Читать книгу His Lady's Ransom - Merline Lovelace, Merline Lovelace - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Madeline spent a restless night, tossing and turning on the thick fur-covered pallet on the floor. Not for anything would she have shared the curtained bed with the other women assigned to the tower chamber. Her long, frightened hours in the dark privy as a child had given her a dislike of confined spaces that she’d never lost. She far preferred a scratchy mattress of straw to the closeness of the wood-framed bed.

The other ladies considered her strange, she knew, to forfeit warm comfort for a mat on the hard floor. Or, worse, they thought her sly beyond words, placing her pallet near the door so that she could slip away unnoticed to go to her lover’s bed. Madeline could have told them of her childhood fright, but her pride refused to admit such silly weakness to any but John. Besides, she’d long since learned not to care what others thought.

So why did the scorn of one particular earl raise her ire so? she wondered irritably, curling her body into a tight ball under the furs. Why did she clench her teeth in the predawn darkness at just the memory of his punishing kiss? Why should she care if he, like all the others, believed her mistress to the king’s son?

‘Twas no disgrace to take a lover, after all. Queen Eleanor herself had postulated the rules for courtly love years ago. Following well-established procedures, a knight pursued his objet d’amour with poetry and song and feats of arms, using all his skills to win his lady’s favor. Once she accepted him as her lover, a lady was bound to her knight even more than to her husband—at least in the songs of the troubadours.

All too often, Madeline acknowledged sardonically, courtly ideals and reality clashed, sometimes with brutal results. More than one lady discovered in the arms of her chivalrous love had been beaten or even killed by her lord. Only last year, one enraged husband had served his wife her lover’s heart on a golden plate, forcing the horrified woman to partake of it before he threw her from a tower window. The queen’s courtiers still argued the lovers’ rights in that sad affair, much good it did the unfortunate pair! The bald fact was that church and canon law gave a husband absolute mastery over his wife, whatever the troubadours might sing.

Which was why Madeline intended to use all her influence with John to ensure that she had a say in the choice of her next husband. Whichever lord she chose, he would not, she decided, bear the remotest resemblance in face, figure or temperament to Ian de Burgh.

She snuggled deeper in the furs, pitying the poor woman given to the man as wife. She knew he was a widower of some years’ standing. Although she didn’t believe the earl quite so barbaric as to cut out a rival’s heart, he would no doubt make a most exacting husband. That lazy smile hid a ruthlessness Madeline had herself tasted of just yesterday. She slid a hand from under the coverings to touch her lips, still swollen and tender from his kiss. How dare he use her so, as though she were some kitchen wench, his for the taking! She hoped with all her being that Lord Ian’s lip throbbed far more painfully than did hers this morn.

“The devil take the man!” Madeline muttered, shoving aside her furs.

The rushes covering the stone floor rustled as the slumbering form on the pallet beside hers stirred. “Be ye awake, mistress?” a sleepy voice asked. “So early?”

“Aye, Gerda. Come, get you up and help me dress. I would attend early mass this morn, that I might break my fast before I ride out to watch the tourney.”

The maid rolled over on one broad hip, yawning prodigiously and scratching her hair under the nightcap she wore as protection against the chill night air. At her movement, the other maids began to stir, as well. Soon the chamber was filled with the rustle of straw pallets being rolled up and the clatter of wooden shutters thrown open to allow in the faint glow of dawn. One by one the other ladies burrowed out from the curtained nest and began their morning toilets.

“Will ye wear your red?” Gerda asked, rummaging through the tall parquet-fronted chest that held the ladies’ robes.

“Aye, and be careful with that veil!”

Madeline’s warning came too late. The gossamer silk head covering Gerda reached for snagged on a wooden peg and tore. The maid’s brown eyes flooded with remorse as she held up the ruined strip of crimson silk.

