Candle in the Window (7 page)

“That’s the question, is it not?”
Raymond laughed. “And what will Stephen’s sons say
about such a dismissal?”

“A new generation of war.” Nicholas
sighed. “To burn the earth and bring pestilence to the
land.”

Charles said, “We should have kept our oaths
to—”

“To whom?” William flashed. “My
only oath of fealty is to the sovereign of England, and I know not
who that is.”

“Perhaps God has abandoned us,” Raymond
said with sardonic dismay.

A heavy silence fell as they contemplated the
chaos, then Nicholas roused. “That’s why I like to
fight.”

“You, Nicholas?” William queried.
“
You
like to fight?”
Nicholas was a large man, quiet, jocular when it suited his
purposes. He was not an accomplished knight, yet as an
administrator none could surpass him. What others did with brawn
and might, he did with his clever brain and ability to read others.
If William felt a bit of contempt for Nicholas’s cowardice,
he held it firmly in check. He’d seen Nicholas, as a newly
dubbed knight, return to his older brother’s home to serve
him. He’d seen the brother carried off by the bloody flux
almost immediately, seen Nicholas take control of the estates with
a steady hand that never faltered.

“Come, William, I’m not so
clumsy,” Nicholas protested.

William took refuge in a sip of ale, and
Nicholas’s voice smoothed and thinned. “Perhaps I am,
but I like to watch. Fighting keeps my mind off these weighty
matters over which I have no control. I’m hosting a
tournament on Whitsunday, and William, I wish you could
participate. No knight in England holds himself in full good honor
unless he defeats you.”

William’s voice filled with eagerness.
“A mêlée?”

“Aye,” Nicholas said. “Remember
the time in Chichester your lance broke in the first charge and
your horse was wounded? And you fought on foot and won ransom from
five different knights?”

“I just utilized the first rule of
combat,” William said smoothly, and the others laughed as if
they’d been told a
marvelous joke. William
grinned at their relish. “I equipped myself and my retinue
handsomely that day.”

“But the span of your shoulders measured so
large no hauberk you won could fit you.” Charles chuckled,
easily turned to reminisce.

A voice called from the doorway. “Remember
the time you took that barbarian of Kirkoswald prisoner?”

“Arthur, trust you to avoid the talk of
England’s welfare and appear only to reminisce.”
William’s tone echoed a disdain for the light-minded man
who’d never grown up.

“You look well.” Arthur’s
footsteps pattered across the floor, childlike and frisky, like a
puppy greeting his master.

“I thank you.”

Over the top of William’s head, Arthur spoke
to his hunting companions. “Is he still blind?”

“He is,” William interrupted.
“But he’s not deaf.”

Impervious to William’s frustration, Arthur
poured himself a goblet of ale. “The greatest knight in all
of England, fallen from glory by a single blow. What a
shame.”

“A greater shame to dwell on it,”
Charles suggested. “So shut your mouth, Arthur.”

“I will, but I wonder if his liver’s
turned white?”

William slammed down his cup and rose to his feet,
but Raymond grasped his arm and pulled him back down, saying,
“Do you no harm to the little coward. ’Tis
his
liver that’s white, and his mouth
blathers of matters better left to greater men. Apologize,
Arthur.”

“My liver’s not white!” Arthur
said.

“Apologize, Arthur.” It took only one
demand from Nicholas’s cool, smooth voice, and Arthur mumbled
an apology.

The moment was fraught with unspoken tensions, the
apology unacknowledged by the recipient, and Charles
broke the silence with a false jolliness. “Do
you remember how the barbarian shrieked when you demanded his
horse?”

Their voices droned on, recalling events of past
glory, and Saura set her jaw and gestured. Bartley stood by her
side immediately. “M’lady?”

“Send for young Kimball and Clare at once.
They will want to see these good knights, I am sure, and we need
pages to serve the head table. Order the panter up here to trim the
bread. Summon Lord Peter again. And hurry the meal
arrangements.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

She cocked an ear to the conversation, disliking
its flavor. It contained the potential to destroy William’s
progress. She dated the events at Burke Castle with two labels:
prebath and postbath. Prebath William fought against blindness as
if his refusal to accept his fate would alter his circumstances.
But that day in the bath, William had truly returned. The creed
governing his life motivated him once more and he vanquished
despondency.

