Читать книгу My Lord's Desire - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 9

“I’M SORRY. I truly thought I’d be able to keep my temper,” Armand said to Randall as they watched the king and his companions, now including Lady Adelaide, leave the garden. “Unfortunately, the very sight of de Farnby is enough to annoy me.”

It didn’t help that Francis was talking to the bashful beauty, who proved to be anything but bashful. Indeed, her lively responses had been very disconcerting.

“Francis annoys everybody,” Randall consoled. “At least you didn’t attack him. That would have been a disaster.”

Armand eased himself onto the stone bench Lady Adelaide and her fair-haired friend had recently vacated. He stretched out his right leg and massaged his aching knee. “I notice Francis manages not to annoy the king.”

“He flatters the king and amuses the queen.”

Armand knew he should curb any interest in the sharp-tongued Lady Adelaide, as well as stifle the desire that leapt into life when he saw her, given his reasons for marrying and the sort of placid wife he hoped to have. He also had no idea how rich or poor Lady Adelaide’s family might be. After all, there were other unmarried ladies at court, and if there were none so beautiful, or with such shining, soft eyes, they might be richer, and that was what he needed to remember.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist asking a little more about the dark-haired beauty. “Francis flatters Lady Adelaide, too, yet she doesn’t seem susceptible to his oily charm. Is that because she’s set her sights on a richer prize?”

Sitting beside him, Randall looked around to make sure they were alone. “You mean the king?”

That wasn’t what Armand meant, yet it wouldn’t be surprising if John had enticed, bribed or compelled that young beauty into his bed. “Is she his mistress?”

“Not yet, I don’t think, although nobody knows for certain.”

“In this court, they’d know,” Armand replied, trying not to betray any relief, or to feel it, either.

“It’s very difficult to say what that lady’s plans are,” Randall said, “or who, if any man, she likes or wants. She gives nothing away and acts the same to all.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to limit her choice of wealthy husbands.”

“I don’t think we can fault her for that,” Randall said. “She has two unmarried sisters who are wards of the king, as well, although they aren’t at court, and the family isn’t very rich. If she makes a good marriage, their chances to do the same improve considerably.”

“What about her friend, Lady Eloise?” Armand asked. “Is her family rich?”

Randall hesitated a moment, and didn’t look at Armand when he answered. “Yes, her family is richer. Her dowry should be more than enough to pay Bayard’s ransom. I haven’t really inquired.” He swiftly got to his feet. “We had better get to the hall if we want to eat.”

Randall’s manner and his sudden desire to leave was more than enough to tell Armand that even if Lady Eloise were the richest woman in England and panting after him, he shouldn’t consider her for a bride—not unless he wanted to upset Randall.

“I suppose I could try for Lady Hildegard,” Armand mused as they made their way toward the garden gate.

“Things have changed since you’ve been gone,” Randall replied. “She’s got her eye on Lord Richard.”

Armand raised a brow as he held the gate open for his friend. “Don’t you think I could persuade her that I would be a better husband?”

“I don’t doubt you would be,” Randall replied. “But Lady Hildegard is as ambitious as any man. Lord Richard, for all his vanity, is from a very wealthy family, and wealth means power.”

“Then I must choose another,” Armand said with a shrug as they crossed the yard between the garden and the hall.

“At least you have a choice,” Randall said with more bitterness than Armand had ever heard him express before.

“Any woman should be delighted to have your good regard,” he said. “You’re a kind, clever fellow, and as loyal as they come. Just because you can’t dance a jig or ride off to war is no reason to believe you’re not deserving of a bride.”

“Thus says the most handsome knight in the king’s court.”

“Who’s fortunate to be friends with the finest man at the king’s court.”

That honest response made Randall smile, something Armand was glad to see as they entered the great hall.

The Earl of Pembroke had been poor in his youth, but as the furnishings, gorgeous, colourful tapestries and banners of the earl’s household knights hanging in the hall now testified, he was poor no longer. After years of loyal and devoted service to the Plantagenets, he’d been given Isabel de Clare, the richest heiress in England, for his bride.

