Mary Gillgannon (17 page)

“Oh, bother, Astra, he was only doing his duty. A knight is supposed to rescue helpless women.”

Astra clutched her prayer necklace tightly. “There is something else that troubles me. I worry Richard will die without ever knowing how I feel about him.”

“How
do
you feel about him?”

“I believe I am in love with him. It’s not merely lust that makes him occupy my thoughts so constantly. I care deeply for Richard. When I found out he was in trouble with the King, I realized I would do anything I could to help him.”

“Well now, that complicates things, doesn’t it?” Marguerite gave a sudden sigh. “Why is it that women always fall in love with men who can never marry them?”

Astra looked at her sharply. Marguerite shrugged and continued. “It’s true. Will said Richard is determined to marry a rich woman. Of course, that was some time ago. Perhaps Richard has changed his mind.” She darted Astra a swift, calculated glance. “There are ways to encourage a man to marry you. If you were to allow him favors and get with child...”

Astra stared at her friend, utterly aghast. “No! I would never agree to such an abhorrent scheme. To trick a man into marrying you—what horrible thing to do!”

“Of course I don’t mean you should trick him. Merely give him a tiny nudge.”

“I could never do something so dishonest. If Richard doesn’t offer for my hand of his own accord, it was not meant to be!”

“Perhaps he will. After a few weeks moping in the Welsh Marches, dreaming of you every hour of the day, Richard may finally face the fact that he loves you, too. Once he admits that, the rest will fall into place. There is really no impediment to your marriage except Richard’s obstinacy.”

Astra nodded. Her eyes grew damp as she dared to hope, to dream of a future with her enchanting Richard. With an abrupt shake of her head, she sought to dispel the impractical thoughts from her mind. “What a coil it all is. I wish I could tell Richard how I feel. If only he was not in Wales!”

Marguerite wrinkled her brow in thought and then her face lit up. “The Queen expects you to accompany her when the court moves to Woodstock for a fortnight of hunting, and Woodstock is much closer to Wales than London. It’s likely that there will be couriers sending news to the King about the war. Why not ask one of them to take a message?”

“I can’t do it. My feelings are much too personal to entrust to a messenger.”

“Mmmm,” Marguerite muttered. “I will have to think on it. There must be a way. I wish I could go with you to Woodstock.”

“Why can you not?”

“Because the Queen hasn’t asked me,” Marguerite answered with a twitch of her dark brows. “She’s very fond of you, and she’s heard enough rumors to guess I haven’t been the best influence for you. I suspect she thinks a few weeks away from me will do you good.”

Astra glanced at her friend, wondering if it was true.

D
amn Wales—and damn its miserable weather. Richard pulled up the hood of his cloak and gazed dismally into the sodden gray twilight. It was going to rain again, for about the thousandth time since they’d arrived.

“Any sign of them?” asked Tom Stroket, the stout knight who shared guard duty with him.

Richard shook his head. “They’re likely in hiding, waiting to ambush us as soon as we move out. That’s the way of the Welsh bastards.”

Stroket nodded glumly. A drop of rain fell on his big Norman nose and dribbled off the tip. “It’s a demonic form of warfare. They refuse to meet us in pitched battle and then cut us down one by one. You never hear a sound, and then all at once there is a dagger buried in your throat or a gray goose-feathered shaft quivering from your belly.” He shifted his broad shoulders uneasily. “I’ve heard some of the men are refusing to do guard duty. They say it’s too risky. But you, you volunteered for it. Are you really that fearless?”

Richard cleared his throat and spat. “I’ve fought in Wales before. If you can stand the miserable weather and the vile diet of fatty mutton and coarse porridge, it’s not so bad.”

“When were you here?”

“A few years ago. It was a wasted effort, like this one. Since Henry failed in the twenties, there hasn’t been much chance for the English.”

“Henry lost then, didn’t he?”

“Having no taste for the misery of a Welsh campaign, Henry went off to fight in France instead. But, aye, in effect, he gave up most of what John gained in Wales during his reign. The truth is, Henry’s not cut out for fighting wars like this one.” Richard shifted restlessly. “He’s too soft. To win you’d have to go in and burn and slaughter and kill until you’ve brought them to their knees. Henry doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

“Henry doesn’t have the stomach for a lot of things,” Stroket commented softly.

In the dim light, blue eyes met black ones warily. “Have you thought about it?” Stroket asked after a moment. “Have you thought about hiring yourself out, maybe even to the French?”

“Christ, of course I’ve thought about it,” Richard growled. “Who wouldn’t, in my situation? I’ve fought for Henry for years, and all I’ve ever gotten for my trouble is a set of armor and a new warhorse every few years. I’m not getting any younger.”

“They say King Louis is very generous with his soldiers. Some of the better born knights he’s made his vassals, put them in charge of fine estates, even castles.”

“Still,” Richard mused. “It means betraying your homeland, your king. Henry and Louis aren’t at war now, but sooner or later it could happen. Then it would mean facing your old comrades across a battlefield.”

