on the closed shutters. The wind moaned softly about the battlements, and heavy clouds scudded across the full moon.

Inside the hall, Sir Roger de Montmorency paced impatiently, ignoring everyone, including Sir Albert Lacourt, who leaned against one of the many trestle tables, his arms crossed and his head bowed as if deep in thought. An occasional sharp glance at Sir Roger betrayed some anxiety on his part as well.

A huge fire burned in the new hearth, and most of the wedding guests huddled near it, awaiting the lavish evening meal intended to welcome Sir Roger’s bride. The bright banners of the visiting nobility hung from the walls; fine beeswax candles burned upon the linen-covered, flower-strewn tables, and in honor of the festive occasion, fresh herbs had been sprinkled over the rushes on the floor.

Dudley, the steward, a Saxon who had been in the service of the de Montmorencys his whole life, looked about to have an apoplectic fit as he scurried between the kitchen corridor, the tables and the door. The maidservants, idly waiting to serve the food, stood near the corridor and whispered among themselves. Dudley signaled them to hush before he peered again into the rain and the dark of the night, running his hand over the few remaining white hairs on his nearly bald head. The question in his eyes and the unspoken words on the tip of his tongue were obvious to all present: What was keeping the bride?

Sir Roger, his usually inscrutable face full of annoyance, suddenly stopped his pacing. “We have waited long enough,” he announced. “Everybody sit down.”

The wedding guests glanced uncertainly at one another, for this was a serious turn of events that did not bode well for the future alliance between the de Montmorencys and the Chilcotts. On the other hand, they had been waiting for some time and were very hungry, so they moved to their respective places. The movement of the crowd revealed an elderly and frail priest who was sleeping slouched on a stool, his back against the wall.

“Father Damien, give us your blessing,” Sir Roger called out as he strode to take his place at the high table on the raised dais. When the priest did not respond, Sir Roger bellowed his name again.

Dudley hurried to the priest and gently shook him awake. “The blessing, Father,” the Saxon said quietly and respectfully, although he glanced uneasily over his plump shoulder at Sir Roger. “It’s time for the blessing.”

“What’s that? Is she here at last?” Father Damien asked, peering about myopically. “Where? I don’t see anybody.”

“She’s not here, but we will not wait,” Sir Roger said loudly.

“Ah, my son,” Father Damien said in his high, cracking voice, “shouldn’t we wait—”

“No!”

Everyone in the room jumped a bit and Father Damien immediately started to mumble a brief blessing.

His duties finished, the priest moved to his place at the table with surprising alacrity, and Sir Roger turned to his oldest friend. “You sit here, Albert,” Sir Roger said in a tone that would brook no denial as he indicated the seat that was to have been his bride’s.

Sir Albert did as he was told with obvious reluctance.

The servants also moved swiftly, and Dudley seemed to relax somewhat as the first course arrived, apparently none the worse for the delay.

Albert looked at Roger, an expression of condemnation in his usually mild brown eyes. “Your guests could be delayed by the storm, Roger, and—”

“And if that is so, they should have sent a messenger on ahead to tell us.”

“I understand your impatience, Roger. I, too, would be far from happy if my future bride was delayed. However, let us hope they have stopped at an inn to wait out the storm.”

“That would be the sensible thing to do,” Roger said as a roasted capon was set before him by a buxom serving wench whose shapely lips fell into a pout when he ignored her.

Roger stabbed the meat angrily. “Unfortunately, Chilcott is not a sensible man. They could be anywhere between his estate and mine.”

“At least he has the sense to pick a fine husband for his half sister.”

Roger snorted with unsuppressed contempt. “Save your flattery for someone else, Albert. He might have made no end of trouble over his broken betrothal to my sister if I had not agreed.”

“So why did you not insist that Madeline marry him? You could have stopped her marriage to that Welshman. He impersonated Chilcott, after all. I must confess I expected you to kill the fellow, Roger, right there on the steps of the chapel. When you offered to knight him—God’s blood, I almost dropped dead myself. It’s a good thing he refused. Think what Baron DeGuerre would have said!”

