Claudia Dain (47 page)

Excerpt from

The Holding

Medieval Knights Series

Book One

by

Claudia Dain

Chapter 1

England, Winter 1155

William le Brouillard, Greneforde's new lord, would not be pleased with his prize. That was Kendall's first thought upon beholding his overlord's lands. Kendall reined in and cast his eyes around him, letting his breath out slowly. Nineteen years of war had taken its toll on William's hard-won holding.

Fields that should have been cleared and turned were broken wastelands of scorched earth dotted with struggling seedlings of oak and hemlock. The forest was encroaching steadily on the cleared land; forest that had once been beaten back to the fringes and held there diligently by sweat-soaked effort was relentlessly advancing on what should have been Greneforde's prime food source. There would be no corn this winter. A wet gust of wind blew against his face, and his stomach rumbled in protest at the assault; it would be a hungry season.

Leading his squire on, Kendall was struck by the absence of huts. Where were the villeins? Was that why the land lay fallow? Was there no one left to work the land? His stomach rumbled again, this time in trepidation. He did not want to be the messenger who brought William the news that his holding was a name on the Domesday Book and nothing more.

As if to mock him, Greneforde appeared suddenly out of the gray gloom looking reassuringly solid. The battlements were sound and the roof intact; there was even rising smoke from within the enclosure. The curtain wall, although of wood, looked sturdy, and one tower had been constructed of stone. Kendall's stomach ceased its complaining: Greneforde Tower was sound, but what was a sound great tower with no food to sustain the inhabitants?

Just then a woman appeared on the battlements, a woman where there should have been only battle-ready men. Silently they studied each other. At this distance, he could not make out her features, and there was something in her manner that warned against riding any closer to the curtain. He could see that her hair was fair and that she held herself erect; her mantle went beyond ordinary to be indescribably plain. They watched each other as warily as prospective opponents, and he found himself unnerved by her silent regard. It was almost ghostly the way the tower had appeared out of the fog and she with it. His squire mumbled uncomfortably behind him, stirring him to action.

"I am from King Henry II of England, overlord of Aquitaine, Normandy, Maine, Anjou, Touraine, Poitou, Guienne, and Gascony." Hearing no response, Kendall continued: "In light of Cathryn of Greneforde's orphaned state, the king has pledged her in marriage to William le Brouillard, who even now approaches to fulfill the king's command."

After a pause that could be counted in heartbeats, the woman on the wall nodded sharply, making no other response to his royal proclamation.

Kendall squirmed in his saddle, adjusting his sword, liking the reassuring weight of it in this desolate place of thrashing branches against a leaden sky and a woman who stood far too silently in the face of such news.

"Do you understand?" he asked awkwardly.

Again he saw her nod.

Kendall could sense more than hear his squire backing his horse away from him away from the woman on the wall, away from Greneforde. Being a knight of some renown, he could not allow himself the same indulgence, else his renown would be for his cowardice rather than his skill at arms.

The clouds that had covered the sun in a thick mat thinned suddenly, and multiple shafts of warm light pierced the air around the tower. Kendall caught his breath. What the gloom had hidden, the light revealed. The soil beneath him, broken though it was, was rich earth, earth that would welcome any seed. The great tower was constructed of yellow sandstone with arched wind holes and buttresses at the angles. And the woman... Her hair was of palest gold, warm and rich, hanging to a length beyond his view.

On impulse, Kendall asked, "Are you Lady Cathryn of Greneforde?"

As he was coming to expect, she did not speak, answering with a brusque nod, and then she did something new: she vanished. It seemed an odd reaction to news of her marriage.

Turning his mount, disgusted to see that his squire was by now a mere dot in the distance, Kendall reflected wryly, "At least William is not to be cursed with a shrewish wife."

* * *

The river Brent was swollen with rain, but William and his men eventually found shallows by which to cross. They were upriver from Greneforde in his estimation, and so eager was he for his first look that he did not wait for those who followed, but charged up the opposing bank and turned westward, praying that the light rain would not obscure his first glimpse of Henry's gift.

William snorted under his breath. Gift it hardly was after the years he had spent in proving his worth to the future monarch of Britain. Many had flocked to Henry's banner when it was decided and agreed upon by Stephen that Matilda's son would assume the crown at his death. Maud and Stephen had wrestled through their prime years for the right to rule England—battled with the tide turning first in favor of the one and then the other until they were both too old to fight, with the land and people of England the hardest hit in their struggle for power. There would be peace now, God willing, with Henry II on the throne—years of peace and time for England to heal. William prayed that Henry's rule would be long and prosperous—long and prosperous for them both.