A clean, bright wood fire burned in the central hearth, warming the chamber that could be chilly even in summer. Well-made, heavy trestle tables had been set up for the meal, including one on the dais for the king and queen and their chosen companions, their chairs sporting silken cushions for their comfort. Pristine white cloths covered the tables above the salt for the courtiers and were set with silver goblets and spoons. Below the salt, tankards and wooden spoons had been put out for the soldiers and body servants of the nobility.

The rushes on the floor had been sprinkled with fleabane and rosemary, the scents mingling with the smoke drifting up to the louvered hole in the roof and the perfume of the courtiers. The ever-present hounds roamed the hall, anticipating scraps tossed their way from the meal to come.

The beleaguered master of the hall rushed from table to table and servant to servant to ensure that all were in place and ready to perform their duties.

As they made their way to a table, Armand and Randall passed tumblers and jugglers stretching their limbs and practicing for the performance they would give during and after the meal. Nearby, minstrels tuned their instruments, and a bard was mumbling to himself, obviously practicing, too.

Armand caught sight of Godwin and Bert, and inclined his head in a greeting. The soldiers grinned and tugged their forelocks in return.

The priest, an elderly, pinched-faced fellow with a fringe of white hair, said a grace that was notable for its pleas for God’s mercy in these terrible times. As Armand said his amen, he reflected that with such a king, asking for God’s mercy was no doubt a wise precaution.

“There seems to be a bevy of unmarried ladies here,” Armand observed as they took their seats. He nodded at one of the noblewomen sitting opposite them, closer to the king. Her long features struck him as unfortunately reminiscent of a horse. “Who is she?”

The young lady caught him looking and giggled and blushed as she whispered to another young woman beside her. That lady met Armand’s gaze quite brazenly.

God help him, how could he have forgotten what life at court was like? The games of love, the little intrigues. The suspicions. The jealousies.

Forgotten or not, he needed a richly dowered wife, so he had to play these games. He raised a goblet in salute and said, through clenched teeth, “Well, Randall? Who is she?”

“That’s Lady Mary de Chearney, and the blond woman beside her is Lady Wilhemina of Werton,” Randall answered. “I believe both have dowries large enough to pay Bayard’s ransom thrice over, but I’ve heard Lady Mary’s father has his eye on a Scots earl for her, and I think Lady Wilhemina’s brother plans to marry her off to a very rich, very old Welsh nobleman with several estates in the March.”

Relief filled Armand, and then annoyance. He mustn’t think of his own pleasure when it came to marriage. He must remember Bayard, languishing in a dungeon until his ransom could be paid.

Shyly sliding Armand a glance and a smile, a maidservant placed a platter of fine white bread before them. Armand took out his eating knife and cut off the heel of the loaf. Let others praise the roasted meats and exquisite sauces to come, the pottages spiced with herbs from far-off lands and puddings made of rare ingredients. As he’d sat in that dungeon, it had been bread he’d missed. He’d dreamed of having a whole loaf to himself, washed down with honest English ale.

The maid’s smile reminded him of another appetite that hadn’t been whetted since his release. He’d not had the energy for some time, and lately, all his efforts had gone to raising the money to free his brother. Nor had he met a woman who stirred his desire—until Lady Adelaide.

His gaze drifted toward that lady, sitting serenely beside the king. Had she been acting a part in the stable, trying to attract his interest before she learned who he was? Or had she been acting in the garden, when she had made sport of his appearance?

Randall cleared his throat as another servant set down the trenchers of slightly stale bread that would be used as plates. Later, when they had been soaked with the gravy and sauces, they would either be fed to the hounds, or given to the poor waiting at the castle gates. “I think Lady Eloise would be your best choice for a wife. Her dowry should be enough, and she’s a very sweet girl.”

Had there ever been a better friend? “Bayard wouldn’t want your happiness to be part of his ransom.”

“Oh, I have no interest in her that way.”

Armand gave Randall a look that told him exactly what he thought of that response.

His friend sighed as he took a piece of bread for himself. “What does it matter if I like her or not? She won’t want a cripple.”

“If that’s all she sees when she looks at you, then she’s not worthy of you.”

Randall tossed his bread to one of the waiting hounds. “You don’t know her. She’s the kindest, most amiable lady at court.”

