Читать книгу Dryden's Bride - Margo Maguire - Страница 9

Fresh rushes coated the floor of Clairmont’s great hall, and all the trestle tables were covered with clean cloths. No one lazed about, not even the dogs that were commonly seen in the great halls of the kingdom. Sunlight filtered in through lofty, narrow windows, and colorful banners hung from high oaken beams.

An elegantly dressed, efficient, silver-haired man approached them. “Lady Siân!” he exclaimed, noting her disheveled appearance. “Your brother—”

“—need not hear of my mishap, Sir George,” she said, a little too brightly as she gathered her skirts in hand and moved away from the newcomers to the castle. “All is well…No need for concern…I shall see to my little scrapes and bruises….”

Then she turned and was off, flitting like a candle into the dark stone depths of Castle Clairmont.

And Hugh wondered why the analogy of the candle came to mind.

“Lord Thornton, Lord Alldale,” the man said, still taken aback by Siân’s disheveled appearance. “I—I greet you on behalf of the lady Marguerite, and her son, Lord John. I am Sir George Packley, steward of Clairmont.”

“Thank you,” Nicholas replied, his German accent causing his speech to be distinctly different from that of his peers. An illegitimate grandson of the Margrave of Bremen, Nick had grown up in his grandfather’s court, along with his cousin, Wolf Colston, and Wolf’s young squire, Hugh Dryden. They’d gone to France together to serve King Henry in his pursuit of French possessions, and all three had been rewarded handsomely with English lands and titles.

Hugh, however, was the only one to never have laid claim to his estates. A trusted steward administered Alldale, but Hugh had not yet seen it. Two years before, he’d been ambushed and taken prisoner by the earl of Windermere, a cruel and perverse relative of Wolf Colston’s. Hugh had been kept chained to a wall in one of the damp, dark caverns under the castle, and tortured by the corrupt and wicked earl. With him in that terrible donjon had been the earl’s mad stepmother, whom Windermere had personally tortured and killed before Hugh’s eyes.

Though he’d never spoken of his ordeal under the castle, the atrocities committed were etched all over his body. One eye gouged out…a finger dismembered. Burns and lacerations covered him. Dehydration, filth…It was a wonder he’d survived.

But that’s all he’d done. Survived. Hugh had recovered to become a mere shell of his former self. He was a man alone, without purpose or intensity.

It was Wolf Colston’s wife, Kit, who was especially determined to see Hugh’s soul restored to him. A fair and compassionate woman, Kit wanted to see her husband’s closest friend healed in every way. The start of negotiations for Hugh’s marriage to Marguerite of Clairmont had been, in good measure, Kit’s doing.

Not that Lady Kit believed marriage would be the answer to Hugh’s indifference, but Clairmont was of strategic importance to the crown. Near the Scottish border, Clairmont lands provided the buffer between the northern warlords and England. A strong leader, a man with military experience, was essential to maintaining the integrity of the northern border.

Kit Colston hoped that if Hugh married Marguerite, he would take seriously his duty to defend the border for England, and protect Clairmont holdings for Marguerite’s infant son, John. She was confident that this challenge would rouse Hugh as nothing else had in the last two years.

And if his marriage should become a happy, fruitful one, then all the better.

Sir George escorted Hugh and Nicholas to a pair of chambers where they were to spend the night, and were informed that Lady Marguerite would see them at midday meal, as she had other matters to attend at present. Though they were both somewhat taken aback that Lady Marguerite did not deign to greet her guests immediately, they were even more surprised by the steward’s next words.

“The queen, however,” Sir George said, “is most anxious to see you.”

“The queen?” Nicholas asked. “Catherine is here?”

“She is,” the steward replied as he pulled open the heavy curtains covering the windows. “The royal entourage is here at Clairmont for the remainder of the month…Lady Siân Tudor is part of the queen’s party.”

“Tudor!”

“Squire Owen’s sister,” Sir George explained.

Both men knew Owen Tudor from his presence in the court of Henry V. Neither of them had known, however, that he had a sister—a sister who’d chosen to identify herself in the old Welsh way rather than call herself Tudor. Hugh wondered if there was some reason she hadn’t wanted to be associated with Owen.