Now Saura understood why his vassals and servants
worshiped him. The chair in front of the fire rested bare, no
longer the haven of an angry man. What needed to be done was done
promptly and with no complaint, and what he required was the
guidance to dominate his handicap. In a few short weeks he had
learned everything she could teach him, absorbing knowledge as a
freed prisoner absorbs sunlight. He ate with knife and spoon, he
ordered the work in the stables, he disciplined the boys. Desiring
freedom, he’d ordered that ropes be strung from the castle
into the woods, providing him with a guide along the path he
preferred to walk.

It had been a time of triumph for Saura. Her pupil
proved himself to be a
nonpareil
, and
she had proved herself in a
manner that bemused
and flattered her. She was no longer an outsider, no longer a
temporary chatelaine or a surrogate to be endured. The churls
treated her well, for she had shown she had the ability to capture
their lord’s attention with her feminity. That was a skill
they respected, and it held a power they understood.

Still, it was not the thought of her enhanced
prestige that brought a smile to her face when she lay on her bed
in the dark, but the memory of a man’s strong arms about her
and his golden voice saying, “I don’t know who she is,
but she is unforgettable.”

“Your blindness, William, is such a
tragedy.” Saura jerked back from her dream and clenched her
fists, for Arthur’s voice throbbed with pity. “What do
you do with yourself all day?”

William laughed, a pleasant sound that fooled all
but her trained ear. “I rise and dress with the help of my
pages.”

“Surely your squire lays out your clothes?
But, no,” Charles recalled. “Sir Guilliame removed his
son from your care.”

“Young Guilliame complained most sorely, for
we were fond of one another. He had been with me for six years. But
I urged his withdrawal. I could not complete the boy’s
training to knighthood without the eyes to direct his
progress.” Now William’s pain echoed for all to hear,
but he fought his voice to an even tenor. “I break my fast
with a sop in wine and go out to the stables.”

“Do you not trip and fall?” Raymond
queried, real interest in his tone.

William laughed again, long and heartily, and stuck
his leg out from beneath the table. “Beneath these hose,
chevaliers, are shins bright with black-and-blue bruises, tokens of
encounters with unforgiving wood and stone.” He shrugged.
“My years as a squire handed me worse
punishment for less reward.”

“What reward?” Charles shoved his cup
toward William. “More ale.”

“I’m free to wander in the bailey. As
long as I count my steps and follow my landmarks, I’m never
lost.” William found the cup with his groping fingers and
poured it full. He shoved it back to Charles and refilled his own.
“I walk with cane in hand, practicing until the drag of the
tip on the ground resembles my own touch. With the help of our
cleric, I deal with the estate accounts. And I render judgment in
estate court.”

“You’ve found useful occupation then,
William,” Raymond approved.

“But not pleasant, eh?” Charles joked.
“I remember how you hated the dull days of listening to the
lies of one villein pitted against another, and deciding the
truth.”

“’Tis a fitting duty for me,” he
answered.

“And my thanks, son, for relieving me of
it,” Lord Peter said. His spurs clanged on the stone floor as
he strode in with the dog and two youths dancing at his heels.

“You ride, too, Father,” Kimball
shouted.

“Indeed I do,” William said warmly,
wrapping his arm around the boys who nestled against him.
“With the help of these pages and Lady Saura.”

“You ride your destrier?” Raymond
asked, surprised.

“Nay, I’m not fool enough to try to
ride that fighting steed. They’ve found me a colossal farm
horse, big enough to carry me and young enough to retain its
spirit.”

“And they understand each other,”
Kimball bragged. “Father and the horse think as one, and we
hardly needed to touch the leading rein connected to his
bridle.”

“A leading rein? Like a woman?” Arthur
murmured. “How you must complain about that!”

“Not at all: ’tis necessary,”
William answered curtly.

Lord Peter stepped forward. “Welcome to our
home. My Lord Raymond.” Cheeks brushed lightly as they
embraced. “Nicholas. Charles. Arthur. I do believe you four
have grown!”

Kimball shouted with laughter. “That’s
what he says to me when he hasn’t seen me in a
while.”

The men guffawed and agreed. “So he always
has, to all the lads he’s fostered.”

“A man’s got a choice. If he
isn’t growing, he is shrinking. I hope you always grow in my
eyes, Kimball.”

