Читать книгу Hers To Command - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
THE FOX AND HOUND in the county of Kent lay ten miles from the castle of Ecclesford along the road to London. It was a small but comfortable inn, with a walled yard, a taproom frequented by the local farmers and food slightly better than one usually found in such places. Inside the building was the aforementioned taproom, redolent of damp rushes, ale and cheap English wine, smoke from the large hearth and roasted beef. A little natural light shone in through the wooden shutters, now closed to keep out the cool, moist morning air of late September.
Five days after Roald de Sayres killed the former garrison commander of Ecclesford Castle, two women went up the rickety steps leading to the chambers where guests could lodge for the night. One of the women, beautiful and blond, trembled with every step that brought them closer to the rooms where the guests slept. The other who led the way appeared full of confident conviction as she marched briskly upward, oblivious to the creaking of the stairs and motes of dust swirling around them. Nothing was going to dissuade Lady Mathilde from her quest, not even her own rapidly beating heart.
“Mathilde, this is madness!” the lovely Lady Giselle hissed as she grabbed hold of her sister’s light gray woolen cloak and nearly pulled the white linen veil from her head.
Grabbing at her veil to hold it in place, Mathilde turned toward her anxious sister. In truth, she knew what they were doing was outrageous, but she was not about to lose this opportunity. The innkeeper’s son, who knew of their troubles and their need, had come to them the day before and told them of the young nobleman who’d arrived alone at the Fox and Hound—a merry, handsome Norman knight with a very thin purse.
His looks mattered not to Mathilde, and indeed, she would have been happier had he been homely. But the knight’s nearly empty purse caused her to hope that he would be glad of the chance to earn some money, even if he had no personal interest in their just cause. The lordly brother and equally lordly friend the knight had mentioned also made her hope he might be the answer to her prayers.
“What else are we to do?” she asked her sister, likewise whispering. “Sit and wait for Roald to take Ecclesford from us? If this fellow is who he says he is, he could be exactly the sort of man we need.”
“Perhaps Roald will not dispute our father’s will,” Giselle protested, as she had every time Mathilde mentioned her plan to discourage Roald from trying to take what was not his. “He has not yet come and—”
“You know as well as I how greedy he is,” Mathilde replied. “Do you really believe he will accept losing Ecclesford? I do not. He may come today or tomorrow, demanding that we turn the estate over to him. We must do everything we can to prepare for that.”
Giselle still didn’t budge from her place on the step. “This knight may not want to help us.”
“Rafe said he was poor. We will offer to pay him. And after all, we aren’t going to be asking him to risk his life.”
“But why must we go into the bedchamber?” Giselle asked piteously, wringing her hands with dismay. “We should stay in the taproom. He will surely awaken and come downstairs soon.”
“We have been waiting for too long as it is,” Mathilde replied. “We cannot sit all day in the taproom, especially when there is much to be done at home, and did you not see the clouds gathering over the hills to the south? If we do not start for home soon, we may get caught in a storm.”
“We know nothing of this man beyond what Rafe has said,” Giselle persisted, “and he was only repeating what the Norman told him last night. Maybe the Norman was merely bragging. A man may say anything when he’s in his cups.”
Perhaps the young man had been drunk, or exaggerating or lying, and if that was so, obviously he wasn’t the man to help them. But if he wasn’t lying, Mathilde wasn’t about to let a knight related to a powerful Norman nobleman in Scotland and who was a friend to an equally powerful lord in Cornwall slip through her fingers without at least asking for his help. “If this fellow seems a liar and a rogue, we will leave him here.”
“How will we be able to tell if he’s honest or not?”
“I will know.”
“You?” Giselle exclaimed, and then she colored and looked away.
Shame flooded Mathilde’s face, because Giselle had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s wisdom when it came to young men.
“I’m sorry,” Giselle said softly, pity in her eyes even as Mathilde fought the memories that flashed through her mind.
“I once made a terrible mistake, but I have learned my lesson,” Mathilde assured her sister. Then she smiled, to show she wasn’t upset, although she was. “But since I may misjudge this man, I’m glad that you are here to help me.”
Without waiting for Giselle to say anything more lest her sister’s doubts weaken her resolve, Mathilde ducked under a thick oak beam and rapped on the door to one of the two upper chambers. Each would contain beds made of rope stretched between the frame, bearing a mattress stuffed with straw, as well as a coarse linen sheet and a blanket. Each bed would be large enough to hold at least two grown men, possibly three. There was little privacy at an inn; however, Rafe’s father had assured them the Norman was the only guest still abed.