Hugh and Nicholas remembered Tudor as a competent young man in King Henry’s court, a man with winning ways. He was exceptionally handsome, ambitious yet careful, and absolutely loyal to the crown. Hugh could not imagine any reason for Siân’s reticence to be associated with her brother’s name, but he let the irrelevant matter drop from his mind, and went along with Nicholas and Sir George to a spacious solar high in the castle tower.

“Your Majesty!” Nick said as he and Hugh knelt before their queen. She was a young woman, as lovely and elegant as ever, tall and slender, with intelligent, light-brown eyes sparkling in welcome. Neither Hugh nor Nick had seen her in over two years. Their last meeting had, in fact, been at the marriage of Kathryn and Wolf Colston in London.

“Your Majesty, it is an unexpected pleasure to see you here,” Nicholas said.

Catherine smiled sadly. “Ah, but London is tiresome this time of year,” she said.

“London?” Nicholas asked.

“Oui. London.” The queen’s eyes sparkled. “And…my brother-in-law and his uncle.”

“So, Gloucester and Beaufort are at it again?” Hugh asked.

Catherine bit her lip and looked away. “I will not become a pawn in their despicable power struggle.”

“What is it this time?” Nicholas queried.

“A hideous little plot to get me wed.”

“Wed? To whom?” Nicholas demanded. Only the council could approve the queen’s marriage, and neither he nor Hugh had heard of any such consent. But the Duke of Gloucester and Bishop Beaufort wielded a great deal of power among the lords of parliament. If either one were to choose a suitable husband for Catherine, and a guardian for her small son, the lords could be persuaded to approve a marriage.

And the “winner” of the power struggle could then control the king through the boy’s stepfather.

“It is of no matter, my lords,” Catherine said with a sigh. “Mon petit Henri and I are not in London. We are beyond the sway of any of his uncles.”

“For now, at least,” Hugh muttered under his breath as he wandered to a far window seat while Nick and Catherine continued to speak quietly together. A little boy, dressed in rich clothing, toddled about the solar, throwing a leather ball at some standing pins, then running to retrieve it and replace the pins, only to throw it again. Before he knew it, Hugh was caught up in watching little King Henry, reluctantly admiring the two-year-old’s patience and ability.

It was unfortunate that his father hadn’t lived to see the boy grow up, hadn’t lived to give him brothers, and to keep the predatory powermongers at bay.

But that was the way of things, Hugh thought. Death claimed them all. And sometimes it was better if death came sooner rather than later.

Outside the window, the sky was blue and a flock of common brown sparrows swooped together, enjoying the play. Mirthful noises drew Hugh’s attention down to the bailey, where a game of camp-ball was in progress. Goals were set up on either end of the lawn, perhaps sixty yards apart. Several young boys with sticks were riding squealing pigs, and trying to hit a large ball into the opposing goal. This was a variation on the game that Hugh had never seen and he gazed down with curiosity. Crowds of people had gathered ’round to watch the play and were laughing at the antics of the players.

And in the midst of it all was Siân Tudor.

She had changed clothes since he’d last seen her, and was now wearing a gown of vibrant blue…the same shade as her eyes. Hugh willed himself to look away, but the sunlight caught the golden strands in her russet hair and he was struck by the radiance of her person. Had he seen any such brightness of color these last few years?

Hugh doubted it. He’d seen only the colors of war in France, then the dismal darkness of Windermere’s torture chamber.

Shaking off the thought, he watched Siân Tudor as she moved among the players, her lucent voice occasionally floating to his open window, her lithe movements drawing his eye, her joyful enthusiasm bewildering him. What reason, he wondered, had she to be so jubilant?

Likely no reason at all. She was obviously an empty-headed, frivolous child.

Siân clapped her hands and stopped the play, unaware of her audience up high in the tower above her. “Not legal!” she cried, trying to contain her laughter at the silliness of the game. It was unlike any form of camp-ball she’d ever played, but the pigs had been herded into the bailey, and the thought of riding them had been just too comical to resist. “You must guide your sows back to the line of pumpkins and begin again!”

“Aw, m’lady,” one boy cried as his teammates clamored with him, “you are ever changing the rules! We were so close—”

“Nay, Jacob Johnson!” Siân yelled, laughing out loud now, “you may not argue with the judge, or you’ll be further penalized!”