Shaking her head, Madeline poked two fingers through the ice encrusting the washbowl, then bent to splash her face with the frigid water. ‘Twould do no good to remonstrate with the maid. She had the clumsiest hands in all of England. A sturdy lass whose mother had attended Madeline as a child bride, Gerda had neither her dam’s light touch with delicate linens nor her skill with the needle. In truth, she was more apt to step upon the hem of her mistress’s robe and rend it than not. But, though she tried Madeline’s patience, she was fiercely loyal and devoted to her mistress. In Madeline’s mind, such loyalty more than compensated for the girl’s heavy hands. Still, there were times…

“Here, let me.”

Shivering in her thin wool shift, Madeline took the scarlet bliaut from the maid’s fumbling fingers. She pulled the robe over her head and thrust her arms through its wide fur-trimmed sleeves, then twisted sideways to reach the laces. A rich Burgundian red wool edged with sable, the bliaut fitted tightly over her bust and waist, then flared in thick folds over her hips. Sitting on a low stool, Madeline pulled on brightly embroidered stockings and broad-toed boots. She winced as Gerda fumbled a comb through the heavy mass of her hair, then rebraided it with rough, if competent, hands. Bending to retrieve the wooden pins the maid had dropped for the second time, Madeline herself stabbed at her scalp to anchor the braids to either side of her head. At this rate, she’d miss not only early mass, but the escort to the tourney field, as well.

At the thought of being confined to the castle all day, Madeline threw her fur-lined mantle over her shoulders and hurried out of the tower room. Lifting her skirts to avoid the occasional droppings deposited by the hounds during the night, she sped through the drafty halls. In the distance she heard the faint echo of the priest’s voice lifted in holy song. Breathless, she rounded the corner that led to the chapel—and careered headlong into a solid, wool-clad chest.

The man she collided with wrapped an instinctive arm around her waist. Madeline found herself held firmly against a hard, muscled plane. A chuckle rumbled in his broad chest under her ear.

“’Ware, sweetings. Such impetuous haste is ever the downfall of man and maid.”

Biting back a groan, Madeline fought the urge to bury her face in the smoky wool. She had no difficulty recognizing the rolling north-country burr of the man who held her, or the huge feet of the one who stood beside him. Drawing in a deep breath, she drew back slowly and raised her eyes to Ian de Burgh’s.

The laughter faded from his eyes when he saw who it was he held. His arm dropped to his side, freeing her.

Madeline stepped back. “Your pardon, my lord.” She forced the words out through stiff lips.

“Lady Madeline!” William’s exclamation drew her attention. “I hope you took no hurt.”

She managed a small laugh. “Nay, none, except to my dignity.”

Will stepped forward and made as if to take her arm.

“Truly,” Madeline snapped with something less than her usual mellifluous charm, wanting only to be away from both of them, “I’m fine. ‘Tis your brother who took the brunt of my charge. Look instead to him.”

Undaunted by her sharpness, Will gave a good-natured laugh. “In truth, he does need someone to protect him from the women of this castle. Yestereve he was marked by a jealous wench, and today he’s all but brought to his knees by a lady half his size.”

At the lighthearted words, Madeline’s gaze flew to the discolored swelling on the earl’s lower lip. Her own mouth curled in a faint sneer. “A jealous wench?”

Will’s grin widened. “Well, that’s how I describe her. My brother’s description is not fit for the ears of a lady.”

One sable brow arched. “Oh, is it not?”

“’Tis not fit for polite company, at any rate,” Ian drawled.

Madeline bit back a gasp at the implied insult behind his words. ‘Twas plain to her from his careless tone that he chose not to number her among the “polite.” At that moment, with the icy drafts swirling about the hem of her skirts and the distant chanting from the chancel sounding faint in her ears, Madeline swore she would bring this man low. She didn’t know how, nor when, but she would see him humbled if ‘twas the last thing she did on this earth.

One sure way, she fumed, would be to tell Will just how his esteemed brother had earned that bruise on his lips. She could imagine the young knight’s reaction to the knowledge that his hero had molested the lady he himself revered. She debated within herself, torn between the desire to hurt the earl and a reluctance to do the same to Will.