Armand’s brows rose. “Am I looking at a man in love?”

When Randall didn’t answer, Armand knew the truth, and it made him feel…strange. It was as if Randall, who was usually the one left behind, had ventured into a foreign land without him. “If you care for her that much, you should ask for her.”

Randall’s lips thinned into a stubborn line. “I may not be a mighty warrior, but I do have my pride.”

“You fear her family will reject you?”

“I’m afraid she might.”

The minstrels struck up a cheerful tune, and more servants arrived bearing roasted venison, beef, eels soaked in ale and a thick pottage made of liver and kidneys, leeks and bread crumbs. Armand cut himself a slice of beef and put it on his trencher. The pottage he would not have. Although it smelled good and was likely tasty, the look of it reminded him too much of the slop he’d been fed in that cell. “So you haven’t told Lady Eloise how you feel?”

“I’ve hardly spoken to her at all.”

Armand paused with a piece of roasted beef halfway to his mouth. “Then how can you be so certain of your feelings?”

“I just am,” Randall said as he ladled some of the pottage onto his trencher, speaking with a conviction that took Armand aback.

Randall pointed to his chest. “I feel it in my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.”

Before today, Armand would have said such a thing was impossible, or a happy delusion at best. But then he’d walked into a stable and discovered a woman with a kitten clinging to her back. A beautiful woman who looked at him with the most amazing eyes he’d ever seen, a few tendrils of hair encircling her perfect features, her lips parted as if begging for his kiss. She’d made his heart race and a vitality he hadn’t felt in months rip through his body.

He forced his attention back to Randall’s dilemma as a second course of duck stuffed with a mixture of eggs, currants, apples and cloves arrived, as well as roasted chicken filled with bread and onion and spiced with rosemary and sage. A carafe of thick gravy accompanied both, and Armand was liberal in its use. “What of Lady Eloise’s family? Perhaps if you were to approach them first…?”

“Lady Eloise has no family. She’s one of the king’s wards, so he’ll decide who she marries. Unfortunately, I have nothing to offer John for the privilege.”

Armand was well aware that the king accepted bribes for the bestowing of a bride, as well as for the guardianship of young male heirs whose estates could be picked clean before they came of age. “Did your father not provide you with money before you came to court?”

“Some, but what I had is gone.”

Armand stopped eating as a terrible thought seized him. “You didn’t use any of your own money for my ransom, did you?”

“A little,” Randall admitted.

Armand swore under his breath. “I’ll pay you back. Every ha’penny.”

“I know you will.”

His appetite gone, Armand muttered, “I should have surrendered to the French the first week. I should have realized that after what happened with Arthur and the men at Corfe, the French would show no mercy. We should have fled the castle when we could, and given up without a fight.”

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened, Armand,” Randall said. “You followed the orders of the king as best you—or any decent man—could.”

Armand surveyed the finely dressed men sitting in the Earl of Pembroke’s hall, eating his food and drinking his wine. One or two, like that dark-haired, bearded fellow, he didn’t know. A few had fought in Normandy; most had not, preferring to pay a scutage instead. Lording over them all was the king, lascivious and going to fat, his face glistening with grease from the duck and roasted goose on his trencher.

To think that he had done his duty to maintain such a king and such a court.

The very least John could do was give him a rich wife.

ADELAIDE would rather have been nearly anywhere than sitting on the dais beside King John. She could take some comfort from the fact that the king bathed more often than many a nobleman, but that was the best thing she could say about him.

She looked down the hall at Eloise, seated at the far end of a table and wedged between Lady Jane and her querulous, elderly mother.

Lucky Eloise. Lady Jane talked whether one listened or replied, and her mother was interested mainly in her food. You could eat and think without having to participate in any conversation; it was as close to being alone in the hall as it was possible to be.

“So, my lady, another bold knight has come to court and no doubt will be seeking a smile from your pretty lips,” the king remarked. “What do you think of Lord Armand? A handsome fellow, is he not?”

Adelaide’s every sense was suddenly on alert, as if alarm bells were pealing from the watchtowers. It wasn’t like the king to compliment another man.

“If one prefers that sort of rugged charm,” she replied, giving the king a slight smile and pretending that the jugglers who were keeping a series of brightly painted wooden balls in the air and passing them back and forth were distracting her.