“But—”

“No exceptions,” Siân interrupted his plea. “Now! Go on!”

The game resumed as Siân ran alongside the field of play, turning one wayward pig back into the fray and helping another boy back onto his “mount.” She enjoyed sporting with the children, organizing games and outings. It was what she had done at Westminster to while away the dull days as her brother worked out plans for her future. Never had it occurred to her that he would buy her into a nunnery.

She was trapped. Without a proper dowry, with no property to speak of at all, and a somewhat tarnished family reputation, marriage into a reputable English family was highly unlikely, not that it was especially desirable to Siân. Though Owen had managed to insinuate himself into the king’s house, and had even engendered a high degree of trust among the English elite, Siân knew that she, herself, was a lost cause. Because she got into trouble more often than not, there wasn’t a man in the kingdom who was willing to take her to wife.

Even in Wales, she’d been something of a pariah. Living at the house of one uncle or the other, Siân never felt she really belonged anywhere. Even in Pwll.

That was all she ever really cared about—belonging somewhere. For years she’d dreamed of Owen coming to take her away from Pwll. But it was not to be, not now, not ever. She could only hope that at St. Ann’s she would finally find her place. In the environment of the cloister, mayhap she would be alone no longer.

“Siân!”

She turned to look, only to see her brother’s stormy face as he approached the playing field. She hardly knew him, but she was quite familiar with this face. Owen had left Wales years before, leaving Siân to be raised by their mother’s brothers while he went to live with a noble family near London. How different things would have been, Siân thought, had he grown up with her in Wales. Perhaps he would not be the tiresome, humorless gentleman she now saw before her.

Owen grabbed her by the arm and hauled her off to a small enclosure near the kitchen. Then, in angry hushed tones, he lambasted her again for her indecorous behavior.

“Is it not possible for you to join the other ladies in their work?” Owen asked, frustrated with his sister’s lack of womanly accomplishments.

So tall and handsome, Owen kept himself impeccably attired. He was very determined to overcome the sins of their father, who had taken a prominent part in a Welsh uprising against King Henry IV. Siân, with her unsophisticated ways and lack of feminine charms, could never further Owen’s cause, as well they both knew it.

The ladies of court shunned her, not wishing to associate themselves with one so common, so unschooled in courtly ways. To make matters worse, various young courtiers had attempted to seduce Siân soon after her arrival at Westminster, thinking that because of her naive, ingenuous manner, she would willingly provide a convenient outlet for their lust. Her repeated refusals had not won her their admiration.

“I am sorry, Owen,” Siân said contritely, her gaze flitting back toward the game. “I am a poor weaver, as you know, and my stitchery is cursed by the very—”

“Do not say it, Siân!” Owen admonished, slapping his thigh in fury, his fair complexion darkening. “Your language is appalling, as is your dress…Look at your hair…where is your veil? By the Holy Cross, sister, do not disgrace me here!”

“I shall try not to, Owen,” Siân said, truly sorry to have caused him such distress. She would try harder. She surely would. If only he would care for her half as much as he cared for his position in the queen’s court. Siân cast her eyes downward and noticed a smattering of dirt and dust across the hem of her bright blue silk kirtle.

And wondered how she would get it clean by mealtime.

“Nervous?” Nicholas asked. They were to meet Lady Marguerite in the castle garden just before the noon meal.

Hugh snorted with disdain.

“I merely asked,” Nicholas said. “Were I meeting my intended bride, I’m certain I’d be…”

Seated on a wooden bench near some stone statuary, was the lady in question, along with an infant in her arms.

“…dumbfounded.” Nicholas concluded his sentence as the two men laid eyes on Marguerite Bradley. She was a beautiful woman, with shining black hair arranged intricately and becomingly around her head. Her violet eyes were sparkling and lovely, framed by thick, black lashes. The lady’s demeanor was gracious and serene, her movements elegant and graceful as she received Hugh and Nicholas.

“Welcome to Castle Clairmont,” she said, her voice a pleasing melody to the ear, laced with undertones of her native French. “I am Marguerite Bradley, and this is my son, John.”

Servants brought chairs for the gentlemen, and a nurse took the infant from his mother. When they had completed their greetings and were seated, an awkward silence ensued. Even Nicholas, who seemed always to have something to say, was rendered speechless by the lady’s poise and exceptional beauty.

