Claudia Dain (49 page)

It was most unfortunate that her future husband had found her here. She had never been married in Weregrave and had wanted it to remain so. She had thought he would send forth some knight or squire of his to herald his approach; she could have made it plain that she would be found at Cheneteberie or Soninges or even forbidding Aldewurda, but he had given her no warning and now here he was. When he left her life, would the mark of him remain on Weregrave? She prayed not.

The ladies followed her from the solar and into the great hall, high-ceilinged and massive, its walls softened and warmed by tapestries; the single hearth was broad and low and littered with dogs soaking up its heat. The sounds of shuffling feet, the swish of fabric, and the faintest murmur spread out behind her as she passed out of the hall and down the stone stairs to the bailey. Her ladies... were they eager to view yet another husband or were they only enjoying a respite from their needlework? No matter. The question of her marriage would be settled quickly and then they could return to the solar and their tapestry. A respite of an hour, if her betrothed lingered.

She had yet to meet a man who lingered when acquiring a wife and a fortune.

Edward's heavy step was at her side, his sword swinging with each stride. He was a good man, solid and reliable. Unmarried, as were most knights. His thoughts he kept to himself, which suited her well. Another husband was among them. What words were needed to mark that event?

Weregrave had but the one wall enclosing and protecting the bailey and the tower, which consisted of the undercroft, the hall, the solar, and two chambers on the top floor. Along the east wall was the chapel, along the west wall, the kitchen. The armory hugged the tower and was fully supplied; the knights in arms and the bowmen slept on the floor above, their weapons close to hand. The single gate that allowed entrance into Weregrave was solid oak, braced with iron within and without, and set into a smaller tower: the tower gate. Above the tower gate lived the porter and the armorer and their families. A most congenial place was Weregrave, snug and warm and safe. Not so large as to intimidate, not so small as to disregard.

And within its walls now sat her next husband, close upon the tower gate. He was not alone, and of the men who sat upon their steeds within her holding, she could not distinguish who was to be her next husband and who was merely witness. The squire she discounted, but of the two knights, which was to be hers?

How many times had she found herself staring at a group of men and wondering which was to be her husband within the hour? Which man was to claim her lands and her wealth and her body as his own? It was like a dream that visited again and again; nay, not a dream but a nightmare with no scream to end it and none to hear if she did. Such thoughts helped nothing, and she tossed them from her like offal.

She started down the stair without a hitch in her step, without a frown, without a sigh. She had lived this dream before and knew how fruitless sighs and frowns and hesitations were. Best to begin it so that it would be the sooner over and done.

* * *

He had not meant to come. Worse, he had not known Nicolaa would be in residence. A woman in possession of five strong towers had five places to lay her head. It was his own fool judgment that had brought him to her door. There was nothing for her to think but that he had come to claim her.

Today would be his wedding day.

He looked down at himself He was dirty. He had come from a minor battle—a skirmish, more accurately—just to the west. He had come on impulse and was ill-prepared to marry.

He did not want a wife, even a wife with five towers.

She could not buy his loyalty or his heart with that; by command of the king, he would give his pledge of loyalty to Nicolaa of Cheneteberie. He would obey. But he would keep hold of his heart. Not even the king could command his heart.

So he would marry and become the lord of a vast, rich holding in England, when all he had ever wanted was to fight.

Rowland smiled ruefully to himself. A married man often found himself in more battles than he wished for, depending on his wife's temperament. Of what temper was Nicolaa of Cheneteberie? By the look of her holding, she was no slattern. Rich and prosperous, yea, but beyond that, Weregrave looked well ordered and well managed. The people were clean, which William had noted straight off, and intent on their duties. In fact, his arrival had not caused the smallest stir of interest.

Suspicion grew like a shadow at dusk. Such was not the norm, not even for a messenger, and he was lord of this place and these people.

Rowland pulled his sword free as the suspicion rooted in his mind; he was ready for battle, his heart and mind at rest as he balanced the steel, searching for his enemy, eager for whatever battle Weregrave had to offer him.

