A Lily on the Heath 4 (3 page)

Judith passed him the dish of quail stewed in wine and mushrooms, and he scooped out generous servings for her and Ursula before serving himself, pouring the fowl over their bread trenchers. “And who is my best source but you,” she said, passing the stew across to Alynne.

“I’ve not met Warwick personally.” Hugh glanced up at the man in question and studied the unkempt lord for a moment, using his eating knife to spear a small piece of quail. “By the rood, if the man can shave his face, then he could surely have his hair trimmed,” he murmured, chewing thoughtfully. “In truth, Judith, I know little of the man. But why do you ask me?” he said, turning on her with suddenly sharp eyes. “Was he not of an age with Gregory? Surely they knew each other.”

“Aye, they fostered together at Kentworth.” Before she could finish her thought, the king rose from his seat. He was wiping his hands with a cloth, and as the hall settled into expectant silence, he handed the rag to one of the pages who stood at attendance behind the high table.

“This night we have been gifted with the presence of the jongleur Duchande, and he has offered to entertain us this evening. The tables shall be moved back and the
rondelets
and
estampies
shall commence!”

A roar of approval filled the hall, and the serfs and pages moved quickly to pull tables away from the dais. This left an empty space large enough for two dozen or more people to dance. Judith climbed eagerly over the bench, gathering her skirts with her, as several of her friends vacated their finished meals as well.
 

“The last time we danced was on Easter,” said Lady Ursula, her eyes sparkling. “I hope I remember the steps for the
estampie
.”

“’Tis very simple,” Judith told her, catching Ursula’s hand on the left and Alynne’s on the right. They were forming a large circle, or
rondele
. “Follow the music, and stamp your foot on the third count, then hop on the fourth. Ah, you’ll remember once the music begins.”

And so it began. Duchande the jongleur wasn’t traveling alone, for though he played the psaltery, another of his companions played kettledrums and another had a wooden flute. As Judith hopped and stamped and promenaded through the vigorous steps of the fast-paced
estampie
, she couldn’t help but smile broadly. Dancing thus was nearly as enjoyable as watching Hecate take flight, then dart down after her prey, ending with the satisfying sensation of the agile bird settling back onto her leather-covered fist.

Judith glanced at the high table as she danced past, aware that her veil had slipped down and several of her braids were loosening and swirling about her shoulders and elbows. The king and queen were watching the dancers, and so was Lord Warwick. She caught his eye and with a breathless laugh, she stamped her foot hard in time to the music and spun into the next step. Ignoring the stinging vibration from slippered foot meeting solid stone, she dipped and hopped and continued in the circle as the music went on and on.

As she circled around, stamping and hopping and twirling, Judith couldn’t help but feel the attention from the high table settling heavily, implacably upon her.

~*~

The last bloody thing Malcolm
wanted or expected was to be seated next to the king during dinner, but a benefit of that dubious honor was the excellent view of the Great Hall. Another benefit was being served first, and with the most choice of courses and best vintages of wine.

When Mal realized he was quite hungry and that the quality of the food far surpassed anything he’d eaten in months—yet another reason to obtain a wife—he ceased his inward grumbling about having to make conversation with Henry. More oft than not in his experience such conversations ended expensively—either by virtue of costly services such as men-at-arms being committed, time pledged, or fines and taxes levied as the result of a careless tongue boasting about a particularly good harvest or imported goods.
 

And there was always the danger of Henry deciding one’s estate would be an excellent place to stay while journeying through his kingdom—making that the most expensive prospect of all. Mal had known lords who’d emptied their coffers to the last coin to pay for an extended royal visit, and he didn’t want to be one of them. Particularly since he’d just spent the last three years attempting to refill his own after five summers of drought. However, Henry had hardly been in England for two years, and seemed to be intent on his problems in France, so it was likely he wouldn’t be traveling to the north any time soon. Thus Mal settled in to enjoy his meal and allowed the king to complain about the upstart French vassals in Aquitaine that continued to challenge his authority.

