Читать книгу My Lord's Desire - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

“ARMAND! You’re finally here! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

Delighted to hear the voice of his closest friend, Armand stopped rubbing down his horse and smiled as Randall FitzOsbourne limped into the stall.

As usual, Randall was dressed in a long, dark tunic that reached the ground, with a plain leather belt girded around his slender waist. He wore his hair, the color of newly cut oak, in the popular Norman fashion, although the cowlick on the left side of his head gave him a rakish look that was distinctly at odds with his gentle personality.

“Is that your horse?” Randall asked, running a wary eye over the ill-tempered animal that shifted at the sound of his voice.

“It was the best I could afford,” Armand replied, tossing the rag he’d been using into a bucket on the other side of the stall. “I’m sorry if I gave you any cause to worry. This beast is not the swiftest, and I was longer at my uncle’s than I planned.”

“Success?” Randall asked, his sandy brows rising in query.

One hand stroking the horse as it snorted and refooted, Armand reached into his tunic and tossed a small leather pouch at Randall, the coins within clinking as he caught it. Randall had excellent coordination and would have been a formidable knight, had his club foot not made that impossible.

“How much?” Randall asked, pulling the drawstring open and peering within.

“Ten marks.”

Randall’s disappointment matched Armand’s. “So little?”

“There was no love between my father and my uncle,” Armand reminded his friend with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I was fortunate he didn’t set the hounds on me.”

Randall sighed as he leaned back against the stable wall. “As bad as that?”

“Yes.”

Armand saw no need to elaborate on the unpleasant reaction his arrival had elicited from his uncle when he went to plead for money to ransom his half brother, Bayard. He would not repeat the justifiable epithets applied to his vicious, lascivious, mercifully dead father, or the cold reminders that his uncle had already helped to pay for Armand’s freedom; he had little to spare for Bayard.

“How much have you got now?”

“Two hundred and eight-four marks.”

“So you still need two hundred and sixteen. I’m sure the earl would gladly loan you that amount, except that he’s not here,” Randall said with regret. “His steward, while a fine fellow, isn’t likely to lend you so much as a ha’penny without the earl’s leave.”

“When is the earl expected to return?”

“A fortnight, I think.”

Armand cursed softly.

“If you’d let me go to my father again—”

“No. As desperate as I am to have Bayard free, I’m not going to put you through that humiliation again.”

As long as he lived, Armand would never forget the terrible treatment Randall’s father, Lord Dennacourt, meted out to his only child when, in his desperation to rescue Bayard, he’d agreed to go with Randall and seek the ransom money, or a portion of it, from that wealthy nobleman. Judging by Lord Dennacourt’s reaction, you would have thought Armand wanted to murder him and that Randall had deliberately crippled himself to thwart his father’s plans.

Armand clapped a companionable hand on Randall’s shoulder and, picking up his leather pouch, steered him out of the stall. “I’ve come up with another way to raise the money,” he said with a good humor that wasn’t completely feigned. “I believe, my friend, that the time has come for Armand de Boisbaston to take a wife.”

Randall stared at him in amazement. “You’ll marry to get the ransom money?”

“If I must,” he replied, understanding Randall’s surprise.

Before he’d sailed to Normandy on that ill-fated campaign, he would never have considered such a mercenary motive for taking a bride. Profit had been his father’s reason for marrying again when Armand’s mother had been barely a month in the grave, and that second marriage had been a disaster, a constant battle of wills and epithets, curses and blows. Armand had promised himself he would have affection, amiability and peace when he wed, regardless of dowries and lands.

But now, with Bayard depending upon him, he couldn’t afford to think only of his own desires when it came to taking a wife. And he had to admit that his plan seemed more palatable now that he’d met that lovely, bashful beauty in the stable. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she wore no wedding ring.

When she’d raised her eyes and looked at him, he’d experienced that almost-forgotten thrill of excitement and arousal, too. It was as if the recent past had never happened—until she’d seen his scarred wrist and he’d fled like a coward, or the most vain man alive. “I trust our king still enjoys the company of orphaned young ladies who are royal wards, as well as several wealthy, titled widows he can bestow in marriage on his friends, or those to whom he owes much?”

“Yes, he does,” Randall replied as they entered the courtyard.

