His Fair Lady (33 page)

“No need, Father . . .”

“Friar, Friar Tupper. My assistant and I
belong to a mendicant order,” he added when Royce sent him a
questioning look. “Just a small one — the Canons Regular of St.
Augustine.”

Royce caught sight of a second, much younger
churchman, identically robed in a black cowl, peering from the door
of the church. Royce eased back in his saddle. He was aware of the
mendicants — religious who belonged to monastic communities but who
carried their calling outside the monastery walls. Royce shoved the
papers back beneath his jerkin and mail coat.

“Can you tell me what has become of the
seneschal who was assigned to oversee Beckwell?”

“I’ve not the remotest idea, my son. God’s
truth.”

“I was assured a seneschal resided at
the castle and that my estate was being administered by the nearby
bishopric. I even received reports from the king’s accountants
whilst I was in
Outremer
.”

“Outremer
?”
Friar Tupper’s eyes rounded. “You fought in the Crusades? With the
Lionheart?”

“That I did. But let us keep to the subject
of Beckwell. What know you of the estate or the bishopric that
administers it?”

The friar tugged thoughtfully on his heavy
chin, his brows pulling together in a bushy line. “Beckwell belongs
to the See of Ely. Benedictines there, you know. They’ve a
community at Huntingdon also. Perhaps ‘tis they who manage Beckwell
directly.”

Royce considered this. If they did, there
was no evidence that they’d applied any of the land’s income to its
upkeep or improvement. The castle was a ruinous pile.

“The Crown and See remember us when they
require rents and taxes, but we here at Beckwell are otherwise
forgotten,” the friar continued as though reading his thoughts. “No
one has inhabited the castle since before I arrived. ‘Tis why men
such as I, and Friar Woodruff, must tend to the flock of Beckwell —
laboring in God’s vineyard where kings do not.”

Royce afforded the man a tolerant look then
guided Hannibal around the church construction, studying its
progress. ‘Twas complete for the most part, excepting one wing. It
even boasted a fine slate roof to shelter the worshipers. He looked
back at the churchman.

“Would those be the slates from Beckwell’s
Great Hall?”

The Friar flushed a deep shade of red. “Sir
Royce, I know nothing of your grant, or the reports you received.
The castle has been moldering, unattended, for at least a decade,
mayhap more. ‘Tis as forgotten as are Beckwell’s people. The
village once served the castle, long before its slighting. Should
not the castle now serve the people since the Crown will not?”

“Serve the people? How so? You build
yourself a new and larger church is all, yet I see you already have
one.”

“An ancient Saxon structure, tiny and
crumbling.”

“Thus, you thieve from my castle to build a
new place in which to offer your prayers?”

“To offer prayers, aye. But a church of
staunch stone serves as more than a place of worship. It provides
shelter in the event of an attack.”

“There is the castle keep. ‘Tis in good
repair. I’ve just come from it myself,” Royce countered.

“True, but it lies at a distance.
Should an attack come suddenly and the villagers be unable to reach
the keep, what are they to do? Think of the women and children, Sir
Royce, and how defenseless they would be. As I said, the old church
is crumbling. It cannot withstand a single assault. Thus we build a
new, more solid, structure — one to serve God’s children in
all
their needs.”

Unexpectedly, the friar’s arguments cast
Royce’s thoughts back in time, back to the night he followed Sir
Hugh into the burning village of Vaux. He recalled their arrival on
the green, the sight of the dead — the people cut down as they’d
sought to gain the church — and the sight of those who’d survived,
crouching in the church’s doorway.

How did anyone survive that night? Royce
wondered anew, feeling a sudden pang deep in his chest in the
vicinity of his heart. Royce’s thoughts strayed to Ana — his little
Ana. What would have become of her had Sir Hugh’s retinue not
happened on Vaux that night? Or had he not lost his grip on himself
and sought the river’s edge? What if he’d not found her beneath the
boat?

Refocusing his attention on the churchman,
Royce found Friar Tupper staring at him with his hands folded over
his portly belly, giving him a most solemn look.

“As the new Lord of Beckwell, ‘tis my
fervent hope you will support our efforts and prove a generous
sponsor of our village church.”

Royce grunted, still clearing the memories
from his head. Obviously, the friar wished for him to approve the
construction and allow the villagers to keep the stone. Royce was
not prepared to give him an answer. He shifted his thoughts in a
different direction.

“How long have you ministered to Beckwell,
friar?”

“
Half a decade.” The churchman gave a
small shrug.

“Long enough.”

“Sir?”

“Is that your assistant lurking at the
door?”

“Aye, ‘tis Friar Woodruff.”

“Good. Inform him he will be tending
Beckwell’s flock in your absence.”

“My absence?”

“Aye, friar, you are coming with me. I’ve
many questions and you, I believe, hold a good number of the
answers.”