Stroket nodded. “If only there was some way to know what the situation is in France. It could all be talk. I have half a mind to go over there and see for myself how the wind blows.”

“If you find out anything, let me know. I’m not fit for court life, of that I’m certain. I’m going to have to make my fortune by other means.”

“You sound bitter. Did something happen in London to sour you on Henry?”

“You might say that. I went to the King directly and asked him for a grant. He treated me like an errant lapdog.”

“Perhaps it is time to turn mercenary.”

Richard nodded. He could not help thinking about Astra. How would she react if he betrayed Henry and hired himself out?

“There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there, Reivers?” Stroket mused shrewdly. “I’ve never known you to be so morose and moody on campaign before.”

Richard met Stroket’s blue eyes briefly. “I guess you could say I finally succumbed. There’s this woman in London—”

“A woman!” Stroket guffawed. “Mary’s tits, Reivers! What did it take to win your heart—a gold-plated pussy?”

Richard grimaced at Stroket’s crude words. “Not exactly. Although if beauty were wealth, she would be a great heiress.”

“She’s the most beauteous creature to grace this fair earth, eh?”

Richard smiled stiffly. “Of course.”

“But you haven’t wed her yet—why not?”

Richard considered telling his friend the truth, that Astra didn’t want him, that she was too refined and gentle a woman to be attracted to a crude, violent soldier. Then he shrugged. “She’s poor. I can’t see clear to making her my wife until I know I can take care of her. You know how it is. After the wedding comes a passel of brats you have to feed. I’ve always been a soldier, Tom, just my sword, my armor and my warhorse. How can I hope to look after a family?”

“Plenty of men do it. The woman stays home and takes care of the brats, while you go off fighting, earning their bread with your blood and sweat.”

“And if I’m killed—what future do they have? No thanks. My mother got caught in that trap, and I saw what became of her. I’m not leaving any wife of mine to such a fate.”

“Then look to France, comrade,” Stroket said with a wink. “There’s no wealth to be had in England unless your name is Berenger or Lusignan. Come to think of it, by the time the King’s clan of scavenging relatives is done, there may not even be an England.”

Tom got up and walked off to piss. Richard slumped gloomily into his oiled leather cape, then spat on the ground, trying to rid his mouth of the taste of the horrible sour wine they were given in their rations. France sounded wonderful—sunshine, fragrant meadows, crusty bread, good wine. A virtual paradise, and if Stroket could be trusted, still up for grabs. Aye, it was something to consider. He’d never thought to betray his King, but that was before Henry had shown himself to be such a weak bastard. Any king who let an idiot like Faucomberg dictate to him wasn’t much of a king at all.

Richard ran his hand over his face, rubbing away the wetness. There really wasn’t anything to keep him in England now. Astra didn’t want him. He’d never forget the horror on her face as she watched Fitz Warren writhing in his own blood. No, she’d never forgive him. She considered him a monster, a beast.

A painful pang of longing swept through him. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted Astra. This time it was more than a yearning his loins or an itch in his blood. He wanted something more than simply to take his angel to bed. He wanted to possess her, to meld her soul with his own, to capture some of her purity and sweetness forever.

Richard clenched his fists until the cold metal of his lance bit into his flesh. He couldn’t give up yet—that would mean letting Faucomberg and his kind finally win. His mind drifted back, remembering the taunts: “Bastard. Whoreson. Beggar.” Even now the words retained their power to wound. It seemed only yesterday that he had been a ragged, unwanted, unloved boy. A boy who wondered daily if it would not have been better if he had not been born, if his slut of a mother should not have killed him when he was in her womb.

No, he would not give up. He must keep trying to win Henry over. If he could lead a successful encounter with the Welsh, the King would have to reward him. Beating the Welsh was not impossible. You merely had to think as they did.

He glanced out into the gathering darkness, an idea forming gradually in his mind. The Welsh had always defeated the English by stealth and cunning. What if the same tactics were used against them? The Welsh would not expect a small body of English to sneak up on them in the night. If he could find out where their camp was, have the men in his command forego their splendid armor and don rough garments, use daggers and cunning instead of numbers...

Richard’s heart raced. It was a daring plan, and he was not sure some of the men would agree to it. But still, it was better than doing nothing, better than sitting here, waiting to be attacked. And if he succeeded, the rewards would be well worth the risk. If he could report to Henry that at least one band of marauding Welshmen had been wiped out by his forces, the King might accept him back into his good graces, mayhaps even reward him royally.

Hope and exhilaration filled him, easing away the stiffness the rain and cold brought to his muscles and joints.

“Tom!” he called out softly to his companion. “Come here. I just had this idea.”

