Mary Gillgannon (5 page)

She nodded, and Will slipped out the door.

* * *

The serving girl slipped the covers back, taking another peep. The knight’s shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest massively muscled. Despite his pallor, his skin gleamed bronze in the rushlight. Glancing quickly at the door, the girl pulled the blanket down further, feasting her eyes on the wounded knight’s private parts.

His face drew her eyes again. She admired his fine features, the hard look to his jaw that kept him from being too handsome. Then she noticed the scar and reached out and traced the pale, pinkish line that curved down his cheek. Something stirred within her, a longing, a tender instinct. Without thinking, she began to hum. The knight moaned softly. To soothe him, she began to stroke his hair. It was soft and thick and black as soot.

She paused in her crooning as she remembered the words to the song. It was a lullaby. She could recall her mother singing it at night to quiet her younger sisters. Smiling slightly, she began to hum again.

* * *

The girl was asleep on a stool by the bed when Will returned. Richard looked as if he hadn’t moved the whole time, but the dead, muddy color had left his skin Will leaned over him and listened for his breathing. It was even and deep. Will sighed in relief and went to wake the girl.

She jerked in surprise when he shook her, then gazed at him sleepy-eyed and scared until she remembered who he was.

“How is he?”

She gave him a wary look and then shrugged. “He seems well enough now, considering all he’s been through.”

Will let out a sigh, relieved.

“Was he wounded in the tournament?” the girl asked.

Will nodded. “Richard’s won quite a name for himself over the years as a fighting man. They call him the ‘Black Leopard.’”

The wench gasped. “He... he’s the Black Leopard?”

“Not so fierce now, is he?”

“He was one of the champions, wasn’t he?”

Will grimaced. “He lost narrowly, winning a fine horse for his trouble. That’s where I went, to see to his new mare. A beautiful creature she is, delicate, spirited and reputed to be as fast as the wind. Lord Darley brought her back from the Holy Land.”

He glanced again at the bed. “I hope Richard finds her some consolation for losing the tournament. He can be so bullheaded sometimes. Only a fool would leave the tournament field without having his wounds tended. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death before I found him.”

The girl looked at the unconscious knight speculatively. “He seems peaceful enough now, for all that he acted like a madman earlier.”

“You mean downstairs?” Will asked, suddenly worried again.

The girl shook her head. “A while ago, before you came back.”

“God’s wounds! Why didn’t you tell me he had roused? What did he say?”

The girl shrugged and looked as if she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Out of his head he was, talking nonsense, calling me by some other woman’s name.”

“What name?”

“Maude, he called me Maude.”

Will tensed. “What else did he say?”

“He was out of his head, I told ye. Swearing at me, calling me filthy names like he did afore.” The girl seemed to shiver at the memory. “It took me awhile to quiet him.”

“What made him wake? Did you speak to him?”

The girl shook her head. “It was naught. I was only... I was singing to him.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “’Twere a lullaby. I thought it would soothe him. ’Stead it made him go all wild-eyed and raving.” The wench fixed Will with a sharp, accusing look. “’Tweren’t merely the fever or the wine working on his mind that beset him. ’Twas something else, wasn’t it?”

Will said nothing.

“I’ve a right to know,” the girl said stiffly. “I saved his life, after all.”

Will looked at the girl’s face, her intense brown eyes making him uncomfortable. She was likely pretty if you cared for the sort. At any rate, she had done right by Richard—sewing him up, singing to him. She was probably halfway in love with him already. Even unconscious and raving, Richard managed to charm the ladies.

“Maude was his mother’s name,” he told her. “You probably reminded him of her when you sang to him.”

The wench looked more puzzled than ever. “But why did he scream and yell at me if he thought I was his mum?”

Will grimaced. “His ‘mum’ was a whore. Richard’s never forgiven her.”

“M
arguerite, you did not tell me it was a fortress!” Astra gasped as they approached the towering walls of Ravensmore.

“Fortress, nay. It is no more than a small country holding. My father’s castles in Chirk and Kent are much grander.”

Astra merely stared in awe at the wide moat, the formidable gray curtain walls, the imposing towers. She had never seen a castle before, and it impressed her as much as the cathedral at Lichfield.

