Chivalrous (4 page)

Rosalind placed a gentle hand upon Gwendolyn's shoulder. “Come, m'lady. We shan't do any good standing here all day.”

They linked arms and leaned upon one another for support as they trudged through the courtyard.

“Ugh! I am being such a girl. Enough of these blasted tears.” Gwendolyn pressed thumb and forefinger against her eyes. “They will do me no more good than staring at an empty lane.”

Despite her heavy heart, Rosalind determined to lighten the moment. “You are right, my lady. Besides which, you look like a swine with the pox when you cry.”

“Oh, shut up,” Gwendolyn said, but she gave Rosalind a shove and began to chuckle just as she had hoped.

Rosalind pasted a false smile upon her face. “We must appear pleasant for your father. I do hope to please him.”

“No one pleases Father. The best you can wish for is anonymity.”

Rosalind sucked in a sharp breath. The servants had been telling her horror stories of Lord Barnes ever since she arrived, but she had assumed them to be exaggerated. Gwendolyn rarely spoke of the man, but when she did an edge of fear tinged her voice, which Rosalind would not have thought possible in her mistress had she not heard it with her own ears. “Perhaps now that the war is over, he might be in a better mood.”

“Father creates his own wars.”

As they made their way up the broad stone steps, a booming voice emerged from the portal. “Gwendolyn! Where is that ungrateful chit? Gwendolyn, join us at once.”

Gwendolyn jumped.

Rosalind took Gwendolyn's hands in her own. She inspected the gorgeous concoction of braids and curls she had devised for Gwendolyn's thick, golden hair. The rich green gown with gold edging clung to her mistress's enviable curves to perfection. Its long flowing sleeves nearly swept the floor. She looked every inch the lady.

Pleasure surged through Rosalind at the realization that she had served her mistress well. “You are no longer a little girl. There is nothing to fear.”

“You do not know him.” Gwendolyn's voice sounded breathy.

Rosalind gave her hands a squeeze. “But I know you. You are strong and courageous. Think of your father as an opponent on the jousting field and face him with all the confidence I know you possess.”

Gwendolyn nodded but did not seem convinced.

“And I shall go with you.” Rosalind offered an encouraging smile.

Gwendolyn shook her head. “Father will not want extra servants about. You will only put yourself in harm's way.”

“Are you certain?”

“Completely.”

Perhaps Gwendolyn was correct. Rosalind would not wish to anger the baron upon their very first meeting. Much as she wished to support her mistress, she had her family to consider as well.

At that moment, a lone rider crashed into the courtyard, flinging himself from his horse and dashing up the stairs, thrusting Rosalind aside in the process.

“Hello to you too, Reginald,” Gwendolyn muttered to the retreating back of her dark-haired eldest brother. He offered half a wave without turning to look at her.

“I hate to leave you thus, Lady Gwendolyn,” Rosalind said, looking from the great hall to her mistress and back again.

Gwendolyn seemed to gather some of her fighting spirit. “I insist. Go.”

With a backward glance over her shoulder, Rosalind headed down the passage that skirted the great hall and led up the stairway to the bedchambers. In their hurry this afternoon, they had left Gwendolyn's room looking like a tempest had struck. Gowns in rainbow shades of silk and linen festooned the furniture. Pots of paint sat scattered upon the table. Jewels dripped from a wooden chest.

And Gwendolyn had no use for any of it.

Rosalind picked up a burgundy gown and shook it out.

In the early days Rosalind had resented Gwendolyn over her lack of appreciation for the many blessings she had been afforded, but now Rosalind understood. Her mistress wanted only to be free.

Rosalind was her own woman. She would have her fun, enjoy her life in the castle, live out romantic adventures with a few handsome knights, and someday settle down to her own husband and family. Perhaps she would even marry a wealthy merchant or a castle steward, as her mother hoped.

But Lady Gwendolyn was a commodity to be bought and sold.

By the time Gwen reached the great hall, Father seemed to have forgotten her entirely. In her stead, he bellowed at Reginald.

“ . . . some sort of jest! Surely you have not been off at the duke's castle while my serfs laze about wasting time.” Gwendolyn's father—with his dark beard, unruly hair streaked with silver, and mammoth frame—sat ramrod straight in a cushioned chair upon the raised dais.

Mother sat next to him, a delicate golden flower by comparison, shrunken into her own chair with a look of pain marring her pretty face.

Gwen turned a deaf ear to Father's rant and sank into the side of one of the huge purple tapestries featuring the Barnes's white-wolf emblem that hung from the stone walls. She supposed the banners were meant to appear festive, but the wolf's bared teeth had ever reminded her of her father's angry snarl, and she had long preferred to hide behind them rather than face the beast.

How many dinners had she spent invisible behind the tap
estries? But she was too old for such nonsense—besides which, her large form would surely make a lump in the fabric.