“If the Welshman had sworn fealty to me, the baron would have been appeased. Besides, I wanted the guests to enjoy themselves after I had gone to such expense for the feast. They were all sitting there like statues until I made the offer. But it doesn’t matter now.” Roger wiped the trencher in front of him with a piece of bread. “For the first—and last—time in my life I acted like a softhearted fool.”

“Or as if you had a heart,” Albert mumbled under his breath as he pulled the wing from a roasted duck.

“What did you say?” Roger demanded.

“I understand your predicament,” Albert replied. “Still, Baron DeGuerre will be pleased that this alliance is going to come about after all.”

A foot soldier appeared at the wide doors of the hall. Because Roger had heard no cry of alarm, he assumed that the matter was some minor household trouble. Dudley hurried toward the man and listened to his words.

For a moment, Roger felt some pity for his steward. Dudley was not a young man, and between the anxiety over the preparations for his lord’s wedding, which he had planned with as much care as if Roger were the king, and this unaccountable delay, he had aged considerably.

Roger’s anger at Chilcott grew even more. It was an insult to him and to his steward that Chilcott didn’t have the courtesy to arrive on time.

Dudley came bustling toward the high table as fast as his plump legs would carry him. “My lord!” he said, looking as if he feared the castle were about to fall down around his head, “they are here! In the inner ward! Lord Chilcott and his half sister and their retinue!”

Albert gave Roger a censorious look, which grew deeper when Roger made no move to get up, let alone leave the hall, but Roger didn’t care. “Have the servants show them to their quarters,” he ordered brusquely. “They can have wine and fruit there.”

Dudley wrung his hands and chewed his lip. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but should you not greet them? Or at least invite them into the hall to dine? They have journeyed a long way, and—”

“Arrived too late. If they wish more to eat, they may join us at the table. Or not, as they please. I am not interrupting my meal for latecomers who do not have the courtesy to advise me of any unexpected difficulty.”

With a baleful look at Albert, who gave a slight, resigned shrug of his shoulders, Dudley nodded and hurried out of the hall, wringing his hands with dismay.

“Just what do you hope to gain by this discourtesy?” Albert asked quietly.

“Are you accusing me of incivility?”

“Yes. There could be many reasons for their tardiness. If you had only waited a little longer—”

“I don’t care to hear their excuses.”

“She is your bride, after all.”

“You don’t have to remind me.”

“Aren’t you curious to see her at all?” Albert asked, impatience creeping into his voice.

Roger looked at his friend with some surprise. “Not in the least. I daresay she’s like that popinjay Chilcott, a vain, overdressed, affected young lady whose spending habits will cause me some grief before I train her out of them. Nor do I intend to encourage tardiness from my future wife, now or at any time. If you’re so interested, why don’t you go and greet her?”

“Because I am not the groom,” Albert replied.

“And because it’s raining hard enough to put dents in the stones,” Roger added laconically.

Albert grinned slightly, then frowned. “It still doesn’t make it right for you to be rude.”

“I’ll be seeing the woman for a long time to come,” Roger said in a tone that signaled the end of the discussion. “And this meal was too expensive to be ruined with delay.”

Lord Reginald Chilcott, knight of the realm, lord of several manors, whose ancestors had sailed with William the Conqueror himself, stood shivering in the dark courtyard of Montmorency Castle gazing mournfully at Sir Roger’s steward. Rain dripped off his bedraggled velvet cloak; his once finely perfumed and dressed hair hung limply about his narrow shoulders, and he wiped his aquiline nose, which was now dripping from within and without. Behind him, his men muttered discontentedly and his wagons were soaking. The smell of damp horse was nearly overwhelming.

“Not coming to greet us?” Chilcott repeated incredulously for the fourth time. “You are absolutely certain?”

“Yes, my lord. You must understand, the hour grew late and Sir Roger does not like to be kept waiting. If you had sent a messenger—”

“We did not realize Sir Roger keeps his bridges in such poor repair that a summer’s storm would wash them away, or we would have,” a woman’s voice interrupted. Dudley tried to see past Lord Chilcott to what appeared to be a cloaked and hooded woman mounted on a rather inferior beast.