“I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” Marguerite asked. Her gaze flitted uncomfortably from Hugh’s scarred appearance to Nicholas’s more comely one.

“Yes, quite,” Nicholas said, and they spent a goodly portion of time discussing the best kind of weather for travel and the incident in the wood that morning with Lady Siân and the boar.

Hugh was quiet, his usual state, leaving most of the conversation to Nick. He’d become accustomed to ladies’ reactions to his eye patch, and the scars that emanated from beneath it, and it had no effect on him anymore. Oddly enough, Lady Marguerite also had little effect on him.

He realized, of course, that she was breathtakingly beautiful, but he could not muster much enthusiasm for taking a wife. He tried to appreciate the delicate arch of her black brows, and her flashing violet eyes, the aristocratically straight nose, and voluptuously full lips. But it was useless. Whether or not he wed this woman, Hugh knew he was destined to a life of lonely isolation. For no one would ever come to understand the blackness of his soul.

The music that Queen Catherine brought to Clairmont delighted Siân. Naturally, the queen had her own musicians and minstrels, and they provided an enchanting accompaniment to every evening meal.

As Siân sat in her assigned seat at supper, she wished for some of Lady Marguerite’s elegance and competence. Not only did the countess’s beautiful and saintly appearance do her credit, but as chatelaine of Clairmont, Marguerite kept everything in splendid order. All of Lady Marguerite’s domain was neat and organized. Guests and servants alike were simply perfect.

Siân picked at the food in the trencher she shared with her tablemates as she watched all the noble gentlemen at the dais vie for Marguerite’s attention.

All but Hugh Dryden, Earl of Alldale. He was different from the other Saxons. He alone seemed indifferent to Marguerite’s abundant and obvious charms, and held himself apart from the excessive adulation. Though he kept his face carefully expressionless, Siân noted the familiar spark of intelligence in his eye.

Alldale was truly a man alone, Siân thought. She’d sensed that about him in the woods that morning and had been wondering about him ever since. He was not a handsome man, exactly…. Still, there was something about him: a depth of fortitude and endurance that had surely served him in the past. A man wouldn’t survive the kind of injuries that had damaged and scarred Hugh Dryden without a well of inner strength from which to draw.

Of all the ladies on the dais, only Queen Catherine seemed unaffected by Hugh Dryden’s appearance. The scars that were barely concealed by the leather patch…the ravages to his hand…Siân knew Hugh must be aware of the aversion he aroused, and her heart went out to the quiet and solitary man. She, at least, knew what it was to be alone in the world. Siân doubted that anyone else on the dais knew what that was like.

Alldale joined in the conversation only when addressed, and Siân considered that he might be ill at ease among the highborn folk at his table. He was like one of the hawks she’d seen out in the woods. With craggy features and a taut, sleek power, hawks prized freedom above all else. Flying high above the land, circling, riding the wind, they were masters of their domain, subject to no one.

Hugh Dryden was as well made as any hawk, Siân thought, with powerful arms and chest, and strength enough to carry her without effort through the forest that morning. She doubted there was anything that could ruffle the feathers of this man, outside of being caged here in polite company, listening to the idle chatter of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen.

Her Majesty eventually took her leave of the company, along with several of her ladies and gentlemen. The minstrels stayed in the hall, continuing to entertain those who remained. Siân forced herself to ignore the thinly veiled, lewd remarks made by the young London courtiers with whom she was seated, and cast several furtive glances toward the main table, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of Hugh Dryden. It did her heart good to see that he remained indifferent to the glorious Marguerite. It was gratifying to know that at least one man in England was unaffected by her perfection.

Soon after the queen’s departure, Hugh excused himself and Siân watched as the earl made his way through the hall and out the main doors. She couldn’t help but wonder how and where this solitary man would choose to spend his time.

And as she daydreamed girlishly about the way his powerful arms had lifted her and carried her so chivalrously through the woods, Siân knocked over her goblet and spilled ale all over her blue gown.

It was the only decent one she had left.

Stone walls began to close in as darkness approached and Hugh often sought solace outside, where the open sky was immense and he could breathe easily. He walked through the town of Clairmont and followed a path up a hill, then down into a clearing to a small lake with a rugged, rocky bank.

