Warrior's Deception (3 page)

“The girl is Matilda’s only asset and daughters are married off to improve or protect the demesne. I blame your attitude toward marriage on myself. I’ve filled your head with stories of your mother and me. Ours was a love as well as a political union. ‘Twould do you well, my daughter, to use this opportunity to search for a husband for yourself.” He raised his hand to silence her expected protests. “You have enjoyed your books, gardening and your time galloping wildly around the countryside. Before Louis died, I obliged your wishes, I paid the king’s fee so you could remain unmarried. Now you are my only heir, and Woodshadow’s future. Rest would come easier if I knew that your inheritance could not be taken from you.”

“Beatrice could inherit.” She searched for excuses to ease her father’s worry and still keep her freedom. “Aunt Matilda has mentioned many times the abbey she and Beatrice stayed at. The enormous library there, the peaceful gardens. I had thought to perhaps spend time—”

“Beatrice is not a Marchavel. I inherited most of these lands from your mother, but they were poor and ill-kept. ‘Twas I that built up these properties for my descendants. I have fought with sword and words to keep Woodshadow for my heirs, for you. I do not want all of your mother’s and my sacrifices to be handed over for another’s prosperity. This was not our dream.” Sir Edmund struck his chest with a clenched fist.

Lenora bit her lower lip. She rose from the bed and moved slowly to the window. Her gaze followed the ramblings of a small boy as he chased a multicolored butterfly through new spring grass in the bailey. The steady beat of the blacksmith’s bellows blended with the
clip-clop
of a passing draft horse and cart. The soft sound of the grooms sweeping out the stables, the reassuring neighs of her treasured white mares whispered to her. Everyone in the demesne carried on about their business, happy to be outside after the long confining winter.

Lenora thought,
If my brother had not died, I would be out there, reading or tending to Silver, or working on the new herbs.
Louis would be the one with a duty to provide an heir.
She had a duty to her father and to her home.

“I’ll go, Father, and deliver your letter. My eyes and ears will be open.” Lenora breathed deeply. “And I will consider what you said. But please, Father, let me choose.”

Sir Edmund relaxed his tense muscles. He opened his arms, which were quickly filled by his dearly loved only child.

R
oen slammed his fist against the trestle table. The crash of the waves outside the castle added to the thunder of the sound. King Henry had laid a trap for him under the guise of a tourney. His victory at Tintagel became bittersweet.

The young man with his feet propped up against the table scrambled to elude the crimson wine sloshed from the goblets on the table. “Take care, Roen! You’ll stain my tunic!” he admonished his friend. “I plan on stunning some young heiress tonight.”

“Take care? I am being cheated of my due, Hamlin, and you ask me to take care.” Once again his giant fist crashed onto the table. The wine goblet rocked, nearly toppling over. Hamlin dived across the table and successfully righted the containers before the precious liquid stained his finery.

Roen crushed the letter under his friend’s nose. “I have fought his wars, defended his castles and captured his robber barons. And this is how he repays me. Henry owes me gold, not a wife!” He stared at the wilted piece of paper. “I curse the day I learned to read.”

“Your mother did you a service. The ability to read—”

“My mother never did me service. ‘Twas not a kindness she sought, but a mark. A mark to show my father and brothers I did not belong.” Roen roared his outrage. “Henry would wish on me a conniving bitch instead of relinquishing the gold he owes me.”

“Stars! Roen, he offers you not
a
wife, King Henry offers you
any
wife you want. You can have your pick of beautiful heiress maidens.” Hamlin winked at his outraged friend. “Or
lusty landed widows. I wish I could be so rewarded, but alas, I am to always be covered by your exceeding large shadow.” Hamlin’s chestnut eyes took on a resigned expression.

Roen de Galliard raised his clenched hands in the air like the talons of a hawk. Cast a large shadow, indeed he did. Both in size and reputation. At well over six feet, he dwarfed most men in England and in his homeland of Normandy. His reputation as a warrior was well-known throughout King Henry’s realm.

“And what good has that shadow done me?” Roen demanded. He didn’t wait for his friend to answer. “I’m one of Henry’s elite siege commanders. The sound of my name causes any of the adulterine lords to quake in his shoes. And do you know why?”

Hamlin pointed his finger at him and opened his mouth.

Roen didn’t give his friend the opportunity to interrupt him. “Because I never give up. They know I’ll bide my time. I’ll find their weakness, no matter how formidable their stronghold.”

How many attacks had he survived? It seemed endless. He always made short work of his enemy. Fast and brutal attacks, over and over again until the besieged lord surrendered or died in battle. Study, calculate, attack. An anthem for battle, his philosophy of life.

Hamlin jumped into his friend’s one-sided conversation. “I can think of no other man who needs a wife worse than you!” He held up a hand to check Roen’s outburst. “You are happiest when planning and executing a battle. Do you wish to give up such challenge when you are landed?”

“Do not be foolish! Of course not!” Roen thundered.