“Do you, my lady?” the king pressed.

She had to turn to him then and she encountered a searching gaze that made the sweat start to trickle down her back.

In spite of her discomfort, she let her smile grow and willed her eyes to tell John that there was no one more interesting, important or fascinating than he. That would be an unspoken lie; what came from her lips, however, was the truth. “I find myself wishing to do something about his hair and find him garments more appropriate to your court, sire.”

She did want to do something with Lord Armand’s hair. She wanted to touch it. She longed to run her fingers through the unruly waves and comb it back from his handsome face. And although she should have been paying close attention to the king and his queen to ensure she made no misstep in either look or speech during the meal, she’d been imagining Armand de Boisbaston attired in garments more appropriate to the court—rich fabrics cut to accent his magnificent, well-muscled body. She’d spent the better part of the first two courses trying to decide if he’d look better in scarlet or in blue.

“Even so poorly dressed, he is a fine-looking man, is he not?” the young queen interjected with a cunning smile as the final course arrived at the table, a meat pie of rabbit and pork colored with saffron and spiced with cinnamon.

Adelaide gave the queen a smile. She didn’t like the spoiled, often petulant girl, but at least Isabel was no Eleanor of Aquitaine. Isabel had very little power at court; John even took the Queen’s Gold for his own use, something the awe-inspiring Eleanor would never have allowed.

“If one considers personal attraction to lie solely within outward appearance,” Adelaide replied. “Many women prefer a man of learning and intellect.”

Adelaide knew well that John considered himself a learned man. In many ways, he was, and had he been trained to a career in the law. Adelaide had sometimes thought, he might have been a worthy attorney. Sadly, his interest in the law, like so much else in him, had been corrupted by greed and ambition.

“They say Lord Armand is quite learned, too,” the queen noted. “He speaks Latin like a Roman, or a cleric.”

“You seem to know a good deal about him, Your Majesty,” Adelaide placidly observed.

The king cut his wife a glance. “Yes, you do.”

“It is my duty to know all about the men who have sworn their oath of loyalty to you, my husband,” the queen calmly replied.

John made no answer, but it was plainer than words that he was annoyed. He might treat his vows of marital fidelity lightly and expect the wives and daughters of his noblemen to be eager for his bed, but when it came to his queen, it was quite a different matter.

“I suppose he will be asking for money,” the queen said, “as if he should be rewarded for losing Marchant.”

The king sniffed. “He is welcome to ask.”

Adelaide bunched her linen napkin into a ball on her lap. It was no wonder the king’s barons loathed him. He seemed to treat their loyalty and risks on his behalf as no more than his due. He made light of their sacrifices, and demanded bribes and payment for what he should bestow as justly earned rewards. He ignored the rules of chivalry, and many believed he’d killed his own nephew with his bare hands. Even if he hadn’t, Arthur had certainly disappeared and was very likely dead.

Her appetite quite gone, Adelaide glanced at the king’s plump, bejewelled fingers. Were they capable of squeezing a boy’s throat until he died?

If he could order a boy blinded and castrated to prevent him taking the throne, what would he not do?

She couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down her back. And to think this man had the power to compel her to go to his bed, if he chose to use it.

“My lady is cold?” the king asked, leaning closer.

It was all Adelaide could do not to shy away. “There must be a draft.”

“Perhaps dancing will warm you.”

The thought of touching John made her feel ill—and she found her excuse. She put her hand to her head and gave him a woeful smile. “I feel a little unwell, Majesty. I believe I had best retire.”

The king frowned, but mercifully didn’t command her to stay. “Very well. We hope that you’ll be feeling better tomorrow.”

Adelaide bowed her head and said no more as she left the dais. Sensing the eyes of the other courtiers upon her, she knew they were wondering if she’d already shared the king’s bed. She had heard that wagers had been made, and those who believed the king hadn’t yet succeeded had placed bets on when he would.

Despite the secret anguish that speculation brought her, she held her head high and her lithesome back was as straight as a barge pole. She was Lady Adelaide D’Averette, and she would never willingly submit to any man’s domination.

Not even the king’s.