Several soldiers patrolled the wall walk and guarded the gate. Others not on duty lounged in the July sunlight, laughing and cursing as they exchanged stories. Ostentatiously ignoring the soldiers, a few young female servants strolled toward the well, whispering and giggling. Other servants, in finer garments, bustled about on business for their noble masters.

Merchants and tradesmen’s carts arrived with produce for the castle kitchens; others, now empty, departed, their drivers cursing nearly as colorfully as the soldiers as they tried to pass.

Armand realized that Randall’s expression was noticeably grim. “I’m very worried about Bayard, too,” Armand said, speaking a little louder to be heard above the din. “I’m hopeful a marriage will mean I can free him soon.”

“Perhaps.”

These short, brusque answers were totally unlike Randall’s usual responses. “What’s wrong? Is there a scarcity of young, unmarried ladies or rich widows, or don’t you think John will bestow one upon me? It’s the least he can do after what I’ve suffered for him.”

Armand had to strain to hear Randall’s reply as they threaded their way through baskets of peas and beans outside the kitchen storeroom. “John might not like being reminded about his losses in Normandy.”

“It wasn’t my fault he lost his lands there and he should still be grateful for my service.”

Randall’s gaze flicked over Armand. “I agree John should reward you, and I hope he will. But…well…” He delicately cleared his throat. “Are you planning on cutting your hair?”

“No, and you know why not,” Armand replied, unable to keep the hostility from his voice as he contemplated the reason for that decision.

“What will you say to anyone else who asks?”

“The truth.”

Randall took hold of Armand’s arm and pulled him behind the nearest farmer’s cart. “For God’s sake, Armand, do you want to be accused of treason?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.

Armand shook off his friend’s grasp. “I’m no traitor. I swore my oath of loyalty to John and I’ll keep it, although I rue the day I put my honor in his hands. It’s because of John that I nearly died in that dungeon. It’s because of John that my squire and several good men did, and it’s John’s fault my brother is still imprisoned in Normandy.”

“Even so, you must take care, Armand, especially when you’re not completely recovered from your injuries—or are you?” Randall’s gaze darted to Armand’s right knee that had been struck hard with a mace and left to mend on its own while he was imprisoned.

“Almost,” he replied, although his knee ached like the devil most of the time. His arms were still weak, and his voice was a little rough from the lingering cough he’d suffered for over a fortnight. Still, he was much better than he’d been the last time Randall had seen him.

“But not yet, so you must be careful,” Randall persisted. “John sees conspiracies everywhere, and your oath may not protect you. And your estate alone would be enough to encourage greedy, ambitious men to poison John against you. If you’re accused of treason, what will happen to Bayard then?”

Armand’s jaw clenched before he answered, although he knew his friend was right. He’d have to be cautious in this nest of vipers. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Randall replied with genuine relief. “Now let’s get something to eat. John and the queen are still abed, so you won’t have to see them right away.”

“Thank God. Otherwise my appetite might disappear completely.”

“I’M GLAD you’re feeling better,” Adelaide said to Eloise de Venery as they sat on a stone bench in the castle garden later that morning.

Sweet, kind and pretty, Eloise was Adelaide’s one true friend at court. She was also genuinely good, trustworthy and blessedly free of ambition.

Nearby, several of the courtiers were playing a game of bowls on the flat, lush lawn that formed the center of the garden. Their goal was to get their ball nearest to the one in the center, and to block or knock away any others that were closer.

Around the outside of the garden were walks bordered by beds of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. Roses climbed the walls, and several alcoves and nooks had been created with vines and lattices.

Lord Richard D’Artage was about to take his turn. He was the most vain peacock at court, spending hours every morning on his hair and clothes. There were rumors that he had padding in the shoulders of his tunics, and that his hair owed its color as much to art as to nature.

Other young noblemen looked on and offered their advice, whether it was welcome or not, and more than one was somewhat the worse for wine. Several ladies were also in attendance, including the ambitious, sharp-tongued Lady Hildegard, with her piercing eyes and pointed chin.

Adelaide was quite happy to watch the other courtiers play their games, whether it was bowls, or bantering, or maneuvering for power. She preferred to be ignored, although her damnable beauty made that all but impossible.

Eloise gave her a sheepish look. “I wasn’t really sick this morning. I just didn’t want to be near Hildegard for a while.”