“Maybe he’s already gone,” Giselle whispered hopefully when there was no answer to Mathilde’s knock.
“The innkeeper would have said so, or we would have seen him leave,” Mathilde replied as she knocked again, a little louder this time. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Perhaps he left in the night,” Giselle suggested.
“Maybe he’s dead,” Mathilde muttered under her breath.
“Dead!” Giselle exclaimed.
Mathilde instantly regretted her impulsive remark. “I do not believe that,” she said, lifting the latch of the rough wooden door. “More likely the man is dead drunk and if so, he will be of no use to us.”
“Oh, Mathilde!” her sister moaned as Mathilde sidled through the door, the leather hinges creaking. “Wait!”
It was too late. Mathilde had already entered the small, dusty room beneath the eaves sporting three beds, a table and a stool. Articles of clothing had been tossed on the stool beside the bed closest to the door, and an empty wine jug lay on its side on the table, near a puddle of wax that had once been a candle. The large, disheveled bed was still occupied—by a man sprawled on top of the coverings.
He was completely naked.
With a gasp, Mathilde turned to flee—until she saw Giselle’s worried face.
What would Giselle say if she ran away? That she had been right, and Mathilde wrong. That Mathilde’s plan was foolish and impossible. That they should wait and see what Roald would do, rather than take any kind of action.
That she didn’t want to do, so she mentally girded her loins and reminded herself that this man was merely lying on the bed, apparently fast asleep, or passed out from drink. If he was in a drunken stupor and since he had no weapons near him while she carried a knife she wouldn’t hesitate to use, surely she had nothing to fear.
He certainly looked harmless enough in his sleep, although his back bore several small scars and welts that were surely from tournaments or battles. She also couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t an ounce of superfluous fat on him, anywhere. But then, the Normans were notorious warriors, descendants of piratical Norsemen, without culture or grace, so what else should she expect?
“Is he alive?” Giselle whispered behind her.
“He’s breathing,” Mathilde replied, moving cautiously closer. She sniffed, and the scent of wine was strong. “I think he’s passed out from drink.”
Closer now, she studied the slumbering man’s remarkably handsome face, slack in his sleep. He looked like an angel—albeit a very virile one, with finely cut cheekbones, full and shapely lips, a straight nose and a strong jaw. His surprisingly long hair fell tousled in dark brown waves to his broad shoulders. His body was more well formed than most, too, from his wide shoulders and muscular back to his lean legs.
She glanced at the clothes lying on the stool. He might be alone now, but he likely hadn’t been last night. She wondered where the wench had gone, and if he’d even noticed.
Her lip curled in a sneer. Probably not. Like most men, he had likely thought only of his own desires.
She turned away. “This is not the sort of man we require,” she said to her sister. “Come, Gis—”
A hand grabbed hers and tugged her down onto the bed. Mathilde grabbed the hilt of the knife she had tucked into her girdle with one hand and struck him hard with the other.
“God’s teeth, wench,” the young man cried, releasing her as he sat up, still unabashedly naked. “No need to rouse the household.”
His eyes narrowed as she jumped to her feet, weapon drawn, panting and fierce, before he tugged the sheet over his thighs and belly. “Tell your husband or father or whatever relation the innkeeper is to you that I have paid for a night’s rest, and I will get up when I decide, and not before.”
“Our apologies, Sir Knight,” Giselle said from the foot of his bed as Mathilde breathed deeply and tried to regain her self-control. “We should not have intruded upon you.”
The knight glanced at Giselle and then, as often happened when men first beheld Mathilde’s beautiful sister, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Giselle, meanwhile, lowered her eyes and blushed, as she always did when forced to endure a man’s staring scrutiny.
Totally ignoring Mathilde, the Norman got to his feet and wrapped the sheet around his slender torso. He should have looked ridiculous, but he carried himself as if he were a prince greeting a courtier.
“May I ask what brings you to my chamber, my lady,” he asked as genially as if they were in their hall at home, “for I can tell you are a lady by your sweet and lovely voice.”
Giselle looked at Mathilde with mute appeal.
“We require a knight’s service,” Mathilde decisively announced, her dagger still in her hand, “but—”
“Indeed?” the Norman interrupted, his brown eyes fairly sparkling with delight, as if they were offering him a present.
“How charming,” he continued, addressing Giselle, “although I must confess, I usually prefer to choose my bedmates. In your case, however, my lady, I’m prepared to make an exception.”
Of all the vain, arrogant presumptions! “That is not what I meant,” Mathilde snapped, her grip on her weapon tightening.