“Why did I trust you? Worthless fool, I told you, there are ways around Justus's mandates. I taught you better.” Father barely raised his voice, but he had a special way of adding a barbed edge to each word, and the bulging blue vein on his temple bespoke his anger.

Reginald kept his gaze to the floor. “Yes, Father. I tried to live up to your esteemed reputation, but I lack your experience and wisdom.”

Smart man not to argue with Father. It only fueled his fury. But a part of Gwen wished he would stand up to the tyrant upon the dais rather than pacify him as Mother had taught them all to do.

Father's telltale vein shrunk to half the size at Reginald's compliance. “Good thing I have returned. And none too soon.”

“We are thankful to have you back, my noble father.”

“Of course you are. I only want what is best for this family. Your inexperience has not served you well. But at least the duke speaks highly of you.” Father waved to a servant, and the man hurried forward with a goblet of wine.

Mother, who had up to that point sat motionless next to her husband, sparked to life at the sight of the rich red liquid, but Father squelched any chance of her requesting her own with a sharp glance in her direction.

Mother sank deeper into her chair.

“From this time forward, my wife is to have no wine except at celebrations.” Father handed down his mandate without so much as a blink.

Mother's skin turned a sickly shade of grey, but she uttered not a word. She practically subsisted on wine. Some days, it seemed her only reason for waking in the morning. If Father refused her mead and ale as well, heaven help the poor woman.

The servant stood gaping at the extreme command.

“Is that clear?” Father ground out between clenched teeth and shot an icy glare at the man.

“Yes, m'lord.” The normally confident servant scurried away like a scared mouse.

“Gwendolyn!” her father hollered. “Where is that girl?”

Gathering the courage Rosalind had assured her she possessed, Gwendolyn took a step away from the wall. Perhaps Rosalind was right. If she pleased her father, they might make a new start. “I am here, Father.”

Father nearly choked on his wine. “For heaven's sake, stop skulking about like a rat. Come into the light. I wish to see you.”

He had ample opportunity to see her when they had bid farewell to Hugh but obviously had not bothered to take notice. Gwen lifted her chin as she approached the edge of the dais and stood next to Reginald, but she kept her gaze down in a demure fashion, which she thought might please her father. He never suffered arrogance, especially in women.

Peeking through her lashes, Gwen watched as he inspected her head to toe.

“Hmm . . . lovely hair.”

Rosalind would be so pleased.

“Comely figure. Pleasing features, at least when she wears such a gentle expression. I do recall her scowl to bring out harsh planes on her cheeks.”

Gwen did not appreciate the way her father assessed her like a cow gone to market and would have been happy to demonstrate that scowl, but she held herself in check. She glanced nervously to Reginald, but he offered no support. Merely slid a few feet to the side, happy to leave her the sole object of Father's scrutiny.

“Overall better than expected.” As was her father's reaction
to her appearance. Rosalind must have worked miracles with her paints, for Gwen knew her face to be plain at best.

Father turned his attention to Mother, who flinched ever so subtly. “But could you not stop her from growing so tall? Good heavens, Evangeline, she must tower over half the men in the dukedom. I thought she might inherit your daintiness.”

Mother reached out and patted Father's hand. “There, there, dearest husband. She is your child through and through. You have proven a powerful sire to my brood mare.” Her giggle tinkled through the room. Mother had always known how to handle their father. She had a special knack for soothing him that oft worked wonders, but on rare occasion exploded back upon her.

Father's deep chuckle rose to meet Mother's giggle and wafted across the room. “'Tis true. I sow a powerful seed.”

“And I do believe I recognize that scowl you mentioned as well,” Mother dared to joke.

Gwen braced herself for the possible aftermath, but Father tipped back his head and laughed all the louder.

He leaned over and placed a smacking kiss on her mother's cheek. “At least she has your legendary golden tresses. That will stand in her favor.”

Gwen had nearly forgotten that once upon a time her mother had inspired poets and troubadours. She now spent most days hidden in her darkened chamber. And that legendary hair remained covered by wimples and scarves as best befit a married lady.

“But what is wrong with the child's skin?” Her father sounded perplexed, more so than angry. “I thought I told you to keep her indoors where women belong.”

“Our Gwennie loves nature as much as her father, and you know what a soft heart I have. I cannot bear to keep her locked in the shadows when she longs to be a child of the sun. I allow
her to tend the herb garden and stroll within the courtyard. These are acceptable activities for a young lady, are they not?”

Father huffed but otherwise remained calm. It seemed Mother had managed to dodge that fiery arrow. He peered more closely at Gwen's face. “But she is accomplished in the womanly arts?”

“Naturally,” Mother said and shot a warning glance in Gwen's direction. “She embroidered the lovely trim upon that gown. And after dinner she shall play the pipe for you.”

Conveniently, Mother did not mention that Gwen had embroidered the trim during a snowstorm that kept her trapped in the house for weeks and nearly drove her batty with boredom. Nor did Mother mention that Gwen most often played her pipe in the highest branches of the yew tree just beyond the castle walls.