“Understandable,” Adelaide said. Hildegard was no favorite of hers, either.

Eloise sighed. “She always manages to upset me. I wish I were more like you, Adelaide. Nothing she says bothers you.”

“Because I don’t care whether Hildegard likes me or not,” Adelaide truthfully replied. Only the king’s opinion of her mattered, as he was the one who held power over her fate, as well as that of her sisters.

Eloise still looked upset, so Adelaide sought to lighten her mood. “Randall FitzOsbourne was watching you dance last night.”

Eloise’s head shot up like an eager puppy’s, and then she flushed and looked down at the stone walk at her feet. “Oh, I don’t think so. He must have been looking at someone else.”

“He certainly was looking at you,” Adelaide assured her. “Perhaps tonight you should speak to him.”

“I couldn’t! What would I say? He’ll think I’m being too forward.”

“I doubt that. You’re the most modest woman at court. I’m sure he likes you. Unfortunately, he’s as shy and modest and unassuming as you are. Perhaps if you were to speak to him first—”

“I just couldn’t! Besides,” Eloise woefully continued, “since his friend’s arrived, he probably won’t even remember I exist.”

“What friend is this?” Adelaide asked, trying to sound nonchalant despite the excitement that coursed through her. As far as she knew, there was only one new arrival at court—the man she’d met in the stables. She’d heard of no others.

“Lord Armand de Boisbaston,” Eloise said. “You weren’t here when he was last at court, or I’m sure you’d remember him. He’s a very handsome man.”

That had to be the knight she’d met in the stable. “I think I may have seen him,” Adelaide said, oddly reluctant to tell Eloise about her encounter with the man in the stable. “Does he have long hair?”

“My maid said it’s nearly to his shoulders. Marguerite was fluttering about like a loosed pigeon when she told me about him. Wait until the ladies of the court hear he’s come back. They’ll be just the same. I wonder why he hasn’t cut his hair, though. He used to be quite neat and tidy in his appearance before he went to Normandy. Did you think he was handsome?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken him so long to return to court. He’s been free for weeks now.”

“Free?” Adelaide prompted, remembering the scars on his wrist.

Eloise lowered her voice to a whisper. “He commanded one of John’s castles in Normandy. They were besieged for months waiting for reinforcements, but John never sent any. Lord Armand finally surrendered when the French king threatened to fire the town and kill everyone in it. Afterward, Lord Armand and the knights who were with him, as well as their squires, were imprisoned until ransoms could be paid. Those who paid quickly were freed in a fortnight or so. Others weren’t so fortunate. It took months for Lord Armand’s friends to raise the funds. His family’s estate was left rather barren after equipping an older half brother to go on crusade with Richard the Lionheart. The poor fellow died before he even reached the Holy Land. Lord Armand’s younger half brother is still imprisoned in Normandy waiting to be ransomed.”

“He has…had…two half brothers?”

Eloise nodded. “Raymond de Boisbaston had three legitimate sons by two different mothers, and from what I’ve heard, probably a few bastards, as well.”

“If the son resembles his father, I can understand why women would be eager to go to his bed,” Adelaide mused aloud, thinking of Lord Armand’s smile and bewitching brown eyes.

Eloise nodded at the courtiers playing bowls. “The other unmarried noblemen aren’t going to be happy that Lord Armand has returned.”

“He has no wife then?”

Eloise shook her head.

Adelaide tried not to be pleased, or relieved, by that knowledge. After all, marriage was something to be avoided, unless she wanted to be subject to a man’s whims and commands, and treated as less important than his dogs or his horses. She would have no man beating her for birthing “useless” girls instead of sons.

And if he were handsome and had a voice that seemed to promise pleasures that were surely sinful, he would surely never be faithful.

“Maybe John will give him a well-dowered wife as a reward for his loyalty and suffering,” Eloise suggested. “Then he could use the dowry to ransom his brother. Maybe that’s why he’s come to court.”

“Perhaps,” Adelaide agreed, glad she’d been implying that her family was relatively poor by dressing simply. The only jewelry she wore was her mother’s crucifix. It was old, and although made of gold and emeralds, it was a modest piece compared to the jewellery other ladies of the court flaunted.

“Oh, how unfortunate!” Lady Hildegard cried as Lord Richard rolled his ball and missed. “The ground must be uneven, or I’m sure you would have won.”