It was partway through the second course of stewed quail that Malcolm noticed the vivacious young woman seated three rows away from the dais. She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself, conversing with ladies and men alike, laughing, jesting, gesturing. Everyone seemed to want to speak to her. It wasn’t until she turned and a bit of red-gold hair slipped from beneath her veil that he felt a stab of recognition.

Surely it wasn’t Lady Judith. Mal shook his head mentally and sopped up the last bit of gravy with a crust of bread. The falconer in the meadow had merely put him in mind of her earlier today, and that, combined with the color of this woman’s hair—albeit a color he’d never witnessed
 
on anyone other than Lady Judith—made him see a resemblance where there was none.

But he found himself unable to keep from studying her in the same way a dog couldn’t cease from gnawing on a flea bite. When the music started and she came near the dais to dance with her friends, Mal saw her face clearly for the first time as she stomped and twirled about.
 

It
was
Judith. How could he have doubted it? The woman was as she had ever been—surrounded by a crowd, talking and motioning energetically. Just watching her lithe, graceful figure made Mal twitchy and irritated. Apparently the years had done naught to relax her tongue or settle her boisterous spirit. Even the death of her betrothed at the hand of her powerful cousin Gavin Mal Verne seemed not to have dampened her spirit.

Although Malcolm and Gregory had been peers and trained together as pages then squires before being knighted, they had never been particularly close friends. Gregory had a slick way about him Mal didn’t care for, as well as an overly critical tongue. Aside from that, he’d been betrothed to the beautiful, wealthy young woman who was a favorite of Queen Matilda—a far sight different from Malcolm, whose father had selected a plain, if not biddable, wife for him whose dowry was only a small chest of gold coins and a pair of warhorses.

Still, he would never have wished Gregory harm. And to be slain by his betrothed wife’s cousin was no happy occurrence, regardless of the reason for it. Judith must have been overset and distraught, although clearly she had come to terms with his death.

Malcolm wasn’t able to extricate himself from the company of King Henry until long after the platters and trays had been cleared away, the bottles of wine emptied, and the dancers pled exhaustion. Many of them, including the fiery-haired Lady Judith, left the hall. When Duchante the jongleur sat himself up on a stool to sing a final ballad for the night, Mal couldn’t have been more relieved.
 

As soon as the song ended, he begged leave of the king and queen, citing the need to check on his horse in the stable.
 

Outside, Mal breathed in the fresh night, glad to be quit of the loud, crowded hall with its heavy, smoke-filled air. The enclosed yard, or bailey, was fairly empty except for men-at-arms taking their turn standing watch on the walls above and an occasional serf or other figure rushing off somewhere. Flickering torches studded the turrets and were assisted by a full, pearly moon and a swath of sparkling stars. The night was very well lit.

He had to ask directions to the particular stable where Alpha had been taken, and was told by one of the marshals “’tis the low yonder one, on the way passing the hawk mews.”

Of course that direction put him in mind once again of Lady Judith, and as he strode toward the stable, he wondered if she kept any of her raptors with her at court. Or if she even hunted any longer. And he wasn’t certain why he continued to think of her.

“Malcolm?”

The voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him to a sharp standstill.

“Lord Warwick?”

As if he’d conjured her up with all of his musings, suddenly there was Lady Judith standing at the shadowy doorway to what was presumably the mews.

“Lady Judith,” he said. All at once, he felt tense and uncomfortable, which irritated him even more than…well, than the whole idea of being here. Away from Warwick. And Violet.

“My pardon, my lord, I shouldn’t have greeted you thus. Until this night, I didn’t realize you were Warwick now,” she said, stepping closer and into better light.

“Good evening Lady Judith,” he said, pausing reluctantly. “It has been a long time since we’ve spoken.”

“Aye,” she said, and from behind her, he heard movements inside the mews. “I’ll return in a moment, Tessing,” she called into the building.
 