The drawbridge was lowered and they crossed the moat. Astra was disappointed to see the water surrounding the castle was cloudy and stagnant. A faint stench rose from the greenish depths.

The inside of the fortress was crowded and chaotic. Servants ran to and fro, fetching animals and baggage. A squire helped Astra from her horse, and she joined Marguerite, who was flirting with the man assigned to her palfrey. They both jumped as a booming voice echoed across the courtyard.

“Lady Marguerite!”

A squat, powerful man strode toward them. Marguerite dipped into a graceful curtsy, and Astra did likewise. She regarded the man through lowered lashes. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, with massive shoulders and arms, and a huge head crowned with wavy black hair streaked liberally with white. He reminded her of an enraged bull—right down to his dark, bulging eyes and the curl of hair that fell over his broad forehead like the forelock of a shaggy steer. Her body stiffened in apprehension as she anticipated the bull’s charge.

“Marguerite!” the man bellowed again. “The whole shire is abuzz with rumors of your disgrace, whispering that you were all but banished from Stafford. What explanation do you give for your appalling behavior?”

Astra cringed. She could sympathize with her friend’s shame as she confronted her father’s wrath in the crowded courtyard. For once Marguerite looked well and truly cowed. She was biting her lips nervously, and her stricken eyes were as large as pullet eggs.

“Father... I...”

“Silence! We’ll speak of this later.” Lord Fitz Hugh gestured curtly toward the towering keep. “Wait for me in the solar.”

Lord Fitz Hugh dismissed them and went on to berate some young squire who had the misfortune to dawdle in unloading one of the packhorses. Astra followed Marguerite across the courtyard, feeling like a whipped hound. As soon as they entered the Great Hall, Marguerite turned and faced Astra.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you?”

Astra licked her dry lips. Her voice seemed to fade in her throat.

“Marguerite... I...”

Marguerite grasped Astra’s bliaut beseechingly. “Please, Astra. He won’t dare let loose with his full fury if you are there.”

“I really don’t see how...” Astra’s voice trailed off uncertainly. As much as she feared Lord Fitz Hugh, it did not seem right to desert her friend. “Of course, Marguerite. I will come.”

They followed the narrow staircase to the solar on the third floor of the keep. Astra could not help gaping in admiration at the splendid decor of the Fitz Hughs’s private quarters. The walls were hung with elaborately-worked hangings of velvet and gold, embroidered with the Fitz Hugh emblem of a magnificent ram. Plush upholstered furniture of blue velvet was arranged around a massive hearth. Astra followed Marguerite’s lead and sank down on a bench of cloudlike softness.

The two women stared at each other. Marguerite twisted her long fingers restlessly, while Astra sat very still and tried to calm herself with long, deep breaths. She looked down at her own hands, noticing with dismay that they were streaked with dust.

They did not have a long wait. There was a rumbling sound in the stairwell, and Lord Fitz Hugh thrust himself into the room, his bulky body seeming to vibrate with anger. Astra clutched at the soft fabric of the cushion and steeled herself for the coming confrontation.

As if his size and demeanor weren’t intimidating enough, Lord Fitz Hugh stopped directly in front of Marguerite and tapped one of his big feet impatiently. “I am waiting.”

Valiantly Marguerite opened her mouth. Her father cut her off before she could get a word out.

“The stories I have heard, child! I could have sworn the nuns were speaking of a changeling. Surely my daughter would never replace the communion wine with vinegar. Nor steal a poor sister’s underdrawers from the clothesline.”

“They were just pranks, Papa. No one was hurt... and Sister Blanche... she deserved it. She was cruel to me, Papa, truly she was.”

“Pranks, were they?” Fitz Hugh muttered, finally lowering his voice below a shout. “What of the other stories? Do you call spying on a group of monks as they bathe and then hiding their clothes a prank?”

Fitz Hugh’s voice had risen in a terrifying crescendo. Astra repressed the urge to dart for cover beneath one of the huge pieces of furniture, but Marguerite faced her father resolutely. Her normally pouting mouth was drawn into a tight line.

“But there is more, daughter. Explain this to me—how could a young lady who has been raised at the courts of kings, whose education and wardrobe and jewels would have beggared a poorer man—explain to me how she could plan a rendezvous in the forest with a common servant boy?”