Was that a gleam of approval in Father's eye? Gwen was not certain, for she did not remember seeing it before. Something warm blossomed in her chest. All these years she had longed to be a boy so that she might win his favor, yet now that she was grown, he was impressed by braids and silken finery. Should she play a haunting ballad or a spritely tune for him this evening? Which would win his smile?

Father nodded and continued his perusal. This livestock just might pass inspection. “You must keep her indoors for a time. And teach her to stoop. She needs to minimize that height. I will depart for Edendale in a few days, and you will join me for the tournament and festivities to celebrate this new peace in England three weeks hence.”

“Wonderful plan,” Mother simpered.

“Gwendolyn, my darling daughter.” Father had never called her such before. He held out his hand to her.

Gwen stepped forward to feel the strong grasp she had longed for all her life. To bask in the approval she had sought but never won.

As he smiled at her, crinkles formed around his bluish grey eyes. “You shall soon be a bride.”

Those words sucked the air right from her lungs. “But . . .” She had only just won his favor. Dare she cross him so soon?

“How wonderful for you, daughter.” Mother shot her another warning.

Father's grip tightened on her hand, squeezing her knuckles hard against each other. His sharp calluses dug into her skin. “But do not think that I forget your rebellious nature. I recall well how many lashes it took to break your spirit. More even than your brothers.” He sent a cold look of disapproval Reginald's way.

Gwen could not discern if he condemned her brother's own spiritedness or the fact that a girl outranked him in stubbornness. “I am sorry for that, Father. But as you see, I am a lady now.”

“A lady on the outside, but well I remember your wild heart.” He let go of her hand and Gwen retreated backward from the grasp she no longer desired. She felt as though a bucket of icy water had doused that warm flicker in her heart.

Mother bristled, and then reached to rub Father's tense shoulder. “All shall be well.”

“I shall make certain of that. We will find a firm husband to keep her in check. We cannot have her disgracing the family by galloping through the countryside like a hoyden.”

The room began to spin about Gwen. She could not find enough air.

Mother sighed. This time she sent Gwen a silent message of compassion and camaraderie. “Come, Gwendolyn. Let us retire until supper, and we shall discuss our battle plans. We shall catch you the fiercest husband in the dukedom. A tough man worthy to be son-in-law to the renowned Lord Reimund
Barnes.” Mother's giggle rang false to Gwen's ear, but Father smiled his approval once again.

Mother wrapped her arm around Gwen in a nurturing sort of way, although she only stood to Gwen's chin. She took Gwen's hand in her free one and led her out of the great hall with surprising gentleness.

Gwen traveled from the great hall to her chamber in a haze of confusion, but awoke when the heavy door clicked shut. She blinked and glanced about. Rosalind had tidied the room, and she could now see the rich plum blanket covering the bed and the profusion of cushions once again.

Tugging away from her mother, she stumbled to the bed and sank into the feather mattress. She threw herself backward upon it and moaned.

Mother sat gingerly beside her and patted her knee. “There, there, darling. All shall be well. You can do this. You are a capable woman. Strong, intelligent, even beautiful when you choose.”

“You always said I was ugly.” Gwen grabbed a cushion and smothered her own face with it to stifle a scream.

Mother removed the pillow, placed it neatly on the bed, and patted it into place. “You were ugly in grooming and mannerism. Why, you spent half your youth covered in mud with a fierce expression on your face. But your features are quite lovely. Just look at you now.”

That helpful flame of anger flared in Gwen's chest. She sat up and turned to face her mother square on. “Why do you even care? You never did before.”

Her mother stroked a wisp of hair from Gwen's brow. A little girl, hidden deep inside of her, reveled at the soft touch.

“Of course I care,” Mother said. “I have always loved you with my whole heart. Be fair, Gwendolyn. You are the one who had little use for me.”

Gwen's tense shoulders relaxed. She supposed her mother might see matters that way, especially when her whole heart was generally soused with too much wine. The woman did on occasion try to lure her to the solar for embroidery and tapestries, but Gwen hated to sit idle. Mother showed love by fussing and coddling, for which Gwen had little use. Although in a moment like this, Mother's warm affection did bring her some comfort.

Taking her hand, Mother kissed Gwen's brow. “Now that your father is home, we must join forces. There will be no more running off to the fields for you and no more hiding away in my chamber for me. He is a ruthless taskmaster, but we can find a way to keep him in a pleasant mood. Such is a woman's lot in life.”

Gwen did not bother arguing with that point. Mother only spoke what everyone else seemed to believe. “He cannot force me to marry. I must give my verbal consent.”

Mother bit her lip. “Your father is a determined man. I would not test him in this. He can go to great lengths to exert his will, and fathers have been finding ways to circumvent that law for as long as it has existed.”

“I cannot do it, Mother. I cannot marry a harsh and controlling man. Everyone thinks me so strong, but that I could never survive.”