His Fair Lady (18 page)

“Crusader?”
She blinked at that, her brows knitting as she came out of
her reverie and turned to the monk.

“Yes, child. Sir Royce departed with the
Lionheart years past and has only returned this last month. My
child? Are you all right? You look pale.”

She did look pale, Royce realized with a
start. He moved instantly to her side and supported her arm, his
free hand moving to the curve of her waist.

“Lady Juliana is still recovering from the
Channel crossing,” Royce explained. “She did not take well to the
experience, I fear.”

Juliana turned huge eyes to his and said
nothing as he led her to a chair. She only stared up at him,
appearing as wordless as he had been moments before, when his gaze
first alighted on her.

“Would you care for something to drink, my
lady?” he asked gently. “Brother Giraldus has some ale that I think
you might find passable.” He gave a small smile, knowing how
particular she was in matters of drink.

“I thought you served King John.” Juliana’s
words came softly, her brows pinching together once more.

“In truth, the only service I’ve given him
thus far is in finding you.”

Her gaze fell away at that, and she rubbed
her temple as though a pain stabbed her there. “I think I will have
some ale, if you please,” she said a moment later.

Brother Giraldus promptly filled a cup
for the maid and brought it to her. “Here you are, my dear. We
haven’t been introduced, but I am Brother Giraldus. I’m one of
three chroniclers who maintain a cell here at Dover. Sir
Royce was just about to tell me more of his experiences
whilst on Crusade. ‘Tis a special undertaking of mine to set the
tales down with ink and vellum, so they might be preserved for
generations yet to come.”

Distracted by some sudden thought, the monk
put a forefinger to his chin and turned to Royce.

“Ah, but first, Sir Royce, you wished to
know of the king. Latest word has it that he has been touring the
countryside and that the queen is at Wallingford, awaiting his
arrival. From what you’ve told me, ‘tis likely you’ll find Lord
Gilbert there, comfortably established and cared for by the royal
physick.”

Royce pondered that a moment. “Wallingford
Castle shouldn’t take overly long to reach, given that ‘tis in
nearby Oxfordshire and on the Thames.”

“No time to reach at all,” Brother
Giraldus agreed. “If you and Lady Juliana delay your departure till
the morrow, your arrival will likely coincide with that of the
king’s. Better still, ‘twould allow the lady more time to recover
and you time to share more stories of
Outremer
.”

“Outremer
?”
Juliana tilted her head, her gaze lifting to Royce then moving back
to the monk.

“Yes, child — the ‘lands beyond the sea.’“
Brother Giraldus smiled as he took a chair opposite her, drawing it
up to a scarred oaken table where his writing supplies lay. “The
tales Sir Royce told me upon his return were most astounding,” he
said, taking up his quill. “There is nothing like a personal
account, I can assure you.”

»«

Ana strove to collect her wits. She’d hardly
begun to recover from her bizarre experience in the corridor when
the striking sight of Sir Royce — no longer in his dust-laden armor
but bathed and garbed in rich robes — stole her breath and the rest
of her senses clear away. Then, before she could even begin to
compose herself, she discovered he was not the contemptible
despoiler of cities she’d assumed him to be, but a gallant Crusader
— a hero, no less — who’d fought with the Lionheart.

Ana downed a mouthful of ale, ignoring
its taste, then drew on the cup again. How she wished to curl into
a tight ball and hide away in some lone corner while she
sorted
everything through. But she could not. And Sir
Royce’s gray-blue eyes remained upon her even now, sending
unaccountable feelings sliding through her.

Perhaps ‘twas only the awe she felt,
learning he was a knight of the Holy Crusade. Or could her feelings
be ones of relief, that he’d not aided King John in his loathsome
revenge on Le Mans? Ana reminded herself that even though all that
may be true, it changed nothing between them. Sir Royce had turned
her life upside down and brought her to the English shores against
her will, no more than a prisoner.

Her gaze drifted to the knight once more. He
stood speaking with Brother Giraldus at the moment, concerning some
entry on the monk’s parchment. Taking another small sip of ale, Ana
continued to gaze discreetly over the rim of the cup, her eyes
lingering on Sir Royce’s tall frame.