The knight turned to look at her. “Why are you so angry? I’m the one who ought to be offended. You invaded my bedchamber when I was asleep and unarmed.”
“But not for…for that!”
“No need to dissemble if it was,” he replied with an amiable smile and a shrug of his broad shoulders, and completely ignoring her drawn dagger. “This wouldn’t be the first time a woman has sought my company in bed, although they don’t usually come in pairs.”
“You…you scoundrel!” Mathilde cried, appalled at his disgusting comment, as she started for the door.
The Norman moved to block her way.
“Let us go!” she demanded, tense and ready to fight, while Giselle shrank into the nearest corner.
“Gladly, after you explain what you’re doing here,” the knight replied, no longer amiable or merry as he grabbed her wrist and forced her to drop her dagger. He let go of her as he kicked the dagger away, but continued to regard her sternly.
Looking at him now, she could well believe he was a knight from a powerful family, and of some repute.
“Is this some sort of trick?” he asked, raising a majestic brow and crossing his powerful arms. “Should I be expecting a visit from an irate father or brother insisting that I marry this lady? If so, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. I might have welcomed her into my bed, but I will never be forced to take a wife.”
Giselle let out a little squeak of dismay. “Mathilde, tell him why we are here,” she pleaded, her face as red as a cardinal’s robe.
“If we explain, will you let us go?” Mathilde asked warily.
He inclined his head in agreement.
“Then I will explain,” she replied.
Determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, she planted her feet, looked him straight in the eye and said, “We require a knight, and we thought, since we heard you did not have much money, that you would—”
“Do I look like a mercenary to you?” he interrupted, lowering his arms, his face flushing and his brown eyes glowering.
“At the moment, you don’t look anything except half naked,” Mathilde replied, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. “Perhaps if you had some clothes on, I would better be able to judge.”
He snorted a laugh. “Aren’t you the coolheaded one,” he remarked, leaning back against the door and once again crossing his arms. “So, you need a knight. For what, if not for pleasure?”
Mathilde cringed at his reply, but gamely continued, still determined to get away from him as swiftly as she could. “To be at our side should our cousin come to the estate our father left us and try to take it from us.”
“You seek a knight to fight this cousin over an estate?”
“Not fight,” Giselle anxiously interposed from the corner.
The knight regarded her with confusion. “Why do you need a man trained for battle, then, if not to fight?”
“To impress him,” Mathilde said. “To show him that we are willing to defend our rights and that we are not without some means to do so.”
“I am to be for show?” the Norman asked with a hint of indignation.
“We hope to make Roald think twice about trying to steal our inheritance.”
The knight tilted his head as he studied her. “Roald is an unusual name. Might I have met him at court?”
Perhaps he had, Mathilde reflected, and if so, she would have to be careful. It could be this man was Roald’s friend, or as much as any man could be the friend of anyone so selfish as Roald. “Our cousin is Sir Roald de Sayres.”
The Norman’s lip lifted with derision. “I thought that might be who you meant. You’re related to that blackguard?”
“You know him?”
“God help me, I do, and I hate the knave.”
Sweeping the sheet behind him as a lady would the skirt of her gown, the knight strode to the table. He picked up the wineskin lying there and lifted it over his mouth, shaking out the last few drops.
Mathilde glanced at Giselle. If this man truly hated Roald… “Why do you dislike him?”
“As there is a lady present, I would rather not say,” the Norman replied as he tossed the empty wineskin back onto the table.
A lady? What did he think she was? “I am Lady Mathilde of Ecclesford,” she declared, “and this is my sister, Lady Giselle.”
The knight ran an incredulous gaze over her and her plain clothing. “You’re a lady? I took you for a servant.”
“Well, I am not.”
“Forgive me my mistake,” he replied, not very contritely, as his hand moved to his waist and the sheet wrapped around it.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, turning away.
“I want to hear more about your dilemma, so I think I should dress. Don’t you agree?”
It would be much easier to talk to him if he were dressed, so she didn’t disagree. However, since there was no reason for them to be here while he put on his clothes and indeed, every reason they should not—she retrieved her dagger and started sidling toward the door. Unfortunately, Giselle was apparently fascinated by the corner at which she stared and before Mathilde could catch her eye, the knight declared, “There. Now I am presentable.”
And so he was. He wore plain woolen breeches, a sleeveless leather tunic bound by a wide sword belt holding his scabbard and broadsword over a white shirt loosely tied at the neck. He’d put on a pair of boots that were certainly not new, although they were polished and well cared for.