“It was not like that, Papa! Nothing happened. No more than a few innocent kisses. Ask Astra—she was there.”

Lord Fitz Hugh wheeled to face Astra. She gripped the bench fiercely and wished she could vanish into the floor.

“Lady Astra.” Unbelievably, Lord Fitz Hugh bowed. “I am afraid I have not properly made your acquaintance.”

Astra merely stared at him, too stunned to remember to rise and curtsy.

“I knew your father, you know,” Lord Fitz Hugh continued conversationally. “An exceedingly brave man. Exceedingly. I fought beside him in Wales. There was one time the Welsh bastards had us backed up against an old stone wall. Thought we were bound for our last reward, truly I did. But old Mortain—Little Cockerel—we called him. Never gave up. They kept coming, and he kept fighting. When our relief came, all that was left was myself and Mortain and a handful of men.” A broad smile split Fitz Hugh’s craggy face at the memory.

“You see, Papa,” Marguerite broke in. “Astra is like her father—stalwart and virtuous—the perfect escort. I would rather die than embarrass her. I would never dream of doing anything unseemly in her presence— ”

“That is the other matter,” Marguerite’s father interrupted, pointing a meaty finger at Astra. “I was told you corrupted Lady Astra. Because of you, this innocent and pious young woman was led astray, tricked into the devil’s own wickedness.”

Marguerite paled, her sense of guilt finally overcoming her endless supply of excuses and explanations.

“That is not true!” Astra protested.

Both Marguerite and Lord Fitzhugh looked at Astra in amazement, as if surprised she actually had the power of speech. In truth, Astra had startled herself with her outburst. She was afraid of Marguerite’s father, terrified right down to the roots of her hair. Even so, she could not let her friend take all the blame. She would not be a coward.

“Marguerite did not force me to do those things. I... I joined her willingly.” Astra hung her head, her voice but a whisper in the large room. “I am as guilty as she is.”

There was a long silence. When Astra looked up, Lord Fitz Hugh was regarding her with perplexity, his heavy dark brows drawn into a puzzled “v.”

“Loyal,” he pronounced. “Exactly like her father. In that, Marguerite, you have done well. A loyal friend is worth a thousand marks.”

Marguerite ventured a smile. “You see, Papa, that is why I wanted Astra to come home with me. I cannot bear to be parted from her.”

“For shame, child, you are being selfish. This young woman has paid a high price for her association with you. Because of your so-called ‘pranks’ she has lost her home and what humble station her poor father—God rest his soul—could afford to buy for her. Now, you seek to bind her to you as a handmaiden, with no future of a husband and family of her own.”

“No, of course I do not intend that. I plan to take Astra to court with me and find her a husband.”

Lord Fitz Hugh frowned. “Certainly Lady Astra is comely and well-born enough to interest many men. But few knights are willing to set aside their ambitions to wed a pretty and virtuous woman who cannot hope to advance their fortunes.”

He hesitated, as if embarrassed to confront Astra’s poverty so bluntly. “I cannot say I would approve of the sort of man Lady Astra is likely to attract. Better that she should toil in a noble household than wed a man who is beneath her.”

Marguerite shook her head emphatically. “Of course we will not allow Astra to wed beneath her. All she needs is a modest dowry. With that and her beauty, she will wed well—perhaps better than me. She is a sweet-tempered thing,” Marguerite smiled warmly at Astra. “You have always told me that men prefer sweet-tempered women.”

“The Prioress at Stafford told me that Lady Astra has no relatives, no source of income. How do you propose she come by a dowry, daughter?”

Marguerite’s smile grew radiant. “Surely you can spare a manor as a wedding gift for your daughter’s dearest friend, can you not, Papa?”

Lord Fitz Hugh frowned again, as if unsettled by having his daughter manipulate him into honoring his earlier rash words. Astra opened her mouth to protest, horrified that Marguerite would drag her into this humiliating situation. It was too late. Lord Fitz Hugh nodded his head decisively.