De Burgh must have read her intentions in the angry glitter that sparked her eyes. His own narrowed, and he took a half step toward her. His brother’s voice forestalled whatever it was he would have said to her.

“My lady…”

With a start, Madeline saw that Will had stepped to her side. She glanced up and saw shy devotion writ plain on his handsome face. Sighing, she realized that she could not willfully cause the boy pain to satisfy her own need to prick the earl.

“If it please you, I would beg a favor to wear in the tourney.”

When she saw the sudden scowl on the earl’s face, Madeline knew she had the instrument of her revenge at hand. She had no intention of letting Will’s infatuation ripen into something deeper, but de Burgh didn’t believe that. So be it! If he wished to worry and stew, she’d give him something to worry about. She was a master at this game he’d accused her of playing. She’d learned it from Queen Eleanor herself, a woman who’d enthralled two kings. Madeline would see that Will took no real hurt of her, but, by the Virgin, she’d make his brother squirm in the process.

Slipping easily into a role that was second nature to her, she gave a tremulous sigh of regret. “Alas, Sir William, I can’t bestow that which is already given. Another knight has claimed a token of me.”

“Then I’ll wrest it from him by force of arms,” Will bragged with the utter confidence of youth. “Only tell me who carries it, and I’ll see that we ride on opposing sides.”

“La, sir, you know I cannot reveal my champion’s name.”

The merry little laugh, the sidelong glance from beneath lowered lashes, the slight pout—all were instinctive to a woman schooled in such sophisticated badinage. Madeline performed them with a skill that brought a flush of desire to Will’s open face and a flash of disgust to the earl’s eyes. Telling herself that she was well pleased with both reactions, Madeline ignored the man and smiled prettily at the youth.

“Come, sir, let me pass, else you will miss the call to arms.”

“My lady—”

“Enough, halfling.” De Burgh’s voice held no hint of the anger Madeline saw in the cold blue of his eyes. “Do you not see the lady has made her choice, and ‘tis not you.”

“Not this day,” Will conceded cheerfully. He reached for Madeline’s hand. “But mayhap another.”

When he lifted her fingers to his lips, Madeline couldn’t help but be touched by the reverent salute. Her gaze softened as it rested on the golden head bent over her hand. Any tender feelings stirring in her breast died aborning, however, when she looked up and met the earl’s icy glare. Throwing him one last, mocking glance, she tugged her hand free.

“Aye, mayhap another, day,” she told Will sweetly. Lifting her skirts, she glided by the two men.

With every ounce of willpower he possessed, Ian fought the urge to reach out and grasp the woman as she swept past. He wanted to shake her, as much for keeping Will dangling on her silken strings as for the taunting look she’d given him. Her mocking glance told him more clearly than words that she had thrown down the gauntlet. The battle between them was now a full-scale, if undeclared, war. One she would not win, Ian vowed, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

Will’s bemused voice cut into his preoccupation.

“Do you think ‘tis the king’s son who claims her token?”

Ian drew in a quick breath and faced his brother. He’d never coddled Will, nor spoken less than the truth to him. “If half the rumors whispered about him and the Lady Madeline are true, he claims more than a token.”

“Nay, he does not.”

The flat assertion brought Ian’s head around slowly. “You have some knowledge of the matter that others lack?”

Will shrugged. “I know you think me besotted, Ian, and well I may be. But I’m not a fool. I…I’ve watched my lady from afar these many weeks, and seen her in every mood. Laughing. Playful. Sometimes scolding, often mischievous. But never, never, have I seen wanton.”

Ian clenched his jaw as he conjured up an image of Lady Madeline bent over his arm in a winter-swept garden, her small bosom heaving and her huge eyes alight with emerald flames.

“She…she has a flirtatious nature,” Will admitted hesitantly, then flushed, as if it ill became a knight to acknowledge his lady’s faults, “but not a licentious one.”

At the simple declaration, Ian felt his temper push hard against its careful bounds. “Will, listen to me. This lady is not for you. Whether she beds with them or not, she plays with princes.”