“Too bad, Richard. You nearly had me,” Sir Francis de Farnby, the winner of the game, said with self-satisfied triumph. He was more attractive than Lord Richard, with fair hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist; however, like Lord Richard, he was well aware of his personal attributes and his family’s wealth and prestige. He was the sort of man who expected everyone to be as impressed with him as he was with himself.

Adelaide stifled a frown as he sauntered toward them.

“Ah, my lady, I feared the fairies had captured you and taken you for their own this morning,” he said when he reached them, ignoring Eloise. “You seemed to vanish into thin air.”

It was all Adelaide could do not to roll her eyes and tell him she would vanish from his sight right now if she possessed the power. “No doubt you missed Lady Eloise, too. Are we not fortunate she’s feeling better?”

Francis glanced at Eloise, who gave him the sort of benevolent smile she reserved for very small children and very stupid adults.

“Yes, of course,” he said, turning back to Adelaide, and quite oblivious to Eloise’s lack of admiration. “Where did you go? I searched high and low for you. I nearly called out the guard.”

“I went to the stable.”

“If you wished to ride out, my lady, you had but to ask. I would gladly have accompanied you.”

No doubt he would have tried to get her off her horse, the better to seduce her, too.

“I wasn’t dressed for riding and that wasn’t my purpose,” she replied. “I find the company of horses soothing.”

The kittens had been an unexpected source of amusement, and as for the arrival of Lord Armand de Boisbaston…

“I doubt the horses appreciate your exquisite beauty and grace as much as I,” Francis said, his tone softly flattering and his expression adoring.

Oh, God save her from fawning, foolish—

“By all the devils above and below, if it isn’t Sir Francis de Farnby,” a slightly raspy, familiar male voice declared nearby.

Adelaide’s face heated with an unstoppable blush as Lord Armand de Boisbaston strolled toward them, followed by Randall FitzOsbourne.

Lord Armand had divested himself of his cloak, surcoat and mail. He now wore a plain leather tunic with a glossy black sheen, a white shirt beneath it laced at the neck, as well as black woollen breeches and the worn boots free of mud. His belt was wide, likewise of leather, and his scabbard and broadsword hung at his side.

Between his clothes and his hair, he looked more like a barbarian than ever, or a man who saw no need to adorn himself with fine garments to make an impression.

The courtiers who’d been discussing the game fell silent, and Eloise didn’t seem to know where to look.

“You appear surprised to see me, Francis,” Lord Armand said as he came to a halt beside Adelaide. “I’m delighted to see you looking so well, but then, when one is far from battle, one is more inclined to keep one’s health. Won’t you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?”

His gaze flicked toward Adelaide and although he gave no outward sign of recognition, a sense of familiarity, even of intimate acquaintance, sent a frisson of warmth and excitement through her—an unwelcome sensation. After all, she was no desperate woman eager for a man’s approval. She would rather that he hate her, or at least dislike her.

“This is Lady Eloise de Venery and Lady Adelaide D’Averette,” Francis said through thinned lips. “My ladies, may I present Lord Armand de Boisbaston, whose vanity and presumption are apparently undiminished by his recent incarceration, and despite surrendering the castle he was charged to defend.” He looked pointedly at Adelaide. “I would caution you, my lady, to beware this man’s honeyed tongue.”

How dare Francis mock a man who’d risked his life for his king when he’d never done anything more dangerous than participate in a tournament? “He doesn’t seem to be speaking very sweetly of you, my lord,” she very sweetly noted.

A furrow appeared between Francis’s brows as if he was displeased, or perhaps confused by her response. “That’s because I’m not a beautiful lady. Armand de Boisbaston’s reputation, however, is well-known.”

“Indeed it is,” Randall FitzOsburne declared, the words bursting out as if he would explode if he didn’t speak. “He’s the best and bravest knight in England!”

“You flatter me too much, Randall,” Lord Armand protested with a smile that had nothing of modesty about it. “William Marshal is the best and bravest knight in England, and Europe, too. If I could claim but a portion of his skill and honor, I’d consider myself fortunate.”

“Honor?” Francis scoffed. “I believe you left that in Normandy.”

Anger flared in Lord Armand’s brown eyes. “At least I had it once to lose.”

“Do you insult me, my lord?” Francis demanded.