Gone were the layers of padding and mail
with the unflattering coif concealing most of his head. He now wore
a rich crimson tunic over black chasusses and boots, all showing
his masculine form to advantage. He’d obviously bathed. Even his
tanned skin appeared lighter, as did his hair, which had seen a
trimming, along with his mustache and beard.

As he spoke with the monk, his bruised side
turned away, Ana realized the truth of Mildred’s words. Sir Royce
was indeed a handsome man. Not that such an admittance in any way
diminished her feelings for Gervase, or the future she wished to
share with him. Still, she found herself scarce able to keep her
eyes from Sir Royce, as she had since first entering the
chamber.

Ana thought back on all she’d been told. The
knight was a hero of places called Acre and Ascalon and had spent
years in the East. ‘Twould explain his unseasonal tan and
sun-streaked hair. She’d been wrong, sorely wrong about him. But
what else did she not know?

As Ana shook away her musings, she realized
Brother Giraldus was pressing the knight for a new story.

Sir Royce glanced thoughtfully out the
chamber’s narrow window, then turned back. Leaning his hip against
the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I know you wish to hear of battles and
victories, Giraldus, but perhaps ‘tis best to begin at the
beginning, when the armies of Richard and Philip met at Vézelay.
That too is important for your records, and I believe you will find
the events intriguing on their own merits.”

Brother Giraldus’s head bobbed in agreement
as he laid out a fresh parchment and prepared to write. In the same
moment, Ana’s gaze leaped to Sir Royce at the mention of
Vézelay.

He’d been there, of course, as had her
squire. Ana’s heart quickened. Perhaps the two might have met.
Perhaps, Sir Royce knew something of her squire’s fate.

“‘
Twas estimated eight thousand
soldiers gathered at Vézelay,” the knight began. “Our own forces
arrived belatedly, but I can attest to the number for troops
thickened the ground like locust for miles around.”

Eight thousand
soldiers.
Ana’s hopes sank. ‘Twould be a miracle for
Sir Royce to have encountered her squire, even briefly, in so vast
a company.

The sound of the monk’s quill scratching
across the dry parchment drew her thoughts back. Ana returned her
attention to the knight, listening intently for whatever he might
reveal of Vézelay and the time that followed, imagining what her
squire must have endured after he’d left her at Vincelles.

“Upon our arrival at Vézelay, we learned of
the death of the emperor, Frederick Barbarossa, and that his army
had turned back to their homeland. Naturally, it cast a pall over
our high spirits,” Sir Royce was saying. “Quarrels erupted between
Richard and Philip, as they ever did throughout the campaign. But
then, omens plagued us too. When the armies started forth and the
kings picked up their pilgrim’s script and staff, Richard’s staff
broke. He ignored it, of course, not believing in portents but only
in himself, and led the troops forward.”

Ana propped her chin on her hand as she
continued to listen, gazing on Sir Royce’s features. His eyes had
lost their blue, turning steely, and his gaze was now distant, his
expression intent, as he relived those days.

“The two armies marched south together,
English and French. ‘Twas an impressive sight. But at Lyons came
our first mishap. The bridge collapsed under the weight of our army
as we crossed the Rhône. I nearly drowned myself. King Richard
ordered boats lashed together, thus we eventually gained the other
side.”

Sir Royce began to pace. “Next, at
Marseilles, where the Lionheart expected a fleet of a hundred ships
to meet his army, and for which he’d paid most handsomely, none
awaited. Furious, he hired the first three ships he could find, but
most of us were forced to march overland, as did King Philip, who
distrusted travel by water.”

A chill spiraled through Ana as she thought
on what the soldiers must have endured as they crossed one
inhospitable land after another, making their way to the desert
lands. Her own few days and minor discomforts traveling through
France’s countryside could not compare to the hardships borne by
the Crusaders, borne by her dear squire.

“Further delays followed, not the least of
which came when Richard’s irrepressible mother, Queen Eleanor,
arrived with a Spanish bride for him, the Princess Berengaria. The
two eventually wed on the island of Cyprus, but not before the
bride and the king’s sister, Joan, had been kidnapped. But that
tale is best left for another time.”