William, at his side, pulled free his own blade. "Where?" he asked, his gray eyes searching the bailey for threat.

"Everywhere," Rowland answered. "Why do they not react? I am lord here. Where is my welcome?"

"Perhaps they only wait for their lady."

"And where is the lady of Weregrave?" Rowland asked. He had come. Where was she that she did not rush to greet him? Had not Cathryn stood waiting when William had come as lord of Greneforde?

A movement at the top of the stair drew their eyes. The flutter of skirts, the movement of hair as it hung down, and they stopped their speculation. Lady Nicolaa had come.

His first thought was that she looked nothing like Lubias, and for that he thanked God. She was cloud-pale and slim, her hair curled and the warm red of sunrise. Nothing like his Lubias.

She paused at the top of the stair, looking down and across the bailey at him, her manner calm and assessing. He sat still and let her look her fill. Strangers they were to each other, yet they would be wed today.

"You had best give her a sign," William said, "else she will not know whom she is to wed. You are not known to her."

Rowland nodded. It was sound counsel. He urged his horse forward a pace or two, his eyes on hers, his helm lifted. He sheathed his sword. The lady had come; the threat had passed. All continued on within the bailey. The armorer beat a sword against the anvil. The servants talked within the kitchen. The men-at-arms looked from the curtain walk out to the horizon.

All was calm within Weregrave, even perfunctory. As was Weregrave's lady.

She came down the stair, her ladies at her back, and stood on the packed earth of the bailey. She was tall for a woman, her features fragile and fine, and she was calm. So exquisitely calm.

"Good morrow, Lord Rowland," she said. "You have arrived in good time. You will want the contracts finalized today, is that not so? When would you like the ceremony performed?"

Her voice was light, almost musical—nothing at all like the husky tones of the woman he loved. Another point on which to thank God for mercy in a most unwelcome circumstance.

He studied her as she stood before him. A fragile maid, but strong, like the finest blade. But perhaps not a maid? She was not nervous—he could see that in her very stance—and she was older than he'd expected. Too old not to have married. A widow then. The idea warmed him toward her; they would have their losses in common, at least.

"Good morrow, Lady Nicolaa," he said, smiling. "I must ask your pardon in coming upon you unheralded. I was in a skirmish to the west and thought to look at Weregrave while near. An impetuous impulse." He smiled, an apologetic smile for coming upon her so suddenly and unexpectedly.

"Would you like the marriage delayed, to await the arrival of family?" she asked.

He had dismounted while she spoke, and her question caused him to swing his head around to look again at her. Perhaps she did not want this marriage any more than he. Did she seek to delay?

"I ask for your sake only. I am well content to have the matter settled today," she said, her expression as conciliatory as her words.

There was nothing of rebellion in her words or in her face, and he found himself warming toward her. Surely such a considerate and dutiful woman would not burden his life overmuch. She would not demand a place in his life that belonged to another.

If he had to take a wife, Nicolaa of Cheneteberie would do very well in the role.

"I am content," he said, facing her. She was tall, but he taller still. "We can say our vows at your pleasure, lady. Nothing binds me. We may proceed."

William and Ulrich dismounted behind him, and their mounts were handed off to a groom for stabling. Ulrich, William's squire, was holding his tongue, which was a mercy unexpected and much approved. 'Twas a tender time, a husband and wife meeting for the first time, and Rowland wanted to find his way gently, without an enthusiastic and talkative squire to manage. William's careful silence he did not question; his friend read his intent better than any other. He would know to watch and wait, allowing Rowland to feel his way forward.

"If you will allow," Rowland said, "I would like to send a messenger to Greneforde, Lord William's holding, so that my belongings may be delivered here."

"Of course," Nicolaa said, her eyes on William. "It shall be done."

Rowland watched her watch William. 'Twas well known William was a handsome man, and he wondered if her heart would catch at the sight of such a renowned knight. But she did not react to William in any way that Rowland could detect. A most calm and self-possessed woman to not at least blink in pleased surprise at having William le Brouillard to feast her eyes upon.