“Then will you remain landless? Never to be a
senior,
always a landless
juvenis,
” Hamlin countered.

“You know I wish a keep of my own. There will be no inheritance from Normandy, my mother saw to that. You have known me since we were pages. Why ask questions you already know the answers to?”

“To make you see that a wife is the answer to your needs. I see it and the king sees it. You’re too stubborn to see the practicality of a wife. Who will oversee the needs of your villeins and keep the servants in line when you are gone on one of your battles for the king? Who will keep an accurate account of spending and entertain your guests while you plan a siege or
serve your aid and knight’s fee to Henry?” Hamlin asked the questions, then took a deep gulp of his wine.

Roen pondered his friend’s words but refused to concede defeat. Self-justified anger seeped from the pores of his skin.

His second in command pushed the point further. “A wife will bring you land
and
make sure your castellan does not rob you blind. She is trained to be her husband’s helpmate, to take charge when her lord is away on the king’s affairs. A wife is the answer to your needs, unless of course you wish to personally oversee the making of candles, the changing of the rushes, the weaving, the—”

“Enough! I see your point. The prospect doesn’t thrill me any more than before. Women are nothing more than vessels for tricks and tears to get their way. They’re not to be trusted. My own mother…” Roen clamped his jaws tightly. The veins in his neck pulsated with hot blood.

“My friend, I know the way your family has treated you. Through no fault of your own, you have born the brunt of your father’s suspicions. But do not mark all women by your mother.”

“I have not seen any who are different.” Lowering himself to a three-legged chair, he rested his elbows on his knees. The rickety chair groaned in protest at Roen’s weight. He raised his wine goblet from the table to his lips. All those years fighting and sacrificing for the chance to own land…Whatever Hamlin and the king thought, he knew the truth. He was being cheated.

His too-cheerful friend gave him a broad smile and slapped him on the back. “And what women have you-associated with these past ten years? Camp followers, a lord’s cast-off mistress, tavern wenches? We will find you a comely woman tonight with an impressive dowry and sizable inheritance. One who is properly trained to be a lady and servant to her lord husband.”

“We?” Roen arched his brow as he brought the wine goblet from his mouth.

“I do have an interest in the outcome. As your second in command and boyhood friend, I know that you will always want me near. So I want to make sure that I, um, you get the best possible arrangement.”

“By the blessed saints!” Roen finished off his wine in one huge gulp. “How do you always end up missing the manure pile, my friend? I am to be stuck with a wife and the duties of a lord, while you enjoy a home, your freedom, and serve only light duty.”

A sly smile played across Hamlin’s face. “I resent that. ‘Tis extremely hard work being your friend. See how diligently I have had to work to show you the king’s wisdom? Light duty, indeed. Come, Roen, ‘tis time to…evaluate…your choices for a bride.”

Roen followed his friend reluctantly from the chamber down the narrow steps to the great hall of Tintagel. The sound of the crashing ocean waves synchronized with the throb in his head. He did not relish the idea of sharing a trencher with a lady or the necessary polite conversation he would have to make with prospective brides to “evaluate” their identity and wealth.

An ember of hope began to flame in his chest. “Henry cannot force a woman to marry.”

“But what lord would deny the king’s request. Especially those who did not openly defend Henry against Stephen. The king’s vassals are all eager to prove their loyalty to him now that he has the throne. Do not worry, Roen. Anyone you pick will surely agree,” Hamlin reassured his friend.

“Very well.” He sighed deeply. “I will attend this function with an open mind. But remember, Hamlin, I want obedience in a wife. I will not suffer as my father did.” Closing the door, he took a deep, cleansing breath as he always did before engaging in a battle, and headed toward the enemy—the single women of King Henry’s realm.

Lenora slipped through the rough planks of the stall gate. The magnificent animal inside tossed his head to warn her off. She paid no attention to the gesture; she had itched to examine the horse since reaching Tintagel late yesterday.

“Easy, I’ll not harm you.” She crooned while the ivorycolored war-horse stomped his hooves. Convinced she could win the steed’s trust, she reached out and placed her fingertips on the velvety nose. The stallion didn’t nip or bite so she drew closer. On tiptoe, she brushed aside the mane and scratched the horse’s ears.

“Not one flaw,” Lenora marveled. “’Tis a model you are for every knight’s destrier.” A toss of the horse’s white blond mane signaled agreement. “I have some mares at home I would love to breed with you. ’Twould be a handsome sum I could call for those foals.”

“Lenora, are you in here?”

She turned to see her cousin enter the shaded stable. After the bright light of the noonday sun, it took a moment for Beatrice to spy her in the stall. Her cousin’s face drew up in mock surprise. “The stable is the last place I would think to look for you.”

Lenora squeezed through the slats of wood and the hem of her dress snagged on a splinter. The gown tugged her back and she reached to yank it free.