Sir Royce ceased his pacing and, lost to his
thoughts, drew his hand along his bearded jaw. “In all, ‘twas not
until ten months after our departure from Vézelay that the armies
of Richard the Lionheart and Philip Augustus arrived in the Holy
Land to face Saladin.”

Ana listened, enthralled, to Sir Royce’s
account, thoughts of her squire slipping away. There was much more
to this knight than she’d ever begun to guess. Who was this man,
Sir Royce de Warrene? And after enduring years in the East, what
strange twist of Fate had sent him on a quest to Chinon?

Wallingford, Oxfordshire

Wallingford Castle rose majestically above
the Thames in white dazzling splendor. Even from the distance of
the docks, the immense stronghold promised everything Royce had
ever heard it to be — the “marvel of England.”

Disembarking the
uissier
, a transport ship equipped for animals,
Royce led Hannibal down the planking and onto the quay. Juliana
followed, speaking not a word, her gaze yet raised to the great
castle. ‘Twas an awe-inspiring sight, even for one such as himself
who’d seen many wonders of architecture in the East.

Mounting Hannibal and settling the maid
pillion behind him, Royce guided the stallion along the main road,
which led through the heart of the ancient town, and brought them
to the north gate at its far-most end. There, they entered onto a
paved causeway leading directly toward the castle and its massive
fortified gate.

Wallingford, Royce knew, was among the
Conqueror’s earliest and most important castles constructed. Over
the years, it had been converted from timber to stone and much
improved upon, especially by the Plantagenet kings.

Advancing toward it, Royce again gazed in
awe at the result of their passionate endeavors. Three defense
walls rose in tiers, each succeeding wall higher than the one
before it, protecting the massive keep within the inner ward.
During a siege, the castle defenders could man all three
battlements, aiming their weapons over the heads of their comrades
on the lower ramparts. In addition, mural towers projected at
regular intervals along the curtain walls for as far as he could
see. These, Royce knew, would allow archers to take aim from any
angle and to thwart enemies who might attempt to scale the
walls.

Most impressive of all was the castle’s
gatehouse, which loomed directly ahead. ‘Twas a solid structure,
flanked by two huge drum towers. The whole of the castle — its
walls, towers, gatehouse, keep — was limewashed so that its white
surface reflected the sun and shone brilliantly over the
surrounding countryside. Adding to the power of the effect, the
parapets bristled with soldiers, and Royce saw now that the king’s
standard, bearing three gold lions on a red ground, fluttered high
above the drum towers. John was in residence.

Royce felt Juliana press against him as she
leaned forward and looked past his shoulder. Her hold tightened
about his middle when they crossed onto the drawbridge, this of
timber stretching over a deep, watered ditch. Hannibal’s hooves
clumped dully on the wood as they continued forward, totally
dwarfed by the enormity of the structure before them.

‘Tis a monstrous-sized castle, Sir Knight,”
Ana spoke at his ear, her tone filled with wonder. “Are all in
England like this one?”

“Nay, fair maid. Wallingford is an Honor
Castle, a strategic royal stronghold, impregnable. It retains over
a hundred knights to secure it, never less. No one enters here
without permission.”

“Or leaves without it either, I imagine,”
Juliana added dryly.

Royce smiled grimly at her observation,
which held truth to it. Once past the gates, he knew he could relax
his vigil over the maid and cease worrying from one moment to the
next what new scheme she might hatch in order to escape. ‘Twould be
a welcome relief to give that particular responsibility over to
another.

Yet, ‘twould be odd, after spending these
many days and nights together, to be wholly free of Juliana. He
would leave her with her grandfather and withdraw from her life
both for now and evermore. ‘Twas as it should be, of course. So why
did the thought prick at him? The child Ana had been an angelic
waif, he thought, envisioning her sweet face. Grown to maidenhood,
though, she’d become a rose with many thorns.

Royce released a long breath, slowing
Hannibal’s pace as they closed on the towered gate. His quest was
complete. Complete, that was, if Lord Gilbert was installed at
Wallingford as Brother Giraldus believed him to be. Forsooth, he
hoped the good brother was right. The old lord and his
granddaughter need be reunited and proceed with their lives. He
need do the same.