At His Command-Historical Romance Version (2 page)

Nicholas felt the woman slump against him. She’d fallen asleep.

At least that would keep her silent. He gazed down, taking in her delicate, straight nose, smudged cheeks, perfectly shaped lips reddened by the cold. He couldn’t deny that her beauty and spirit engaged him. And the intelligence he’d seen in her eyes made him want to know more about her. Spirit, intelligence, beauty. Three qualities he’d most appreciate in a wife. But if she was Lady Amice, he could never wed her.

His duty was to safeguard, not to take. Though an esteemed friend of the king, he brought no wealth or political connections, both of which Henry and his queen needed.

Frustration filled him. He needed no more complications. Soon, soon he’d complete his task at Castle Rising and earn what Henry had promised, time to go on a pilgrimage. He’d visit nearby Walsingham, because the king wouldn’t grant sufficient leave for him to reach Rome. Still, he’d have precious days free of responsibilities and discord at court. Time to heal, and take a respite from serving his country. At two and thirty, was that too much to ask of life?

“I know you didn’t want to take on this task. If you were less wondrous, the king wouldn’t have insisted.” Wind tossed Martin’s auburn hair and reddened his long nose.

“Martin, you oft amuse me. Not today.” Nicholas wrapped his fur-lined cloak around his sleeping guest, then urged Merlin forward. Even his powerful warhorse struggled in the watery muck.

Martin wiped a mud splat from his face. “‘In these times of civil strife, few men can be trusted, but you’ve proved your worth on and off the battlefield,’” he said, repeating the king’s compliments. He heaved a great sigh. “If not for your most excellent prowess, I’d be home before a toasty fire. Or seeking greater valor in battle. But no, we needs protect a damsel.”

Wind snatched at Nicholas’s tunic, making him wish he weren’t so reliable. “Lady Amice’s husband held several key estates. And she’s cousin to England’s former treasurer, still a powerful man and Henry’s close companion. In the wrong hands, she’d make a perfect political pawn. We but watch over her till the king and her cousin find her another husband. Which I pray they do soon.”

Nicholas studied the cloudy sky. They might reach their destination by noon. He flexed his icy fingers, regretting his chivalrous donation of his cloak, then turned his attention back to the oozing remnants of the road. The horses plodded as best they could, their labored breath swirling to steam in the freezing air. Each hoof slurped out of the mud.

The woman slid lower. An unbidden wave of concern washed over him. He didn’t need her leaning so cozily against him, making him want to wrap his arms around her and offer comfort. Making him want to care.

“Pardon me….” Nicholas refused to call her by name until he was certain of her identity. He wanted to believe her, but had learned many women weren’t worthy of his trust. He tapped her back with a gloved finger.

She opened her eyes. “Are we there?”

“Almost.”

“Good.” Her head dropped onto his chest. She dozed off again, almost buried in the voluminous folds of his now-damp cloak.

He sighed. His clothing had absorbed much of the supposed Amice’s drippings, so that in addition to being cold he was uncomfortably damp. All he wanted was time to heal after years of never-ending skirmishes against France. Physical wounds hardened into scars. Emotional wounds festered without care. The horrific sights and sounds of bloody death planted over and over in his mind had taken root. Perhaps some time away from politics would help him pluck them out.

“Are you pleased now, my lord?” Martin asked. “This is what you get for wanting what you don’t have. ‘Oh, the constant pressure of serving the king, being available at a moment’s notice, and never having more than an hour or two to pursue aught but the king’s business,’” he intoned, lowering his voice in an attempt to imitate Nicholas.

“You twist my words. If you weren’t so useful, I’d dismiss you for impertinence. I but seek a respite, which Henry granted. I think he was glad to have a request that wouldn’t strain his coffers. But he needed me again after Lady Amice’s husband died.”

“At least you are away from the cloying court,” Martin said.

True. But when would he be free?

Castle Rising lay ahead, a small square keep set in the hollow of a high mound surrounded by a brick curtain wall dotted with arrow loops. The group crossed a steep outer hill, then rode over a stone bridge and passed a tall, narrow gatehouse set into grassy mounds on either side.