“Mina!” Chilcott chided, his tone between a plea and a warning as he turned toward the woman.

The woman dismounted. “It is true, Reginald, and you know it.”

She faced Dudley, who tried to see beneath her hood without being overly obvious. “My lord has told me to show you to your quarters, where wine and fruit will be brought to you,” he offered.

At that moment, one of the servants left the hall. The light from the open door poured into the inner ward and was reflected in the many puddles. Simultaneously they heard the chatter and raucous laughter of those assembled in the hall, as well as the clatter of wooden dishes and metal goblets, no longer muted by the heavy oaken door.

Mina Chilcott slowly turned toward the steward. “The evening meal is not yet finished,” she observed.

“No, my lady,” Dudley mumbled, not quite sure what to do.

“We cannot go into the hall looking like this!” Reginald Chilcott said in a voice that was almost a screech. “We’re soaked to the skin! My clothes are nearly ruined, and your skirt is covered with mud.”

“Surely that is not unexpected, given the weather. Nevertheless, Reginald, I will go to the hall of this most courteous knight,” the bride said with what sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.

This did not seem the type of gentle, soft-spoken woman able to win any man’s heart, let alone Sir Roger’s, Dudley thought despondently.

“I would suggest, Reginald, that you tell the men to stable the horses, then go to the kitchens and make sure they are fed before bedding down for the night wherever this fellow says. Your name, sir?” she suddenly asked.

“Dudley,” he replied, taken aback by the unexpected courtesy in her voice. “I am the steward here.”

She nodded, then tilted her head up. “It’s stopped raining,” she noted, and threw back her hood.

Finally Dudley saw her face, and he wanted to moan with helplessness. The baron could not have chosen a more unsuitable bride for Sir Roger if it had been his intention. Why, this woman had red hair—not auburn, not red gold, but brilliant red, like the barbarian Irish—and, worse, freckles! Above all else, Sir Roger liked an unblemished complexion. She was tall, too, nearly as tall as her intended husband himself.

“Thank you, Dudley,” she said, turning to face Lord Chilcott, who was sniffling again. “This place is smaller than you led me to believe, Reginald. Still, what is that saying? Beggars cannot choose? And I daresay Sir Roger sets himself a good table. Since I am hungry, I am going to eat.”

“But Mina,” Reginald spluttered, “you cannot simply walk into Roger de Montmorency’s hall unannounced!”

“Do you not believe my betrothed will be pleased to see me?” she asked with an undisguised sneer. Without waiting for an answer, Lady Mina Chilcott turned on her heel and went toward the hall.

Dudley let out a low whistle, which he cut short when he realized the lady’s relative was still there.

“Exactly,” Chilcott muttered. He faced his men. “Do what she says, oafs, before you catch your death from a chill!”

“What do you wish to do, my lord?” Dudley asked deferentially.

“Follow her, of course, to make sure she doesn’t ruin everything,” Chilcott said helplessly. Then he glanced down at his wet garments. “After I change my clothes, of course.”

Mina stood uncertainly inside the entrance of the hall of Montmorency Castle. It wasn’t as large as her father’s hall, yet it was very brightly lit, warm and decorated with pennants and flowers. Several well-dressed nobles were sitting at long tables, eating. The smells greeting her made her mouth water, and she took a step farther inside.

Then she realized the handsome man sitting at the center of the high table was staring at her. From his position of importance, she knew he must be Sir Roger de Montmorency, her betrothed.

But such a look! Cold, appraising, arrogant. He must know who she was, yet even now, he did not rise to greet her. He simply sat and stared at her with those dark, forbidding eyes.

Did he think he could intimidate her with that look? She was no spoiled young girl raised in sheltered gentleness. Nor was she a peasant to be overwhelmed with any nobleman’s rank and wealth. She was Lady Mina Chilcott, and she could be just as self-confidently arrogant as any man. Her father had raised her to be that way, even if that had not been his intention.