Many had gathered themselves around Henry when he was named successor, hoping to advance their own plans, but Henry of Anjou was no fool, and of the many who had pursued him for their own selfish reasons, few remained. William had followed Henry across the miles and fought under his banner willingly, for he had seen a man who, although no warrior, was an able administrator. And in the course of time, he had attracted Henry's attention and eventually his confidence, and, as was the way of things, he was rewarded for his loyalty and his ability.

Greneforde was his reward.

Greneforde, hidden somewhere ahead in the mist, washed with rain. Greneforde, which had survived the civil anarchy of Stephen's reign as king, but in what state? William shook off his gloom, blaming the murky weather for his sudden malaise, and patted the large bag of seed he had carried with him. During the years he had roamed the continent, he had been quietly preparing for this day, the day when he would have land of his own. Everywhere he had gone, from the hot sands of Damascus to the mountains of Bavaria, he had searched for the best seed, the best cloth, the best spice for his future home. And now his home had a name: Greneforde.

"A beauty, according to gossip at court."

William turned to look at Father Godfrey, the priest who had been with him for a handful of years and who would perform his marriage ceremony. He wore a cotte of black wool that shed the light rain and had hiked it up to his knees to sit his mule. An unusual priest, one who had studied with Abelard, he believed that the average man could only benefit from knowing the Holy Scriptures, and to that end had spent many a dull evening coaxing William and his retinue to memorize God's sacred word.

"I thought men of God did not notice the beauty or lack of it in a maid once they wore the cloth," William commented dryly.

Godfrey smiled slowly as he gazed down at his coarse woolen habit. "We notice, but perhaps we do not give it the importance a knight-in-arms would."

Ulrich, William's squire, moaned dramatically. "We have been roaming the land for so many years in the company of men that my own grandmother would look fair."

William grinned. Ulrich, all of ten and seven years and with the gangly look of a half-weaned pup, imagined himself quite irresistible to women. In fact, when he had fulfilled the promise of his wide shoulders, he would most likely not need to imagine. He was a fine-looking lad with his smiling eyes and rich brown hair.

Godfrey, swaying upon his mule, said, "Then you see a woman with gentle eyes, which is as you should."

Ulrich only rolled his blue eyes up and sighed.

William smiled, amused by Ulrich, as he often was. His training of the youth was thorough but not harsh; his own term as squire had been under a stern and humorless man, and he could not see that he had benefited from it. The physical demands of knighthood were heavy enough without crushing the spirit under an additional and unnecessary weight. But his thoughts were not long on Ulrich. Again he searched the shifting mist, eager for sight of Greneforde.

Godfrey rode quietly and watched William. His thoughts were of Greneforde, that was plain, but there was more to Greneforde than the great tower and the land, and if William did not remember that, he did.

"She has been an orphan for many years," Godfrey remarked.

William jerked slightly in surprise and said absently, "'Tis so."

"These have not been easy years for England," Godfrey pointed out.

"Also true, but whatever is amiss will be made aright with my coming," William answered confidently.

Rowland, William's comrade in arms, joined them, nudging Ulrich to the back. His dark eyes looked first at William's back, and then his gaze skipped to Father Godfrey. The priest returned his look briefly, but long enough to see that they were of a similar mind.

"Lady Cathryn will no doubt be cheered to know it," Rowland said quietly.

William's only response was to grunt. He gave the distinct impression that he had forgotten her entirely. It was more than an impression; it was closer to fact. Cathryn was a small spur on the body of his thoughts, and he would have been the gladder for her plucking. A wife had not been his intent, for what room was there in his thoughts for a wife when hunger for land had taken the whole? Still, he was of an age to marry and Greneforde could not be taken without her. So he would have her. But his thoughts were of Greneforde.

"War is hard on the land; you have seen enough of warfare to know that, William le Brouillard," Godfrey pointed out casually. "And you have also seen how effectively a sword can send a man to stand before his God. How think you an orphaned maid has survived a score of years of civil war?"

He had not considered it, at least not overmuch, and he was not thankful that Father Godfrey had pointed it out to him. What mattered the maid? It was Greneforde, the land that came with her, that consumed him. It was Greneforde that he had striven for and Greneforde he had won. Yet Lady Cathryn awaited him as well as Greneforde. It seemed that she could not be forgotten, though he had tried.