Hugh sat on a large, flat rock near the water’s edge and threw a stone into the black depths, where it sank with a plunk! Then he threw another.

He breathed deeply.

It had been a strange day. He’d killed a boar with an arrow. Found his target and dispatched the arrow to its mark. Without hesitation, without fail. A quick, clean kill.

He nearly smiled.

Plunk!

The darkness that dwelled inside him day after day refused to be assuaged by that puny success. He was still half blind, still a maimed man. Tonight, as usual, he would be unable to sleep without images of red-hot tongs and sharp little knives plaguing him. He would see his enemy’s leering face and feel the tongs burning his eye; the cruel mallet breaking fingers and toes….

Plunk!

In the two years since his ordeal, it had been the same. He’d been stripped of his honor, of his potency as a man. Held prisoner like a child, he’d suffered every depravity with as much dignity as he could rouse. Though his dignity had been sufficient, his faith and endurance had not. He’d reached a point where he’d closed himself off from consciousness intentionally, rather than suffer the agonies planned by the twisted earl of Windermere. He’d have bargained away his soul for his freedom.

He had given in to a knight’s ultimate disgrace. Despair.

How could he possibly offer himself as husband to the chatelaine of Clairmont? How could he tie himself to that beautiful, accomplished lady? Hugh was a man with nothing more than a title, an estate…a past. There was nothing for him to offer Marguerite of Clairmont. There was no future for Hugh Dryden.

A light drizzle began to fall and a thin mist gathered across the surface of the lake. Hugh wondered if it would thicken much, for he’d lost his appreciation of the beauty of the mist. Where once it had leant an unearthly, magical appeal to his world, it now made him feel trapped, suffocated.

That was something he could not bear. He’d spent days—he could never be sure how many—chained in the darkness. Unsure what his fate was to be. Waiting…always waiting.

From nowhere came the sound of running feet along the packed earth of the path, disrupting his dismal thoughts. Partially hidden by the rocks where he sat, Hugh turned to see if the intruder was visible in the near darkness. Dark clothing concealed the figure as it ran down toward the lake, but the sound of weeping was clearly a woman’s.

Something about the voice was familiar. Untamed, bronzed hair and a dusty blue kirtle came to mind, along with flashing eyes and soft, delicate skin.

Hugh sat still, hoping she would go away. Instead he saw her drop to the ground near some large stone boulders a short distance away, and commence to weeping in earnest.

He did not care to have his peace shattered by this gauche display of emotion. But if he moved off his perch on the rock, he’d surely disturb the young woman, and have to deal with her—a choice he was not pleased to make.

He could end up waiting forever for her to be done with her foolish tantrum, and leave. He saw no choice but to approach her.

How could life be so cruel? Siân wondered as she stifled her sobs. She sat up with her back to a cold, standing stone, and wrapped her arms around her knees, wiping her eyes. She’d never been much of a one for tears, knowing they couldn’t change anything, but the past few weeks had shown her how utterly useless she was—how entirely inept and clumsy. ’Twas no wonder she was to be consigned to a nunnery. What man in his right mind would have her?

Owen was lucky St. Ann’s had taken her so cheaply.

She could not go home—for there was no home anymore, now that her uncles were dead; her aunts and cousins barely eking a living for themselves as it was. Not that Pwll had ever been any great haven for her, but at least she’d understood her place. She’d always known what was expected of her.

The unpretentious people of Pwll were accustomed to seeing her in mended and dusty kirtles. They had come to expect her to instigate frolicking games and pageants, and caroles, and rhyming contests. Siân didn’t understand what was so wrong with merriment; of sharing mirth and joy with others.

She had firsthand knowledge that there was more than enough sorrow in the world, without having to look for it. Her life in Wales had not been an easy one, especially as the daughter of Marudedd Tudor, cohort of Owen Glendower, the Welsh rebel. The Saxon lords—one hateful earl in particular—had been especially severe with her people after the uprising, and Siân had suffered as much as any of the other villagers. Perhaps even more, because she’d been doomed to a life apart—tolerated, but kept separate from the people she considered her own.

Siân and the people of Pwll learned early that closeness to a Tudor only brought tragedy.

Oblivious to the mist in the air, Siân hugged her knees, resting one cheek against them. Sniffling once. Hiccuping.