“By the heavens, you are right. Such a move would likely gain me a strong young knight I could count on to stand at my side. Besides...” He startled Astra by turning to her with a benevolent smile. “’Tis clear you have been a good influence on my daughter. Without you as a friend, Marguerite would likely have involved herself in even worse scrapes. A wedding gift it is then. No land too dear—that would arouse King Henry’s ire, and in the end he must approve of this. Perhaps a manor in the south, along the Thames where I need a man to protect the waterway.”

“But Lord Fitz Hugh, I could not possibly...”

“Nonsense,” Fitz Hugh exclaimed, silencing Astra instantly. “You can and will accept my offer. As Marguerite says, we owe you this. I’ll have the papers drawn up anon.”

Astra stared after Lord Fitz Hugh as he departed the solar as abruptly as he had come. She felt dizzy, her head awhirl with half-finished thoughts.

“You see?” Marguerite pronounced gleefully. “I told you it would all work out.”

“Marguerite, you know I cannot possibly accept your father’s incredible generosity.”

Her friend laughed. “Don’t be a dullard, Astra. You cannot refuse my father any more than I can. He is like a force of nature. People don’t refuse him anything.”

“But it isn’t right! You all but tricked him into making me an offer of land.”

“Don’t try and tell him that. By now, my father thinks it was all his idea, and he’ll never hear of you gainsaying him.”

“But Marguerite, your father misunderstands the situation completely. He thinks I am some poor innocent that you led into sinfulness. That’s simply not true. You know I left the priory willingly. I have had doubts for some time, and after the... the incident with the boy in the forest... after that I could no longer ignore the fact that I am unworthy to serve Our Lord.”

Astra bowed her head, confronting the shameful memory. For all her guilt and remorse afterwards, she couldn’t deny the thrilling warmth that had enveloped her as she watched the servant boy’s soft pink lips press down on Marguerite’s deeper rose ones. After that she had known she was too weak, too in thrall to the base urges of her body to ever become a nun.

“Pooh!” Marguerite scoffed. “You are no more unworthy than any of those fat, old hens who run Stafford. Lust is no worse a sin than avarice or gluttony or vanity, and the priory is overrun with proud, vain and greedy women. As for cruelty and lack of Christian charity—I have known hardened soldiers who looked like saints next to that bitch Sister Blanche.”

Astra fidgeted uncomfortably. There was truth in what Marguerite said. Some of the nuns did not seem to truly follow the Christian precepts of meekness and self-denial.

“At any rate, it is a silly thing to argue about,” Marguerite continued as she rose from her seat. “Whatever reason you decided to leave the priory, I am very glad you did. We will have great fun here at Ravensmore... and even greater fun when we go to court.” She grabbed Astra’s hand, pulling her up from the plush cushion. “But the first order of the day is a bath. My mother would slay me alive if I went down to dinner like this, and your face is so filthy you look like a Saracen!”

Astra reached for her dusty face in mortification even as Marguerite half-dragged her from the solar. Marguerite led Astra to another large, well-appointed room, this one with a huge raised bed surrounded by curtains. A big wooden tub filled with steaming water stood in one corner.

“Your bath, my lady,” Marguerite announced, gesturing elegantly.

“This... this is how you bathe?” Astra asked in wonderment.

“Aye, did you think dip in a scummy pond or a miserable scrubbing in a tub of cold water was the only way it was done? Ah, Astra, you have much to learn. Baths can be more than a way to get clean. They can be pleasurable as well. Take off your clothes. I’ll have the maid fetch one of my old gowns for you while I attend you myself.”

Hesitantly, Astra removed her clothes, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

“Don’t be such a silly goose,” Marguerite said, noticing Astra’s unease. “I’ve seen you naked plenty of times.”

Astra nodded. It had never bothered her to have another woman see her unclothed before. Perhaps her embarrassment had something to do with all the strange tingling sensations she felt at night in bed.

Astra stepped into the tub and sank down into the heavenly warm water. She adjusted herself on the stool carved into the tub and leaned against the back of it, feeling the soothing heat ease her sore legs. She was unused to riding, and two days on the road had left her thigh muscles and buttocks a quivering bundle of knots.

“Now for the soap.” Marguerite held out a carved ivory bowl. Astra took a handful of the slippery paste. “Oh! How lovely it smells!” she exclaimed as a sweet, spicy fragrance wafted to her nose.