"I know of you, of course," she said, smiling up at William. "You are well received here, Lord William."

"Thank you, Lady Nicolaa," William said with courteous reserve. "To be well received is all I wish for," he added with a teasing smirk. "And this is my squire, Ulrich."

"Lady Nicolaa." Ulrich bowed, his eyes on the ladies at her back. "I am pleasured to meet the bride of Rowland."

She nodded her welcome and then turned back to Rowland, a small and serene smile upon her lips. "Welcome, all. Weregrave and her people welcome you."

She turned and, by her manner, encouraged them to follow her. If this woman was afraid, she masked it well.

Rowland and William exchanged a look that defied definition and then followed Nicolaa up the stone stairs into the hall, her ladies following silently, as ladies are taught to be yet so seldom are. Ulrich followed the ladies most avidly, his eyes alight at so many comely ladies upon whom to slake his thirst for romance. He would have his hands full if he attempted the lot. Two were of an age beyond the romantic notions of an amorous squire, but the rest were young and unmarried, the two requirements most necessary. Perhaps the only requirements necessary.

"Remember your place, Ulrich," William said softly to his squire. "Better still, remember Rowland's place. We are strangers here. Keep yourself in hand."

"Aye, Lord William," Ulrich said in agreement while his eyes caught and held the eyes of the comely lass with dark hair five steps above him.

Rowland had no mind to keep his attention on the ever-present tussling that made up the bulk of William's conversation with his squire; he had entered the hall of Weregrave.

The hall was long and the ceiling lower than the one at Greneforde; that was what he first noted. The hearth was long and low and centered within the hall. A stairway rose on the left, a sweep of stone that turned with solid grace to the upper floors. And then there were the tapestries. They lined the hall, flat panels of color and form and texture, softening the stone, brightening the gray interior of the hall. He had never seen so many tapestries in one place, and each one expertly executed. Weregrave might be a tower that could withstand siege and war, but it was also a home.

She watched him, and he feared she would think he surveyed her home, to calculate its worth. He would not have her think him so ill-mannered. He smiled in apology.

She did not return the smile.

"The tapestries are quite fine."

"Thank you," she said, eyeing him.

"Yours?" he asked.

She nodded her answer.

"You are gifted with rare talent."

"Thank you," she said again.

A woman of few words and remarkable self-possession. He had known another bride who appeared so to hide a frightened heart and a bruised soul—Lady Cathryn, William's cherished wife. Perhaps Nicolaa sorrowed still for the husband lost to her. It would explain the careful stillness of her.

"Do you have a preference as to where you would like the ceremony performed?" Nicolaa asked.

Rowland paused, considering. If she'd been married before—and he could not doubt that a lady of her age and property had been married before now—then to repeat the bonding ceremony in the chapel might wound her unnecessarily. Let them say the words where it pleased her. His pain he had carried across continents and seas; what mattered the room to him?

"Nay, choose what will please you," he said softy.

Nicolaa smiled slightly and lifted one delicate shoulder in a shrug. "Very well," she said. Was she amused?

With a look and a nod, she sent one of the younger women off across the near-empty hall. Rowland could hear Ulrich sigh in frustrated longing. On the heels of that wordless exclamation came William's grunt of censure.

"You send for your priest?" Rowland said. In this hall of silent gestures and sighs, he would have words to make all clear. He wanted to know Nicolaa, to understand her, the better to meet her needs. He needed more than grunts and shrugs.

"Aye, Father Timothy," she said.

"Is the hour acceptable?" he asked. It was close to None, by the afternoon sun. And he wanted to keep her talking.

"It will be acceptable," she answered. "What we require of him takes but moments."

An observation that bespoke experience, surely. All his senses told him that she had been married before. That knowledge left him feeling... nothing.

"Your pardon, lady," William said, inserting himself in their sparse conversation. "I beg an indulgence. Say there is time for a bath for my friend. A man should not stand before God and swear his life to his bride covered in blood and sweat."