She had been reluctant to leave Pwll along with everything and everyone familiar. In the weeks since being summoned by Owen to this foreign, Saxon land, Siân was constantly making mistakes. She didn’t understand the ways of the courtiers in London—neither the men and their improper, unwanted advances, nor the women and their vicious taunts and gossip.

Without understanding what she did that was so wrong, Siân disgraced herself time and time again, invoking Owen’s wrath with every mistake.

Owen had made a fine place for himself as Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Now, with King Henry dead, Queen Catherine relied heavily upon Owen for his support and counsel. He could not have a stupid and clumsy sister about. Her incompetence would naturally cast aspersions on him.

Siân leaned back, pulled the sticky cloth of her ale-soaked bodice away from her breast and let the misty rain fall, cleansing her skin of the spilled drink, and her heart of the oppressive thoughts that plagued her. The air was chill, and Siân knew she should return to the castle, but she could not bring herself to confront the ridiculing faces of those who had witnessed yet another ignominious episode in the life of Siân verch Marudedd.

But then, why not?

She would hold her head proudly erect as she walked through the great hall, as she always did, and ignore the sly looks and rude whisperings behind finely manicured, aristocratic hands. She’d lived through enough true horrors in Wales that this, her most recent mishap and Owen’s embarrassingly public censure, hardly rated her notice. So what if she’d spilled her cup of ale? Was everyone in England so infernally perfect, with nary a spill or a speck of dirt anywhere that they could not understand and accept a few small imperfections?

Wiping her tears, Siân got herself to her feet, only to be startled by the earl of Alldale, who’d come upon her without making a sound.

He said nothing, but stood formidably, with his arms crossed over his chest, as if awaiting her explanation for being there.

Siân, having already worked herself up into a defiant, peevish mood, raised her chin. “If you’ve come to laugh at my lack of grace, my lord—” she started to push past him “—rest assured that I am well aware of my shortcomings. I’ve—”

“Look!” Hugh grabbed her elbow and gently guided her back against the rock where she’d sat moments ago, crying. Their presence was concealed as he turned her to look toward the movement he’d noticed in the distance behind her. “Men are gathering in the mist.”

Siân peered down the shoreline, and forgot her own small troubles instantly. Directly north of them, were men leading their horses to the water. They did not appear to be Clairmont people. “They’re wearing plaid,” she said in hushed tones. “We’ve heard that Scottish raiders have been attacking the town and stealing livestock!”

Hugh knew that Richard Bradley had met his death leading Clairmont’s defense against just such Scottish marauders. “Would you estimate…” he asked “…about thirty of them over there?”

Siân peered into the mist. “Yes,” she said, realizing that he didn’t trust his own sight. “But there are more, with wagons—still making way down the hillside.”

Hugh shot his gaze abruptly to the northward hills and realized Siân was correct about the others. He hadn’t noticed them before. She had a keen eye, even with her sight obscured by tears. Looking down into her guileless face, Hugh gave a fleeting thought as to what had made her weep, and resisted the urge to touch her face, to wipe the tears from her flushed skin.

His spine stiffened with the odd notion. She could find her comfort from her brother, or from one of the courtly ladies back at the castle. Siân Tudor certainly had no need of his kind words, even if he knew any. “We’ll need to get back to Clairmont and alert the men,” Hugh said as he took Siân’s elbow and drew her back to the footpath.

“They seem very well equipped, My Lord,” Siân said. “This will be devastating to Clairmont.”

“Not if we’re prepared,” Hugh replied gravely.

They hurried through the light rain, running through the town and up to the castle. Both Siân and Hugh were soaked through when they reached Clairmont’s outer bailey. “Go and get those wet clothes off,” Hugh ordered her.

“I’m coming with you,” she said defiantly.

Unwilling to waste time arguing, Hugh proceeded to the great hall, where Lady Marguerite and many of her noble guests were gathered around talking, laughing and watching a pair of jugglers, while the queen’s musicians continued to play their festive music.

Hugh spotted Nicholas Becker, standing with Lady Marguerite, and he made his way toward the handsome pair, thinking that Nick was a much more suitable swain than he was.

“Hugh!” Nicholas exclaimed. He glanced at Siân, who stood a little behind Hugh. “You’re soaked!”