Without the distraction of his near nudity, Mathilde focused on his handsome face and intelligent brown eyes—when she should be thinking only of how, and if, this man could help them.
Determined to do just that, she said, “We may be related to Roald, but I assure you, he is no dearer to us than he is to you, and not just because we dread what he may do. He has done great harm in the past, and we fear he will do more in the future. He has no honor, or kindness, or mercy.”
“That sounds like the Roald I know,” the Norman agreed.
“Our father died a short time ago,” she continued, a slight catch in her voice, for her grief was still raw. “In his will, he left Ecclesford to Giselle and me, the land to be divided equally between us, with a small sum of money for Roald.
“However, there are still many who believe inheritance should follow the male line above all other concerns. Then Roald should be lord of Ecclesford, and I am certain he will argue so, and try to steal our inheritance away.”
“And likely marry you off to form alliances to his advantage,” the knight added, proving that he knew about Roald’s greed and ambition. “So you want a knight to scare him off and stop him from making any such claim, is that it?”
“Yes. We were told you are the brother of the lord of Dunkeathe in Scotland, and the boon companion of the lord of Tregellas of Cornwall. Is that true?”
“I have that honor, yes,” the knight replied with a courteous bow, smiling in a way that made him look more handsome still. “As it happens, my lady, I have no particular calls upon my time at present and indeed, it would be my pleasure to thwart any plans of Roald de Sayres. Therefore, since it’s also my duty as a knight of the realm to help ladies in distress, I will gladly assist you. And of course, as I am an honorable knight, I would not expect to be paid.”
“Then, Sir Knight—”
“Mathilde,” Giselle interrupted. “May I have a word with you? Alone?”
Mathilde was not pleased by the amusement in the knight’s brown eyes that appeared when he heard Giselle’s request, but she wasn’t willing to ignore her sister’s plea. “Of course,” she said, moving to the door.
Giselle eagerly followed. Once on the stairs, Giselle stopped when they were halfway to the taproom, as if she couldn’t wait to speak any longer. “Mathilde, surely we need not decide about this knight right now, or even today. Let us think on it some more.”
“He might not be here tomorrow—and what more is there to think about?” Mathilde replied, once again struggling to control her impatience. “How many other knights with such associations are likely to ride through this county in the next few days? How many others will hate Roald as he does?”
“We still know very little about him,” Giselle protested. “We don’t even know his name.”
Good God, Giselle was right. Still, that was not so important as his connections. “Whatever this Norman’s name may be, we should accept the aid he offers.”
Giselle’s gaze went from wary to searching. “He’s a very handsome fellow.”
Mathilde couldn’t blame Giselle for her unease. She had good cause to doubt Mathilde’s judgment when it came to men, and this one was very handsome and charming and probably persuasive. Even so, Giselle should also believe she had learned from her mistake.
“Have no fear, Giselle,” Mathilde assured her. “I will be on my guard, as I’m sure you will be, and if it seems he is not behaving as a noble guest should, we can ask him to leave. Now will you accept his help?”
Although she looked far from certain, Giselle sighed and said, “Since I can think of no better plan myself, I will agree—with the understanding that if I think he should leave, you will not argue with me until I cannot think straight.”
Mathilde embraced her sister. “I promise.”
When they returned to the chamber, they found the knight sitting on the bed, one ankle on his knee, whistling a merry and rather complicated little tune. He rose when they entered and gave them another smile. “So, what is it to be? Do I go to Ecclesford or not?”
“Yes, if you will, Sir…?”
He laughed and made a sweeping bow. “Egad, forgive my lack of manners! I can only plead the unusual nature of our meeting. I am Sir Henry D’Alton, knight of the realm, sworn protector of women and children, guardian of the faith, brother of Nicholas of Dunkeathe, brother-in-law of the chieftain of Clan Taran and sworn comrade-in-arms of Lord Merrick of Tregellas.”
His connections were even more significant than Mathilde had been told and she was duly awed. Nevertheless, he looked so pleased with himself as he rattled them off, she was tempted to take him down a peg. But, since he’d agreed to help them, she didn’t. “Most impressive, Sir Henry. If you will gather your things, our escort is in the yard awaiting us.”
“Please ask the innkeeper to have Apollo saddled,” he said, opening the door for them, “and for a crust of bread for me to eat along the way, if you intend to leave immediately.”
“We do.” Indeed, the sooner they were back home, the better she would feel. Although they had no such word, it was possible Roald had come while they were away.
Sir Henry’s lips curved up into a smile. “I can hardly wait to see the look on Roald’s face if he comes to your castle and finds me there.”