Mal had a sense of relief she wasn’t out of the keep in the middle of the night without company. Still, if Tessing was the same falconer who’d worked with Judith at Kentworth, the man must be near sixty by now, hardly a deterrent to any drunk or rapacious man-at-arms who meant to cause mischief—or worse. “Where is your man?” he asked. “Are you here in the bailey alone?”

“Alone but for my constant companion.” She produced a slender glint of metal in the form of a dagger. “And Tessing. As well as Sir Holbert. I’m not foolish enough to go about without him or Sir Piall, even in the king’s yard.”

Mal nodded and realized his mind had gone irritatingly blank. He’d never had much to say to Judith—not that her busy tongue would have allowed him any opportunity to speak—and part of the reason was still terribly evident: he found her to be utterly, intimidatingly beautiful. Limned by silvery moonlight, her veil slipped carelessly down to her shoulders. With her elegant, perfectly formed nose and high cheekbones outlined by the pearly light, she appeared even more comely than he recalled. Her brilliant red-gold hair blazed even in the gray night. He forced himself to look away, settling his attention onto the relative safety of her shoulder.
 

“I hope you are well, Lord Warwick,” she said, stepping even closer. Now he must look at her lips, curved into a soft, welcoming smile, and the shape of her eyes—like that of a perfect peach pit. She gave a little laugh. “It feels odd to name you so; for I have still and always did think of you only as Malcolm, a friend of my—of Gregory’s.”

“I care not if you call me Malcolm,” he said with a shrug. Then, realizing she’d given him an opening, he added, “’Twas a tragedy, Gregory’s death. I have heard….” He hesitated. “Is it true Mal Verne slayed him?”

She nodded, her smile fading slightly. “Aye. ’Twas even before Gregory and I were able to marry. But Gavin has overpaid his penance for the deed—and ’twas an unfortunate circumstance all around. Gregory was involved in an ugly scheme—one he should never have been part of. Thus, I hold no grudge against Gavin, and he has finally come to accept that. He is well now, and recently wed. And tell me of your father. Lord John? What happened?”

The pang of grief still nudged at him, though it had been years. “A growth overtook his belly, and he died in his bed after a long illness. ’Twas five years past.”

 
“I’ve heard you only arrived in Clarendon this day. What brings you so far from home?” she asked, and Mal wondered if she meant to keep him conversing all the night.
 

Why did he feel so itchy, so impatient? So…unsure of himself? ’Sblood, he wasn’t the awkward, green boy he’d been when last they met. His irritation with himself grew and he responded more bluntly than he meant. “I’ve come to petition the king, for I’m in need of a wife.”

The moment those words left his lips he realized that for the first time ’twas a possibility—although a far-reaching one—that Judith of Kentworth could be his wife. As soon as the thought formed, a heady rush of heat flooded his body, making him light of head…then was followed immediately by a sharp chill that left him feeling slightly ill. Nay. He wouldn’t even consider the prospect. She was…not suitable for him.

“Did you not wed Sarah of Glawstering?” she asked, seemingly insistent on learning every event that had overtaken his life in the last seven years. Would she soon ask him how many moons it had been since he last saw his mother? Or how many times he’d gone to a shire’s faire?

But despite his desire to end the conversation and get away from the woman, he must respond. “Lady Sarah and I were wed as planned, but a fever claimed her four summers ago.”

“I’m very sorry,” Judith said, her eyes so very large and steady, fastened upon him. Although he couldn’t see their color, he knew they couldn’t have changed from the clear blue sapphire hue they’d been when he and she were younger. “Did you have any children?”
 

A daughter.
But he didn’t say it aloud. “Lady Judith, do you not allow me to keep you from your business,” he said, gesturing to the mews. “I am certain we shall speak again while I’m here at court.”
But as little as possible for the duration of my visit.
For he didn’t care for the unsettled way she made him feel. As if he were a young, green, awkward boy again. “Mayhap I should allow you to continue with your task so Holbert can be relieved before the moon rises too high.”