So she stared back. Her betrothed was extremely well formed, with muscular shoulders and a broad chest that narrowed to a slender waist. He wore a simple tunic of dark green with no ornamentation of any kind, nor did he wear any jewelry. It struck her that he had no need for extra adornment.

Surprised by this observation, her gaze returned to his undeniably handsome face. Unexpectedly, he did not wear his hair in the conventional Norman manner, cut around the ears as if a bowl had been overturned on his head, the way Reginald did. Instead, he wore his hair long, like the wilder Celts. Indeed, he seemed to have more in common with those brazen warriors than Reginald or the other noble Normans she was used to.

Despite her bravado in the inner ward, her refusal to be alarmed and her very real hunger made worse by the abundance of food around her, Mina wondered if she had made a mistake by not taking the steward’s advice to go to her quarters.

No, I am in the right, she thought resolutely. He should have greeted them in the courtyard and offered them the hospitality of his castle. Instead, he had left them outside as if they were merchants or traveling performers, not honored guests.

With that thought to bolster her courage, she took a deep breath, lifted her chin and reminded herself she was the legitimate daughter of a knight, even if her mother had been a Saxon. Then she marched straight down the center of the hall between the tables.

The gray-haired nobleman on Sir Roger’s right rose, a welcoming smile on his pleasant, careworn face that warmed her as much as the blazing fire. One by one the other men and women who were gathered in the hall fell silent, waiting expectantly. Only an elderly priest seemed not to notice the interruption as he continued to eat.

Still Sir Roger only looked, although his brow lowered ominously. What would he think of a woman who dared to embarrass him in front of all these people? No matter how she felt about the arranged marriage, Mina had given her word. Was it wise to anger her future husband?

Mina slowed her steps and lowered her eyes demurely. When she reached the dais at the far end of the curved hall, she made a deep obeisance. “Forgive my intrusion, Sir Roger,” she said softly. “I fear, however, that no one informed you of our arrival.”

Finally, finally, Sir Roger de Montmorency got up, still fixing her with his dark, measuring stare. His thigh-length tunic was belted about his waist and exposed long, lean legs. She noticed that his hands were slender and sinewy, obviously strong and surely capable of handling the heaviest weapons with ease.

“You are late and sent no word,” her betrothed said in a voice as unfriendly as his expression. “We could not wait the supper.”

“The bridge not five miles from here has been washed away... my lord,” she added, with just enough of a pause to give her time to glance up at him. Let him see her eyes, too. Let him realize that she knew he had been unforgivably rude to herself and to her half brother, who was of a higher rank.

A vein in Sir Roger’s forehead began to pulse, and she surmised she had scored a hit. “I’m sure it is not your fault,” she said sweetly. “Underlings are often all too anxious to take advantage of a kind and generous lord.” What a lie! she thought as she waited for him to respond. She could well imagine how he would treat his tenants. They would probably all welcome a mistress who understood what it was like to be mistreated.

Sir Roger made no answer, nor did his expression alter.

A particularly colorful curse rose to her lips. How could he continue to be so rude, with all these people watching? Was he that sure of himself that he did not fear their censure?

Looking at him, she thought he probably was.

“May I sit?” she asked, though it was not a request.

“My lady, please, take my chair.” The gray-haired knight moved quickly aside. He smiled again, a kind but knowing smile. “I am Sir Albert Lacourt. Naturally we are delighted by your arrival, but you are quite wet through. Are you certain you would care to—”

“I was most anxious to meet my future husband,” Mina interrupted calmly as she came around the table, removed her cloak—and suddenly realized that her soaking dress was clinging to her body like a second skin. She felt her face flush with embarrassment, and a quick glance at the assembly proved that she was making a spectacle of herself. Even the ancient priest was looking at her as if he had never seen a woman before. Considering she might as well be naked, perhaps that was not so far from the truth.

Nevertheless, she said not a word and took her chair as if nothing untoward had occurred.