The silence made the back of Nicholas’s neck prickle. “Where are the guards?

He scanned the area, which offered some trees, the square crenellated keep, and a small chapel to the left with a building behind it. Another building to the side appeared to be a kitchen.

Martin snorted. “Worse and worse. You’ve been denied your pilgrimage to protect a tiny woman, a few buildings and a mere keep. We should’ve been sent to a major castle. Your plans have been postponed by an expedition not worthy of your many talents.”

“We go where needed, whether or not the surroundings are ideal,” he replied.

The woman lifted her head and sat up straight. She looked over her shoulder, the weariness on her face striking a chord of sympathy within him.

“The entrance is around the corner,” she said.

Three sheep trotting around the corner, thick wool bouncing, drew her attention. The trio stopped directly in front of Merlin.

Amice burst into laughter, sparking joy within him. “They must’ve heard my voice. Hello, Isabella! Hello, Eleanor. Hello, Edward,” she cooed, greeting each in turn.

She slid to the ground before Nicholas could help her, leaving a dirty stripe on Merlin’s coat. The woman continued to talk to the sheep, who gathered around her eagerly.

Either she was Lady Amice or the shepherdess. Soon he would have answers. He couldn’t conceal a grin at the sight of the mud-encrusted woman surrounded by three cavorting sheep.

She was even lovelier when she smiled.

Amice led them into the castle through a high, arched door on the left side of the keep. “My thanks for returning me to my home, Sir Nicholas. Now tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

“When you’re warm and dry.” He brought important news, which deserved the right time for the telling. He ignored the frown marring her smooth skin and looked up. “Impressive. Whoever built this keep recognized the defensive potential of a narrow, steep staircase.”

“William de Albini began building Castle Rising in 1138….” She glared at him. “Stop trying to distract me. The minute I’ve changed garments, I expect answers.”

They walked into a vaulted vestibule with an arcade of shuttered windows. A door to the left led into the great hall.

Several servants sat on benches, conversing as though they had nothing better to do. One, a young woman with flaming red hair that couldn’t quite be contained by her simple headdress, caught sight of them and scurried over, her wide, freckled face breaking into a smile.

“My Lady Amice, thank goodness you are home! We didn’t know what to do, we awaited word—” The young woman recoiled and backed away. “Oh, it’s him. AAAAAH!”

Harry Winfield stood in the doorway, no longer restrained by Nicholas’s men.

“Ginelle,” Amice said. “All is well. We are safe. These men rescued me.”

Ginelle paused mid-flight, clearly uncertain. She relaxed when Martin and Thomas the Tall each grabbed one of Winfield’s arms. He struggled briefly, his futile attempt to break free ending in a seething stare at his captors.

“When Harry found you gone, he went wild,” Ginelle accused, excitement flushing her fair skin. “He threw everything he could get his hands on, plates, chairs. He dragged me across the floor, shouting for me to tell him where you were and…then he ran out after you. I was so afraid.”

Nicholas had his proof. The woman he’d rescued was Amice. He’d force rare words of apology from his lips. “Lady Amice, I beg forgiveness for doubting your word.”

She nodded her head in gracious acceptance. “I trust it won’t happen again. And that shortly you’ll explain your presence here.” She turned to the others. “This is Sir Nicholas Grey. His men have Harry well in hand.”

A short, wrinkled man with flowing gray hair hurried into the hall. “You’re safe, you’re back!” He dropped to his knees. “Forgive us, Lady Amice. Harry’s men watched us night and day to keep us from sending for help.”

“Harry’s actions hurt us all, Cyril.” She turned to Nicholas. “Cyril Hodges is my steward. Ginelle is my maid.”

The way Ginelle, Cyril and the others looked to her and at her told him they respected Lady Amice. He admired her confidence.

“How did you get away from Harry?” Ginelle asked. “He had you locked up so tight, we feared for your life.”

Curiosity made Nicholas interrupt. “Harry imprisoned Lady Amice?”