“That is your best kirtle.” Beatrice threw up her arms in annoyance. “Mother will have your hide if you show up at the meal with another ripped hem.” Her patient fingers extricated the cloth from the jagged piece of wood.

“See. No damage.” Lenora pushed the edge of her dress under the younger woman’s nose. “Your mother will have nothing to complain of, though ‘tis little reason she needs to complain.”

“She needs not little reasons when you are so adept at providing big ones.” Her cousin shook her head and her blond curls bobbed.

Lenora drew a piece of straw from the fresh bale and chewed on the end. After a moment of reflective munching, she announced the result of her contemplation. “Life is not fair, Beatrice. I work long hours to train and plan the breeding of Woodshadow horses, yet I cannot take credit for my work.”

Her cousin gave her a sympathetic nod. “’Twould be a surprise indeed for all the mighty lords who clamor for a Woodshadow mount to discover their perfect animal was bred and trained by a woman.”

“Aye, but I do not fear that day will ever come. Nor is it likely those men will discover ‘twas I that divided our fields into threes and planted the fallow field with grain. ‘Twill not happen because no man would believe it. Every success is attributed to my father. ‘Tis not fair.”

No offer of solution came from the petite young woman. “’Tis a woman’s lot, cousin. There is naught we can do.” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders.

“The queen would not say so.”

“The queen has land to back her up and a husband who awaits us now,” her cousin reasoned.

“Aye, yet I will seek out the owner of this destrier. Perhaps, in Father’s name, I can contract his loan as a stud. The horse will suffer none for it.” She gave the animal one last perusal. “Come, we must find Geoffrey and lay out a plan.”

The idea caused Beatrice’s eyes to sparkle. Lenora surveyed the deep azure tunic and kirtle that matched the wide blue eyes. A delicate gold-link girdle accentuated her cousin’s tiny waist. “He’s sure to fall in love with you all over again.”

“Enough to speak to my mother and your father?” She lowered her head and spoke in a tight voice. “I don’t care if I’m a lady of a great castle. All I want is to be safe.”

The statement made Lenora uneasy. Too often when her cousin spoke of her feelings for her suitor she expressed them in terms of safety instead of love. But she had informed Geoffrey of the deep-seated fears the girl suffered. He accepted them as part of loving Beatrice.

She started to speak but a page barreled past her. He ran to the war-horse’s stall and began to scoop grain into the empty food bag. “Boy, to whom does this animal belong?”

“Why, milady? Is he ill?” The boy’s voice cracked with worry. “I forgot to feed him this morn but rushed here as soon as I remembered. The knight will beat me sure if he finds I’ve not taken good care of him.”

“Nay, he is fine.”

The lad gave her a doubtful look.

“Believe me, I know the beasts. He is none the worse for a late meal, though do not make a habit of it,” Lenora reassured the page.

His eyes showed the first signs of tears and his young body trembled. A flare of hot temper blazed through her. What knight would so threaten the lad? He could only be eight or nine.

“Are you sure, my lady? Sir Roen de Galliard is not a knight I wish to cross.” The boy looked hopeful. “I think I will check
on the animal myself.”’ He ducked into the stall and began to inspect the horse.

Lenora shook her head in disapproval. So the great warrior scared children as well as barons. The code of chivalry demanded a knight protect women and children, not frighten innocent boys. In her eyes, Galliard fell far short of that code.

“Lenora?” Beatrice’s voice intruded into her thoughts. “What will we do about him?” Her cousin dropped her shoulders in defeat.

“You’re not to worry about Galliard. Geoffrey and I will think of a way to keep you from him.” She gave her cousin a confident wink. “Come, we need to return to the hall for the midday meal.”

During the short trip back, Lenora racked her brains for some plan to help her cousin. She entered Tintagel’s great hall and joined the assembly of people. Entertainers, nobility and servants wove through the hall. Voices chattered and dogs barked. The melodic sounds of the musicians could barely be heard above the din.

Beatrice poked her in the back. “There’s Mother.”

Across the hall, Matilda maneuvered between the gaily dressed aristocrats. The elder woman’s gaze swept from side to side, searching. Lenora pulled her cousin back. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Geoffrey squeezed his body between two heavy-set warriors.

“Come with me.” He motioned toward the wall. The noise in the hall drowned out most of his words. Lenora followed with Beatrice in tow. He led them to an indentation in the thick castle wall. An arched window allowed in midday light.

“We must plan.” Geoffrey’s sienna gaze darted about the room. “Our fears are more than warranted. The rumor is the king intends to repay Galliard with a wife.”

Beatrice’s back stiffened, color drained from her face. Her voice wooden, she stated, “If you know this, my mother is sure to, also.”

“Aye,” Lenora theorized, “but from what I hear, Galliard strikes me as a man who would want more than Father has set aside for you. Pray the man is as greedy as I believe him to be.”

“Can we take that risk?” Geoffrey held up a hand to silence her protest. His voice sounded bleak. “There is always the chance Galliard could be turned by Beatrice’s face.”