Mathilde made no response as they hurried past him, but in truth, she would far rather never see Roald again, and fervently hoped all her precautions would prove pointless.
WEAVING THEIR WAY through scratching chickens, waddling geese and puddles left from last night’s rain, with a gray sky threatening more rain overhead, Mathilde and her sister headed toward their escort. Some of the soldiers leaned against the wattle and daub walls of the stable; others sat on the end of a hayrick. A few had hunkered down in a dry spot under the eaves, and all held cups of ale the innkeeper must have provided them.
Cerdic spotted them first. Barking an order to the rest of the men, their muscular friend set his ale down on a nearby barrel while the other soldiers scrambled to their feet or jumped from the hayrick and prepared to depart.
Like the knight, the tall, blond Cerdic was also a fine example of a warrior: broad shouldered, narrow hipped, with powerful arms and legs. Like many of his Saxon ancestors, he was an expert with the battle ax and if he wasn’t as handsome as Sir Henry, he was hardly homely. His strong features were framed by thick hair that hung past his shoulders. He wore a leather tunic loosely laced and his breeches were of leather, too. His dark cloak was held closed by a large, round bronze brooch that had been his father’s, and his father’s before him. He had the fur of a wolf wrapped around his booted shins, tied on with thin leather strips. All in all, he was an imposing figure.
“It is just as Rafe told us,” Mathilde said with a smile when they reached him. “The Norman knight is the brother of a powerful man in Scotland, the brother-in-law of another, and the friend of the lord of Tregellas in Cornwall. Even better, Sir Henry has agreed to help us.”
Cerdic frowned, for like Giselle, he had never been enthused about Mathilde’s plan. “What wilt thou do if this Sir Henry does not send Roald running off like a hound with its tail between its legs?” he asked, his French tinged with the accent of his people.
Although she had not expected otherwise, his disapproval stung nonetheless. “I don’t question your skill as a warrior, Cerdic,” she replied with a hint of pique. “I wish you would not be so quick to question my plan, especially when I hope it will spare the lives of many of the garrison. But rest assured, if my plan fails and we must fight, I know our men will not fail us.”
That brought a smile to Cerdic’s face, until he caught sight of Sir Henry sauntering toward them, his shoulders rolling with his easy, athletic strides. He wore a thick black cloak and carried a large leather pouch thrown over his shoulder. From inside it came the clink of metal—his chain mail and other armor, she supposed.
“Thou thinkst that little man is going to frighten Roald?” Cerdic asked with amazement.
Only Cerdic would think Sir Henry “little.” To be sure, the Norman was lean, but there was plenty of muscle on his slender frame, as she well knew, and while Sir Henry was not as tall as Cerdic, he was taller than most of their soldiers, especially the dark-haired Celts.
“If not the man himself,” she replied as she looked back to Cerdic, “then his family and friends.”
Sir Henry had to notice Cerdic’s furrowed brow and glaring gray eyes, yet when he reached them, a merry little smile played about his well-cut lips, as if he thought they were going to celebrate his arrival.
Or was he amused by her men? Did he think himself superior? That Normans were naturally better soldiers?
To be sure, her men looked a little slovenly after waiting in the yard, and Cerdic’s hair could use a trim—but Sir Henry’s hair was astonishingly long for a Norman’s, and he was hardly dressed as befit a nobleman. He looked more like a well-to-do merchant, except for his sword.
Or maybe, she thought as she remembered his behavior in the upper chamber, this was simply the man’s normal expression when he was with noblewomen, especially one as beautiful as Giselle.
“Sir Henry, this is Cerdic, the leader of our escort and the garrison of Ecclesford,” she said by way of introduction.
“Your forefathers must have been Saxons,” Sir Henry said amiably, “judging by your hair and that battle ax.”
“I knew thou wert a Norman by thy pretty face.”
Sir Henry continued to smile, yet she could see a growing determination in his brown eyes, and his knuckles started turning white. So did Cerdic’s, and for a moment, it was like watching two powerful stags about to butt heads.
She didn’t want them to come to blows. Cerdic was her friend, and they needed Sir Henry.
“Cerdic,” she interposed, her voice taking on a slightly warning note, “Sir Henry is going to be our guest at Ecclesford.”
Mercifully, Cerdic let go of Sir Henry’s arm and stepped back.
Sir Henry laughed with apparent good humor. “Well, my brawny friend, what say we get on our way? Unless I’m very much mistaken, there’s a storm brewing and I would rather not get wet.”