A troubled frown creased Will’s forehead. “I know. And I fear for her, Ian. Although I don’t believe the rumors about my lady, there are those who do. Lady Isabel de Clare, for one. She looked ready to claw Lady Madeline’s eyes the last time she was at court.”

Ian drew in a slow breath. The jealousy of John’s betrothed was no light matter. A great heiress, Isabel was known for her temper, and was not above arranging a rival’s death. It wouldn’t be the first time a mistress was so disposed of. Queen Eleanor herself was rumored to have poisoned her husband’s leman, Rosamund the Fair, and thus earned the unceasing enmity of the king who had once loved her.

To his disgust, Ian felt a new worry curl deep in his belly. His concern was Will, he told himself, only Will. But the thought of Madeline’s gleaming eyes dulled with pain and her red, ripe lips blue with the cold of death made his hands close into tight fists. Damn the woman, he thought, even as his agile mind worked at the knots that now seemed to ensnare them all.

Will’s unaccustomed solemnity vanished. He grinned at his frowning brother with all the bravado of a newly knighted youth. “The only recourse is for me to challenge the prince in the tourney today. I’ll dump him on his arse and claim my lady’s favor, as well as a fat ransom from the king for his precious son!”

“And you think yourself not a fool,” Ian replied dryly.

Will laughed and clamped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Come, we’d best find our squires and arm, lest we miss the tourney altogether. If the bishops have their way, we may not have many more to ride to.”

As he strolled through the vaulted corridors with Will, Ian almost wished that the bishops had indeed prevailed in their futile attempt to gain the king’s sanction against the tourneys held in conjunction with feast days. The church, it seemed, objected to the carnage that often resulted, claiming it profaned the holiness of the occasion.

Having participated in many tourneys, Ian knew well that death was not an infrequent occurrence in the great, brawling free-for-alls, in which squadrons of mounted knights charged across a broad plain at opponents coming from the opposite direction. Although the object was to take prizes for ransom and not to kill or maim, combatants fought with the same sharpened lances and swords they used in battle. More than one knight, stunned from repeated blows to the helm, fell from his saddle and was trampled to death. Others died from wounds inadvertently given in the heat of battle. The king’s fourth son, Duke Geoffrey, traitor that he was, had died just last year during a tournament given in his honor by King Philip of France.

His mouth grim, Ian swore a silent vow that the king’s youngest and favorite son would not meet a similar fate at Will’s hands this day. Nor would he allow his brother to earn the prince’s rancor by battling with him to win Lady Madeline’s favor.

Ian had time yet for a word with the marshal who arranged the order of the tourney. He’d make sure Will rode with, and not against, the prince. And then, he swore savagely, he’d put an end to the Lady Madeline’s game once and for all.

Cursing the female who had brought them all to this dangerous pass, Ian strode into his chamber and bellowed for his squire.

“Look, Lady Madeline, is that not the cub who would claim your favor? The one with the bordure d’or around his chequy shield? There, leading the charge?”

Madeline’s breath frosted in the cold March air as she brushed her veil out of her eyes and followed the direction of Lady Nichola’s outstretched arm. Muted thunder from a hundred or more pounding hooves rolled up from the valley below. Squinting at the galloping, unformed mass of men that charged across the flat valley floor, Madeline tried to find the checkered blue-and-white shield bordered in gold that Lady Nichola alluded to.

“Nay, I cannot tell. They’re too far afield.”

“I wish we could descend this hill and go closer to the fray,” one of the other women complained. “I can see naught from here.”

“’Tis not safe,” the squire charged with escorting them repeated. “The battle rages where it will.”

Lady Nichola straightened in her saddle. “Look, Madeline! There he is! Isn’t that your young swain, riding against the prince?”

Madeline put up a hand to shield her eyes and peered through the morning haze.

“Sweet Jesu, there’s a man,” her companion murmured breathlessly. Then she gasped. “But ‘tis not your cub after all. ‘Tis his brother. See, there’s the golden hawk of St. Briac quartered in the corner of the shield.”