“I, um, trust your journey was most pleasant except for the final portion,” Sir Albert said.

“Yes, it was,” Mina replied.

A serving wench with enormous breasts and a brazen manner that suggested her duties did not end with the hall but probably extended to the lord’s bedchamber, as well, set down a platter of meat with a clatter.

Mina turned to Sir Roger and realized his gaze was fastened on her own breasts. “I see you are hungry, too,” she remarked evenly.

A disgruntled frown flew across her intended’s face before he turned his attention to the trencher before him.

“The storm was so severe, we were sure you had taken refuge somewhere along the road,” Sir Albert observed after a moment of awkward silence.

“We would have, but Reginald was most certain of a kind welcome here and insisted we continue,” she answered truthfully, keeping any hint of irony from her words.

Reginald finally appeared at the entrance to the hall. The reason for his delayed arrival was apparent immediately. He had changed his clothes and dried his hair as much as he could. Now he wore a long tunic of a heavy brocade that seemed to emphasize his thinness rather than make him look sturdier, which, Mina suspected, was its intention. He stood there awkwardly, frantically trying to curl his hair with his fingers.

To Mina’s considerable chagrin, Sir Roger immediately stood up and strode toward her half brother. “Lord Chilcott!” he cried, his deep voice decidedly pleasant. “How pleased I am to see you again!”

Mina tried to stifle the flush she felt coloring her face. She rose immediately and spoke to Sir Albert. “If you will excuse me, sir, I fear I am greatly fatigued after all. Good night, Sir Albert. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance.” Her gaze fixed on the buxom serving wench, who was once again making her way along the table refilling wine goblets. “I wish to be shown to my quarters.”

“Of course, my lady,” the wench said, her air of insolence noticeably diminished. Mina heard the men approaching, but she did not look at them or say anything.

Instead, she followed the maidservant, who tossed her long, honey brown hair and led the way toward the stairs leading upward to what Mina assumed was the upper hall.

Once away from the crowd, Mina smiled to herself, for she was certain that whatever else she had accomplished in the hall, she had shown the mighty Sir Roger de Montmorency that she could not be completely cowed.

As Roger walked back to his place with Reginald Chilcott at his side, he watched his future bride glide toward the stairs behind Hilda. She had not waited to be excused, or even said a farewell. God’s blood, what kind of woman had he agreed to marry?

“Sit down and eat,” he growled at the overdressed Reginald, who blushed noticeably, his face turning nearly as red as his scarlet tunic. His elaborate garments were quite a contrast to the severely plain gown his relative had worn. Either Mina Chilcott was not nearly as vain as her half brother, or her garments were merely an extension of her frigid personality.

His almost brother-in-law cleared his throat awkwardly. “Mina is...she is not an easy person sometimes, Sir Roger,” he explained haltingly, “but she was most competent in managing my father’s estate in his final years when he was not able to do so himself. Perhaps once you are married, she will...mellow?” he finished hopefully.

Roger thought it highly unlikely that a woman of Mina Chilcott’s coloring and temperament could ever be made to “mellow.” He caught Albert’s censorious eye and pushed some particularly savory venison in a rich, spicy sauce toward the younger nobleman. “Please, eat.”

With a grateful smile, Reginald started consuming an astonishing amount for one of such slender build. Mercifully it seemed that Reginald would rather eat than talk. Albert, too, stayed quiet, and most of the guests talked softly among themselves.

At last Reginald belched delicately and said, “A very fine meal, my lord. My compliments to your cook. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I, too, shall retire.”

“If you wish, I shall have someone bring you some mulled wine to your bedchamber,” his host offered with more graciousness, since Reginald was leaving. Roger signaled for Dudley to come toward the table.

Reginald’s eyes widened and he nodded. “Yes, Sir Roger. I would like that. Thank you very much.”

Roger kept his amusement to himself, though it seemed the young fool was taking an offer of mulled wine in much the same way another man would take an offer of a vast estate.