Didn’t Francis notice the ire in the tightness of the man’s features? Adelaide wondered. The little line of anger between the slanting brows? Did he really want to come to blows with this man?

“I merely made an observation based on your reference to my sojourn in Normandy,” Lord Armand coolly replied, the tone of his voice at odds with his obvious rage. “I cannot be responsible for how you interpret it. You seem to have developed a rather thin skin since I’ve been away, Francis. Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time at court.”

“While you seem to have forgotten how to dress for it. My servants are better attired than you. Have you not even a knife with which to trim that unkempt mop of hair?”

“Since I was forced to give nearly all that I possess to regain my freedom after fighting for the king, I have no finer clothes to wear. As for my hair…”

Lord Armand glanced first at Adelaide, then smiled at Eloise. “Do I look so very awful?”

Eloise blushed and lowered her eyes, and shook her head.

He turned next to Adelaide. “What about you, my lady? Would you say my hair looks like an unkempt mop?”

Adelaide reminded herself that she was at court for a reason, and it certainly wasn’t to fall under a handsome man’s spell. If Eloise or Lady Hildegard or any other lady of the court wanted Lord Armand, they could have him.

“No, I would not,” she replied. “It does, however, make you look quite savage. Should we next expect to see your face painted blue like a Pict? Or will you be wearing the horned helmet of a Northman? Is there some reason for this unusual hairstyle, my lord, or do you simply enjoy shocking people and being the center of attention?”

As Francis guffawed, the expression that came to Lord Armand’s face made her want to squirm.

“Someday, perhaps, my lady,” he said, “I will tell you why I haven’t cut my hair since I was taken prisoner. I doubt, however, that you’d understand.”

Adelaide blushed with shame, and she wanted to apologize, but she didn’t dare. She had a reputation to maintain, even if it wasn’t one she particularly relished.

“Pay no heed to what he says, my lady,” Francis said. “And you, my lord, had best take care how you speak to one of the king’s wards.”

Lord Armand didn’t look the least bit worried. “Tell me, Francis, while I was in the Comte de Pontelle’s dungeon, where were you?”

Francis straightened his shoulders. “I, too, was serving the king.”

“I’m sure you were, in your own way,” Lord Armand agreed with more than a hint of mockery in his voice and eyes. “We cannot all bear arms in battle.”

“And some of us can barely walk,” Francis shot back, his gaze darting to Randall FitzOsbourne, who blushed bright red.

That was truly a low blow. Randall FitzOsbourne couldn’t help being crippled.

The slight smile remained on Lord Armand’s face, but his eyes filled with renewed rage and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. So did Francis’s.

Eloise blanched and Randall FitzOsbourne looked worried. Adelaide, however, was quite sure Lord Armand could defeat Francis in a contest of arms, and Francis deserved to be humbled.

“By the teeth of God, is something amiss among my courtiers?” the king called out.

They all turned to see John striding toward them. Everyone had been too intent on the exchange between Sir Francis and Lord Armand to notice his arrival.

As always, John was expensively and ornately dressed, in a long tunic of ivory cendal, heavily embroidered around the neck, cuffs and hem. His belt was gilded, and he wore a large gold brooch with a ruby in the center. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers, and his hair shone with oil. The odor of expensive perfume wafted from him, overpowering the more delicate scent of the roses nearby. The queen and several of his routiers followed, trying to keep up with the king’s brisk pace.

Regardless of the presence of his queen, the king leered at Adelaide when he came to a halt. “I suppose these two bold cockerels are glaring at each other because of you, my lady.”

“Your Majesty,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression carefully neutral, “I was merely passing the time of day with Lady Eloise when these gentlemen approached me.”

“I see.” The king ran a speculative gaze over Lord Armand, who was a full head taller than he. “We were informed of your arrival, Lord Armand. You’re most welcome at our court.”

“Thank you, sire,” Lord Armand replied. He took a step toward John. “I hope—”

“We can guess what you hope,” the king interrupted with a hint of pique, “and we do not intend to discuss it when the noon meal is about to be served.”

John turned back to Adelaide. “For the sake of peace in the hall, you must sit beside me at table, my lady.”

Knowing she really had no choice, trusting she could continue to be neither encouraging nor obviously discouraging to the notoriously lascivious king, Adelaide smiled and said, “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”