Calling softly for a stool, Saura relaxed in her
corner. Lord Peter would direct the conversation, and surely he
wasn’t such a fool as to speak endlessly of the clash of arms
that William longed for.

Bartley approached and announced,
“Supper’s ready, m’lady, will ye not come
t’ dine?”

“Nay, Bartley.” She smiled at the
anxious churl, and petted the head of Bula, who had discovered her
in his first circuit of the room and now leaned against her
shoulder. “These gentle knights would unintentionally inform
Lord William of my blindness. Let me direct the dispensing of the
meal from my corner.”

“I’ll bring ye a saumon coffyn,”
Bartley said firmly, “an’ a goblet of wine. The
wine’ll warm ye an’ that fish pie’s tasty
today.”

“Come, chevaliers,” Lord Peter called.
“My farrier tells me the mares in the stable bred clean and
true this season. Let’s go and see the colts.”

Without pause, the conversation veered to horses,
to
halters, to saddles. The men left the hall,
William in their midst, and the serving folk scurried into
action.

The serfs swept the head table clean and laid a
white cloth and overcloth on the board. The salt was placed in the
center while the panter hurried to Saura and asked,
“M’lady, how should we arrange th’ seatin’?
My Lord Raymond is an earl, an’ since the death of his
brother, Lord Nicholas is a baron. Lord Raymond should sit before
th’ salt, but Lord Peter insists he is th’ lord in his
own castle, barrin’ a visit from th’ king.”

“Quite right,” Saura nodded. “So
Lord Peter and Lord Raymond shall sit before the salt. Lord William
shall share a trencher with Nicholas, Lord Peter share a trencher
with Raymond, and Charles and Arthur shall share. Do you arrange it
that way.”

She listened to the preparation for the evening,
ever ready with a suggestion or command. She questioned whether the
room needed light, and now tall candles flickered on heavy iron
stands and torches of resinous wood smoked in wall brackets. She
asked about the meal, and was assured the trestle tables sat at
right angles to the head table, now set with eating knives and
spoons. Two trenchers rested equidistant from the center and
another set toward one end. She heard the buzz as men-at-arms,
castle watchmen, and subtenants filtered in to jostle one another.
For them, she decreed ale to drink as they waited for the nobility
to return. The laws of hospitality had provided an unexpected
bonus: their evening meal was usually a crust of bread and a thick
porridge. The roar of voices echoed deep and full until the
rattling of spurs announced the return of the lords.

Brother Cedric said a brief grace and the working
men turned their ravenous attention to the food. Peace reigned as
they filled the yawning empty spaces of their bellies. Lord
Peter’s squire carved the mutton for the head
table, Kimball and Clare carried the pie and pasties in on
chargers. Servitors raced to satisfy the demands of the lower
tables, and Raymond joked, “Have you discovered a miracle pot
in your kitchen, Lord Peter? For the first time in many years, the
fare of your table is fit for consumption.”

Lord Peter laughed, accepting another slice of meat
on the tip of his knife. “’Tis Lady Saura’s
doing. She bullies us to cleanliness. The cook lives in fear of her
visits.”

“You mean we’ll not go to bed suffering
from a flux of the bowels?” Arthur sneered, and then halted
with his knife in midair. “Lady Saura?”

Already sorry he had revealed his treasure, Lord
Peter chewed and swallowed before saying, “Aye, she’s
one of my wife’s relatives, come to be our
housekeeper.” He deliberately didn’t glance into the
corner where Saura huddled, afraid to draw attention to the
woman.

“Lady Saura,” Arthur murmured.
“The only Lady Saura I know of is Saura of Roget. Now
there’s a treasure. A virtuous maiden and an heiress, but her
stepfather hides her away for fear she’ll be abducted and
married and all those glorious lands taken from his
control.”

William raised his head and Nicholas examined his
alert face with eyes that gleamed with interest.

“How old is she?” William asked.

“Old. She must be…twenty-two? And never
wed. But she’s—”

Clare tripped and spilled the venison stew into
Arthur’s lap. With a shriek, Arthur leaped up and backhanded
the boy into the wall. “Stupid oaf!” Brushing at the
thick wine sauce, he lamented the ruin of his best tunic while
servants rushed to his assistance. When the hubbub had died down,
he turned to chastise the page who had caused
him so much grief, but Clare had disappeared.