‘Twas indeed Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, who led the charge, Madeline saw at last. As she watched, biting her lower lip, he bore down on an armored knight mounted on a magnificent black destrier that bore the prince’s trappings. Above the thunder of hooves striking hard earth, the sound of steel ringing against steel rose in cold air.

“Take him,” Madeline whispered fiercely, wanting John to triumph as much as she wanted the earl to take a blow. “Knock him senseless.”

“Oh, he did!” her companion trilled in delight. “He did.”

To her profound disappointment, Madeline saw that the wrong man had carried the day. ‘Twas John who wavered in his saddle, clearly dazed from a blow that had slipped under his guard and dented his golden helm. Fear knotted suddenly in her chest as she watched him tip slowly sideways.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t let him fall, she prayed desperately, her hands pressed to her mouth. With a sob of thanksgiving, she saw de Burgh spur his mount next to the black and catch the stunned man before he could slip out of the saddle. When John regained his seat, de Burgh leaned forward to catch the black’s reins, then threaded through the surging mass to the woven wicker pen where squires waited with fresh arms and saw to the needs of captured knights.

The lists, as the safe haven was termed, lay directly below the hill where the women watched. In some disgust, Madeline saw de Burgh remove his great bucket-shaped helm and run a hand through sweat-flattened, sun-streaked hair. The prince did the same. Even from her high perch, Madeline could see John’s rueful laugh as his gloved fingers measured the dent in the gilded metal. The two warriors, only moments before fierce enemies, now stood side by side in companionable accord.

The battle was done soon after that. A few knights fought on, their frenzied fight carrying them far across the broad valley and through a small village that lay in their path. Frightened serfs peered out of mud-and-wattle huts as the war-horses churned their fresh-turned plots into a muddy morass. But one by one the victors claimed their prizes, and the clash of sword on shield slowly died away. The weary knights retired, captives in tow, to the lists.

The sound of horns cut through the cold air as the king himself rode out to acknowledge the victors of this engagement. Although now well past his fiftieth summer, King Henry was still a formidable figure in the saddle. He sat tall and straight, the golden lion emblazoned on his tunic catching the sun’s gleam. Pausing before his son, he said something to John, who shrugged. The king rested his forearms across the cantle and leaned down to hold discourse with Lord Ian.

They were settling the terms of the ransom, Madeline knew. De Burgh would claim John’s destrier, of course. The costly war-horse, worth more than a small manse, always went to the victor. Most like, Ian would also come away richer by a fortified castle or two—as if a person of his wealth needed them, Madeline sniffed. Of a sudden, her enthusiasm for the tourney faded.

“’Tis colder than a sow’s belly out here,” she said to Lady Nichola. “What say you we return to the castle?”

The other woman laughed and tossed her veil over her shoulder with a coquette’s practiced ease. “As you will. I’ll admit my toes are like to fall off, they’re so frozen. I just hope I get the use of them back before the banquet and dancing tonight.”

As they galloped across the winter-browned earth, their escort at their heels, Madeline decided to use the hours this afternoon to prepare for the great feast that would celebrate the tourney. Will would follow at her heels most of the night, if she let him, which would displease his brother mightily. If she had to deflect de Burgh’s cold glances all night long, she needed the armor of her best looks. Ignoring a twinge of guilt at using the boy as a pawn in what had become a silent war between her and his brother, Madeline plotted her strategy with all the skill of a great marshal.

The first step in her campaign, she decided, was a bath. She knew the servants would be heating great caldrons of water for the returning knights. A few copper pennies delivered by Gerda would divert one of the wooden tubs, and sufficient buckets of hot water to fill it, to the ladies’ bower.

She had barely stepped into the steaming water, dotted with scattered rose petals, when a knock sounded on the door to the tower room. Madeline sank down in the wooden tub until the scented water covered her shoulders. Then Gerda lifted the latch.

“Aye?”