* * *

With all the royal family’s retinue and baggage, it took five days of traveling to reach Woodstock. Astra immediately decided the journey was well worth it. Compared to the squalor of London, the lush countryside of the Midlands was near heaven. The air was pristine and fresh, the manor itself stately and cool. Even the grounds around the estate seemed washed clean by the frequent rains. Still, like the palace at Westminster, the manor was filled to bursting with people, Astra found herself assigned to a sleeping pallet outside the Queen’s chamber, crowded in with a dozen other unmarried women.

Astra washed the dust of the road from her face and changed into a fresh gown, then joined the rest of the royal entourage in the King’s Hall. It was a luxurious room, with a high-vaulted timber ceiling and a floor of dark red tiles. Except for the light that shone in the large trefoil window on one wall, the room was dim. Velvet draperies along the walls kept out the cold in winter, and the heat in summer. The royal couple arrived to sit at the large oaken table on the dais, and the rest of the court guests took their places at the rows of trestle tables.

Halfway through the meal, a group of mud-spattered soldiers entered the hall and walked to the dais. Astra observed the King lean forward to talk with one of the men who had arrived. Something about the knight caught Astra’s eye. His shoulders were unusually broad, and despite his disheveled appearance, there was a graceful elegance in his stance. Astra’s breathing quickened. Was it possible? Could it really be Richard?

The man gestured. The King listened, his drooping eye giving him the appearance of being half-asleep, even though it was obvious he paid close attention to what the man was saying. The soldier turned, still gesturing, and Astra’s heart seemed to leap into her throat. It
was
Richard! He was there, at Woodstock, in the very room!

Astra clasped her hands together and tried to calm herself. If the men were there to report on the war in Wales, it seemed likely that the King would ask them to stay for the banquet. Afterwards there would be entertainment, and, while everyone lingered in the hall, she would have a chance to speak to Richard. It seemed almost too wonderful, too fortuitous to be true.

As Astra watched, the King nodded curtly to the group of soldiers. Then he turned his attention to the food set before him. Obviously dismissed, the bedraggled delegation bowed to the King and Queen, then left the dais and began to make their way across the hall. Astra stared in desperation after Richard’s departing form and prayed he would rejoin the banquet later.

Servants brought in steaming platters of roast coney, sturgeon in sauce, capon in crust, fresh onions, leeks, and fruit tarts and pies. Astra took tiny portions and absentmindedly pushed the food around on her trencher. She had no appetite for anything except the sight of the man she loved.

The meal progressed and Richard did not reappear. Astra began to worry the King had ordered the soldiers back to Wales immediately. She cursed herself for not following Richard the moment he left the hall. He had been so close—not more than two dozen paces away—and she had let him leave without speaking to him. The frustration built inside her. She began to squirm and shift in her seat until several people cast her reproving glances. Unable to bear it a moment longer, she excused herself from the table and left the hall.

Astra’s heart sank when she saw the nearly-deserted courtyard. It seemed all too likely that the party of soldiers had left. Her only hope was they had been forced to rest their horses before setting out again. After questioning a servant, Astra made her way through the maze of alleyways and outbuildings behind the manor and found the stables. There she encountered plenty of horses, but no soldiers. She asked one of the King’s grooms, and he shook his head. He had seen no knights recently in this part of the royal complex.

It was almost twilight, and Astra was growing desperate. Retracing her steps, she made her way to the entrance of the manor. She had intended to ask the guard at the gate if he had seen the knights from Wales, but when she glanced out at the darkening forest, she guessed where Richard was. A veritable army camp had been set up on the strip of parkland between the manor and the woods. The soldiers who accompanied the King were preparing to bed down for the night outside the gates of the manor. It was likely that Richard and the other men from Wales had made camp there as well.

Wistfully, Astra stared out at the tents and glowing campfires. There was no way to see Richard now. It was growing dark, and she could not leave the manor without attracting notice. Besides, if she stayed away from the hall much longer, the gossip would begin.

Astra returned to the hall and reluctantly took her seat. There were a few curious glances sent her way, but nothing truly ominous.

The royal gathering was being entertained by a jongleur. The Queen favored traditional love stories from her native land, and this evening the ballad was about Tristan and Isolde. Astra was usually unaffected by tales of love and woe, but tonight the singer’s words had special poignancy. She nearly wept when he reached the part where the lovers were separated. It seemed so much like her own fate. Richard was here, living, breathing—and likely sleeping now—in a tent not a stone’s throw away from where she sat. But he might as well have been in the Holy Land. Worse yet, he would likely return to Wales and the dangers of battle without ever knowing how she felt about him.

The performance ended, and the King and Queen rose to retire to their private quarters. As the mass of courtiers and ladies began to leave the hall, a sudden thought came to Astra. The manor was exceptionally crowded, especially the sleeping apartments. If she could manage to slip out during the night, she would never be missed. Still, how would she find her way around the manor? How would she get through the gates? She wished Marguerite was here. Since she wasn’t, she would have to manage by herself.

As the crowd of Queen’s ladies filed from the hall, Astra knew abruptly what her plan must be.