Ignoring his friend’s words, Hugh spoke urgently. “There are Scotsmen gathering at the lakeshore beneath the northern hills, preparing for attack,” he said. “The knights need to ready themselves for battle.”

Marguerite blanched white and started to sway. Nicholas was closest, and caught her before she fell, then swept her up off her feet, causing a stir among the guests in the hall. “Sir George will know the chain of command,” he said, “best consult him.” Then he turned and carried the lady out of the hall and up the main stairs.

Hugh’s appearance with Siân in the hall had caused more than a minor disturbance, so they did not have to go looking for Lady Marguerite’s steward. Sir George quickly found Hugh amid the revelers who had stopped their amusements and were already questioning him. Hugh spoke of the developing threat near the lake, and the crowd in the hall quickly dispersed—the noble-women fled to areas of safety, the knights headed for the barracks to arm themselves.

Hugh and Sir George went down to rouse the troops, then headed for the armory where Hugh began issuing orders as he put on his armor.

“Send runners into town to rouse the people,” he said as a young squire helped him to fit his jack over his hauberk. Sleeves and pauncer were added, then sword and dagger.

“But, my lord—”

“Have all able-bodied men remain in the town, but send everyone else up here,” Hugh ordered. “Have the people round up their livestock and herd their animals inside the castle walls. Stress the importance of speed and stealth.”

“But, my lord,” Sir George protested, “we must have a plan. We cannot just—”

“This is the plan, Sir George,” Hugh said. “What did Lord Richard do when faced with an enemy attack?”

“We were never forewarned before, so the earl always met the enemy face-to-face,” the old squire said, “head-to-head on the field of battle.”

“It’s time for a new tack,” Hugh said with authority. He had assumed leadership for lack of another to do so. “We’ll protect the townspeople as best we can by removing them to the castle. Ah, Nicholas,” he said, taking note of his friend’s appearance in the barracks.

Nicholas was stunned by the sight that greeted him. Hugh had shown little interest in anything, his lengthy malaise certainly due to the tortures he’d withstood at Windermere Castle. Yet here he stood now, as formidable as he’d ever been, arming himself for battle and issuing orders as if he’d never lost an eye, a finger, a toe…Never been chained to a wall and forced to witness the atrocities committed against a defenseless old crone.

“Don’t gape, Nick,” Hugh said as he picked up his quiver of arrows. “Arm yourself.”

And as Nicholas began putting on his armor, it crossed his mind that it was unfortunate they hadn’t found a war in which to involve themselves before this.

“Is it possible the Scots know that Queen Catherine is here with young Henry?” Hugh asked Sir George, his astute mind quickly calculating all possibilities, and surprising Nicholas yet again.

“It is doubtful, my lord,” the aging knight replied pensively. “Her Majesty has been here less than a week—not nearly enough time for the Scots to muster a force of fighters such as you have described.”

Hugh let the matter rest, although he was far from satisfied that Sir George was correct. Whether or not the Scots knew Catherine was here, it was up to Clairmont to see that King Henry’s heir and his mother were kept safe. “How many archers have you?”

“Twenty-two, my lord,” George said, answering Hugh’s question.

“And foot soldiers?”

“Thirty-five…give or take,” George replied.

The attack would likely come at midnight, since that had been the Scots’ most common strategy, though Hugh learned that the Scottish raiders were an unpredictable lot. Nothing was certain, other than the fact that haste was essential.

As the men made ready for battle, activity within the castle walls increased. Siân had disappeared some time before, and Hugh assumed she’d gone to find dry clothes. Instead he found her standing in the rain in the inner bailey, amid wheelbarrows and small coops, wagons and livestock, directing the newly arriving towns-people to shelter, along with their children and animals.

Vexation possessed him as he observed her dripping, wet hair, the sopping blue gown that fit her like a second skin, the shivers she couldn’t conceal. She looked small and vulnerable. “Fool woman,” he muttered, coming up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He turned her toward the stone steps of the castle and gently guided her up, ignoring her objections all the way.

“There is work to be done, my lord,” Siân protested as they moved through the hall to the castle stairs. “The people do not know where to go. Children are frightened and—”

“You are going to catch your death,” Hugh interrupted, escorting her down the gallery where his own sleeping room was located. “Which of these is your chamber?”