“Excuse me, Sir Roger,” Reginald continued as he rose to follow Dudley. “Thank you.” Reginald and Dudley headed toward the stairs, with Reginald pausing to greet some of the guests on his way out of the hall.

When they were gone, Roger took a large gulp of his wine.

“That was an interesting display of childishness, Roger,” Albert noted dryly, “although I was pleased and surprised to see that you were not totally without some manners.”

“Is it childish to make it plain that I do not care to have my meals interrupted for any reason? Is it childish to expect to be informed of a delay? Nor do I consider it childish to be less than impressed when a person I do not know dares to chastise me in my own hall about my tenants and my bridges.”

“I’ve warned you often enough about that bridge. Besides, they are your guests.”

“Bridge or not, they were late.”

“If the bridge is out, they couldn’t have sent a messenger on ahead.”

“So they should have stayed at an inn.”

“She said she was anxious to meet you.”

Roger’s only response to this observation was a derisive grunt as he reached for more wine.

“Granted she’s not very attractive, but there is a certain something—”

“She’s a shrew. Or a harpy. Call her what you will. I hate red hair and blemished skin.”

“She knew she was in the right, and she acted like it,” Albert said firmly as he eyed his companion. “I found her rather refreshing. And those are freckles, not blemishes, and there were only ten.”

“You counted?” Roger raised one eyebrow speculatively. “If you think her such a prize, why don’t you marry her?”

Albert flushed and looked away. “You know why not. Besides, you made the bargain, not me.”

“With that buffoon Reginald. I must have been mad.”

“You could always break it off.”

“It is a tempting thought.”

“She has a fine body,” Albert noted while his attention wandered to the huntsman, Bredon, who was tossing bones to his favorite hounds. The dogs yapped and scrambled through the rushes for the tasty titbits.

“A fine body she displayed to the entire hall,” Roger replied, still sounding annoyed. In actuality, he was recalling her exquisite shape. Indeed, she might have been nude, the way that soaking gown clung to her body, with her nipples puckered from the chill.

“It could be worse, you know,” Albert said. “She could be much uglier.”

“She could be much prettier, too.” Roger shoved back his chair and stood up. “With courtesy in mind, I believe I shall see that my guests have been attended to properly. Is Dudley back yet?”

“Here, my lord!” the steward replied, rushing forward.

“Where did you put them?”

“The two new chambers in the upper hall, my lord.”

“Good. Now have something to eat and get yourself dry or you’ll catch your death. I have no desire to find myself another steward.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Ignoring the rest of his guests, Roger strode toward the stairs leading to the new upper hall, added within the past year. His castle was not a large one, but he had been expanding it since he had come of age and been confirmed as lord dependent upon swearing fealty to Baron DeGuerre.

His plans had not included marrying the half-Saxon half sister of Reginald Chilcott. To be sure, Reginald was willing to be generous to get her off his hands, but Roger didn’t doubt that with his looks and reputation, he could have married a very wealthy, influential woman instead of this red-haired termagant.

Did she think him as foolish as Reginald, to be tricked by that little act of ostensible contrition? He had seen the determined, haughty look in her eyes as she came toward him in the hall. Those big green eyes of hers said everything: that she was a stubborn, arrogant creature who had been insulted and meant to let him know it. It had only been toward the last that she affected the docile woman’s role.

She would soon discover that he was not so easily fooled, although he had to admit that she had been wise enough to be subtle with her criticism.

But God’s teeth! She was not the type of wife he wanted. He wanted lineage, wealth, beauty and submissiveness. He wanted a wife who would understand who ruled this castle.

Of course, there would be compensations for such obedience, not the least of which would be provided by her husband’s prowess in the nuptial bed. Every woman Sir Roger de Montmorency had ever made love to had said he was the best.

Mina Chilcott would have to learn that he would not countenance another such performance as she had given tonight, and the lesson might as well start immediately.

Roger took the short flight of stairs toward the upper chambers two at a time and strode along the narrow corridor, the resounding thump of his boots on the wooden floor sounding like a drumbeat heralding the start of battle.

As for Mina Chilcott’s compensation, that would have to wait.