Anger at Harry, at himself, flashed through him. He’d been so reluctant to come here he hadn’t considered how far some might go to get their hands on a wealthy widow. And a lovely one, at that. Henceforth, duty would be his only concern.

Cyril said, “Harry and his men swarmed our castle and held Lady Amice under guard in her room until she’d agree to marry him. They gave her only bread and water, forbidding contact with anyone. For four days.”

Amice looked as though she might faint. Her skin was pale as an angel’s. Her beauty made him want to stare.

Nicholas guided her to a chair and helped her sit. He couldn’t resist tucking his cloak around her. “But you could never marry your husband’s cousin. Such a marriage is forbidden by the Church. You share a bond of affinity.”

“All rational people know that,” Amice agreed. “But Harry said some ignore the prohibition and he too would find a way around it. Mayhap get a dispensation.” Her small, white hands gripped the edges of his cloak, holding it close as if to protect herself from painful memories. “Each day, I tried and tried to find a means of escape. Each evening, he’d come to me and ask if I’d marry him. By the fourth day, I was so hungry, so desperate to be free, I lied and said ‘yes.’

“He believed the pretense of my acceptance and allowed me some freedom.” Someone handed her a cup of steaming broth, which she accepted with a nod. She took a sip. “Harry and his men lowered their guard when I appeared to prepare eagerly for the wedding. This morn, amidst the bustle of activity on the day of our supposed marriage, I managed to ride away.”

Cyril added, “After Harry went out to find you, his men tried to steal from your coffers. I locked them in your chamber and went to the village to raise a search party. I must go disband it.” Wringing his hands, he turned and went back the way he had come.

“Steward, wait,” Nicholas called.

The short man halted, his hair taking a moment to settle.

“Before you go, show my men Martin and Thomas the Tall where they can contain Harry.”

“If I weren’t so wet and hungry I’d demand this instant to know why you’re here,” Amice said. “You’ll be shown to your chamber, and then we shall eat. I’ll have your complete tale then. You’ve heard mine.” Holding her head high, she swept out of the room, damp skirts dragging at the rushes covering the wood floor.

Amice clenched her teeth as she strode to the chamber she’d use during Sir Nicholas’s visit. How dare he order her people about? At least Cyril had looked to Amice for confirmation before following his order.

She’d show Sir Nicholas who was in charge. She didn’t need some man, who knew nothing about her, ruling her or her home. At nine and twenty, she’d gained enough knowledge and experience to manage her household. Her husband’s death had freed her of a man’s rule. Of his commands and his demands.

Amice let Ginelle help her out of her ruined garments as servants brought hot water for her bath. “My lady, he is so handsome. Those eyes, the bluest I’ve seen. Such a fine face. And he seems strong, yet kind as well.”

Amice didn’t need to ask to whom Ginelle referred. She’d never met a man as attractive as Nicholas. His air of authority, the ease with which he took control and the alacrity with which he made decisions and people acted upon his orders, annoyed and made her respect him at the same time.

“Shall I attend him?” Ginelle offered, her brown eyes round with hope.

The thought of her pretty maid alone with Nicholas made her uneasy. Best keep temptation away.

“No. Please lay out my lavender gown.” She’d wear one of her finest out of respect for Nicholas’s standing with the king, not because she cared what he thought of her or wanted to look her best for him. And fall prey to the sin of vainglory.

She eased into the water, aching cold seeping from her tired body. Her favorite soap, scented with rose water, burned as it met the raw spot on her head. Two latherings later, she was clean. It felt good to be clean. And even better to be home.

When she was dressed, she felt almost herself again. She wore a gown of lavender wool over a cream kirtle, with flared sleeves and an elaborate border embroidered with flowers. The low neckline revealed a pleated section of the underdress. Her hair, unbound for she hated headdresses, gleamed in soft ringlets.

She touched the necklace she wore always, a square miniature of her mother rimmed by tiny amethysts and pearls hanging from an unusual chain of linked A’s, her mother’s initial. Adding a short, worked gold necklace set with garnets her cousin Cromwell had given her, she hoped the jewels would make her appear and feel confident and in control.