A gangly page in parti-color hose and a loose knee-length tunic stood on the threshold. His eyes rounded at the sight of Madeline in the tub.

“Don’t ye be gawking at my mistress, lad,” Gerda admonished. “What do ye want?”

“I have a message for the Lady Madeline de Courcey from Ian, Lord de Burgh.”

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Madeline plucked a linen towel from the stool beside the tub to cover her breasts and swiveled to stare at the page. What? Was the battle between her and the earl to be joined so soon? “Well, what is it?”

“Your pardon, lady, but Lord Ian requests your presence immediately.”

Madeline felt her jaw sag at the imperious summons.

“He awaits you in the solar just behind the great hall. I’m to lead you to him.”

She waved a wet, disdainful hand. “Inform the earl that I’m otherwise engaged. He may seek me out after the banquet this eve if he desires discourse with me.”

“But, my lady…”

“Shut the door, Gerda. The draft chills the water.”

A satisfied grin curved Madeline’s lips as she slid back down, letting the warm water wash over her shoulders once more. She rested her head against the rim of the tub and wished she could see de Burgh’s face when he received her response.

She regretted that wish mightily not ten minutes later. She was on her knees, head bowed for Gerda to rinse the soap from her hair, when the wooden door to the tower room crashed open.

Gerda shrieked and jumped back. The jug she’d been using to sluice water over her mistress slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

Madeline sloshed around in the tub, pushing through the curtain of hair that cascaded over her face. Soap stung her eyes and blurred the figure who stepped into the chamber.

“My lord, ye cannot come in here!” Gerda’s dismayed warble had Madeline scrabbling for a linen towel.

“Get you gone. I have business with your mistress.”

“Are you mad?” Madeline swiped the soap from her eyes, then clutched the linen frantically over her breasts. “Get out of here!”

De Burgh ignored her, addressing the maid. “You may wait outside and attend your lady when I have said what I will to her.”

Gerda sent Madeline a helpless look.

“Go,” she ordered. “Go and summon the king’s guard.”

When the maid scuttled from the chamber, de Burgh turned to face Madeline. His blue eyes surveyed her coldly, from the soap-filled mass of hair that tumbled over her shoulders to the swell of her breasts under the wet linen.

He must have come straight from the tourney, she thought furiously. He’d removed his great helm and the greaves that protected his shins, but under his mud-spattered tunic he still wore the heavy mail shirt and padded gambeson. The added weight made him look huge and formidable and altogether too fearsome.

Madeline ground her teeth at being caught on her knees before this man, but she could not rise without baring more than the towel could cover. Still, she refused to cringe before him.

“In the future, lady, you will attend me when I summon you.”

Her chin lifted. “In the future, sir, you are not likely to issue any summons. You will be dead when the king hears of this!”

His lips curled in a slow, predatory smile that sent chills down Madeline’s bare back. “I think not.”

“If not dead, then blind,” she spit out. “I’ll see your eyes put out with hot pokers! How dare you intrude upon my privacy!”

He strolled forward, his spurs scraping the rushes. Madeline fought the urge to shrink back against the far rim of the tub. Shivers raced down her spine, caused in equal part by the cold air wafting on her back and the fury that sizzled in her veins. Angrily she flung her hair over her shoulder and glared at him.

He seemed to find her defiance amusing. “A woman who defies her lord is not entitled to privacy. If he so wished, he could strip her before all and inflict what punishment he would upon her.”

“You took one too many sword blows to your helm this day, sir. You are not my lord, nor have you any say in what punishments I may or may not incur. I am in the king’s keeping.”

“No longer, lady.”

The flat assertion made her clutch her towel in suddenly tight fingers. “Wh—what? What say you?”

“You are mine now, as are your lands and revenues. To hold and to use as I will, until I decide where to settle you.”

Her voice sank to a disbelieving croak. “Yours?”

“Aye. I won you in the tourney.” A sardonic gleam flared in the blue eyes hovering over her. “You, my lady Madeline, are the Lord John’s ransom.”