Siân stopped in her tracks, a single bleak wall sconce lighting her angry face. “You cannot bully me so, my lord.”

“You need a keeper, my lady!” he said, raising his voice for the first time in recent memory.

Shocked by his insult, Siân’s chin began to quiver. “I do not!”

“Then behave as if you do not!” Hugh bellowed with irritation. “Get out of those clothes!”

“No!” Siân crossed her arms and stood toe-to-toe with him.

“God’s Cross, woman, you try my patience,” Hugh said, exasperated. She’d also wrenched more emotion out of him than he’d allowed in the past two years. Annoyance, aggravation. An idiotic sense of protectiveness. “What could possibly be so difficult about changing into dry things?”

She dropped her hands to her sides and glanced away self-consciously. Then she spoke truthfully. “I…I have no others.”

“Surely you…” He let his words fade as he saw the truth in her wary eyes. “Nothing presentable?” he asked gruffly.

She shook her head.

Owen had arranged for two acceptable gowns to be made for his sister when she’d arrived in London, but had seen no need for any more since she was to be pledged to St. Ann’s. Siân would soon be wearing the rough, brown woolen tunic of the convent nuns, so any more fine gowns would be a waste of Owen’s rare and precious coin.

Refusing to be thwarted, Hugh put his hand on Siân’s back and ushered her into his own room, kicking the door shut behind him. Siân, taken by surprise at first, began sputtering protests, but Hugh disregarded her words as he threw a few sticks on the smoldering fire. Then he pulled her over to the hearth where he turned her roughly and began untying the wet laces that fastened up the back of her bodice.

“My lord!” Siân cried, trying to pull away from his touch—the very touch that sent strange and wild tendrils of heat through her chilled body. “This is un-seemly! You cannot—”

“I most certainly can,” Hugh said. “I’ve already saved your foolish life once today, I’ll not see you take ill and die of fever and let my efforts of this morn go to waste.”

“Then I’ll find someone to help me,” she snapped. “Someone more…suitable!”

“Be still, Siân,” Hugh said, ignoring her. “These wet laces are the very devil to open and I have little time.”

“I object, my lord!” she cried, his strong hands on her back making her tingle in agony. What kind of magic did the man possess to cause such feelings? Why had she never felt these strange sensations…this odd yearning before?

It was awful! She had to get away from here, from him, before she was rendered incapable of rational thought, of movement, of escape. His touch was nothing like the soft, unwelcome pawing of the London dandies. The earl of Alldale acted with the potent certainty of a man. His was a bold and commanding touch, with strong hands honed in battle, and Siân could not help but wonder if there was any softness in him at all.

“Your objection has been duly noted, my lady,” Hugh said as he released the final loop of the lace. The stiff, blue gown fell away from Siân’s skin, dropping in a steaming heap to the floor. She was left wearing her thin, linen under-kirtle, which was also soaked, and not nearly as concealing. With her russet hair curling in a wild tangle down her back, she looked especially fragile, like a piece of vividly colored glass reflecting moonlight.

Siân lowered her head, puzzled by the strange feelings coursing through her. Did he feel it, too? she wondered. Did he ever long to be touched with care and tenderness?

Presumably not, she thought, certainly not from her. He’d called her foolish. He’d said she tried his patience. She was naught more than a pest to him.

Hugh stood rooted to the ground for an eternal moment, transfixed by the vision of Siân’s delicate back, her smooth buttocks nearly exposed through the thin material. Thoughts of her soft lips on his rough skin nearly made him tear off his battle gear.

Seeing her tremble suddenly, he gave himself a mental shake, then spun on his heel to reach for the thick woolen blanket from his bed. Quickly, he wrapped Siân in it, unable to avoid enclosing her in his arms momentarily.

With wonder in her deep blue eyes, Siân turned to look at Hugh, a crease of bewilderment marring the perfect skin between her brows. The moment grew thick and heavy as their bodies drew closer to each other. She felt his breath on her face, his heat warming her. Longing to touch him as he’d touched her, she stopped herself, remembering what he thought of her. Siân spoke quietly instead. “I thank you for seeing to my welfare again, my lord. I will try not to bother you again.”

Then she pulled the blanket tightly around herself and fled the earl’s chamber.