“Coming? Where, sir? To the castle?” Friar
Tupper blustered, his bushy brows parting wide.

“Nay, ‘tis unlivable and other matters press
me sorely. We ride for Hampshire and Penhurst Castle. There I
expect a full reckoning of Beckwell’s past.”

Penhurst Castle, Hampshire

Activity filled the ward as Royce and his
companions rode through the gates of Penhurst. At once, he spotted
the differing liveries among the men there, most in the process of
grooming their steeds. The visitors looked to comprise small
parties of personal guards such as those traveling with him.

Had their lords come to offer their
condolences on Lord Gilbert’s death? Or to tell Royce of some
alliance they’d shared with Penhurst’s late master? As he brought
Hannibal to a halt before the stables, the truth of the matter
struck him in a blinding flash. The men came to offer their suits
for Juliana’s hand in marriage.

Royce dismounted and gave over Hannibal’s
reins to a groom, then strode directly toward the Great Hall.
Irritation multiplied along his spine. The petitioners had
descended quickly enough on Penhurst. He’d been gone less than two
weeks. Likely they’d used his absence to inspect the property
fully, as well as the prospective bride. His mood blackened at that
thought. Setting his jaw, he entered the hall.

Few noticed his presence at first, excepting
the hounds that stirred from the rushes, their tails switching in
greeting. A festive air filled the hall, the minstrel’s bright
music a backdrop to the rumble of male voices. Servants scurried
from table to table with platters of food and pitchers of drink,
seeing to the needs of various lords and lesser knights. Royce
counted thirty in all.

His gaze drew to Juliana where she sat upon
the dais, entertaining her guests with merry conversation and
winsome smiles. The most important-looking of the lords held seats
beside her. They appeared utterly beguiled with the maid, outwardly
at least. Royce shoved back his coif of mail, at the same time
discovering Edmond at his elbow.

“My lord, welcome back,” the seneschal said
with a nervous smile. “We’ve gained a number of guests whilst you
were away. They insisted on waiting for your return. Each claims to
have a pressing need to speak with you. ‘Tis my impression their
business concerns Penhurst’s lady, though none have declared it
so.”

“I thought as much.” Royce stripped off his
gloves and jammed them into his belt. “How long have they been
here?”

“Three days, only, but they and their
escorts have been quick to devour our stores.”

Like a plague of
locusts
, Royce thought grimly. “And Lady Juliana, has
she been amusing them ever since?”

He glanced again to the maid, missing the
seneschal’s response as he caught her gaze. Juliana rose instantly
from her chair and took up her goblet, abandoning the dais. Royce
watched as she crossed down the center of the hall, bearing the
vessel toward him. At the same time, he did not miss the hot,
wolfish looks that followed her.

“Welcome, Sir Knight.” Juliana smiled,
coming to stand before him, offering up the goblet. “Ale to ease
the discomforts of your journey. ‘Tis fresh.”

Royce gazed at the maid, surprised that she
appeared genuinely pleased to see him. “Thank you, Juliana, but a
little later. For now, I’ve a matter to attend to with our guests,
and I would prefer for you to withdraw to your chamber.”

She lowered her arms, her smile fading. “Guy
is not yet finished his song.”

“He is now.” Royce signaled for the minstrel
to cease. As the music subsided, those in the hall turned to seek
the cause. “Go now, Juliana,” he urged, seeing their guests rising
from their places, preparing to deluge him with their suits.

“But I wish to remain,” she balked. “I’m
very much enjoying the company. These gentlemen have journeyed long
distances to offer their sympathy for Lord Gilbert’s death.”

“Sympathy?” Royce spouted. “Is that the
reason you believe them to be here?”

“Why, yes, of course. That and to meet the
new guardian of Penhurst,” she replied, full of innocence, her
smile returning. “Surely, they wish to inform you of whatever bonds
they shared with Lord Gilbert. They must have been fast friends of
his, or supporters at least.” She glanced back to the men. “They’ve
been most kind, too. As they accept me as his granddaughter, they
have sought to lighten my spirits and distract me from my
grief.”

Royce stared at Juliana, incredulous at her
guileless assumptions. “Lady, has it escaped your consideration
that these men come for more than to offer condolences or to
acquaint themselves with my person?” Her brows twinged together at
that. “‘Tis your hand in marriage they seek. Now, I must speak with
them and much prefer you keep from sight until I can be done with
the matter.”

Juliana paled, her eyes grown huge. “You
need not speak with them at all. Just send them away, Sir Knight. I
wish to marry none of them.”

“‘
Tis my duty. I vowed to Lord Gilbert
to find you a husband, and the king insists the choice be made by
Christmas.”

“Lord Gilbert also bound you to take my
feelings into consideration.”

“And I will, Juliana. Still, in fairness, I
must allow each man who has traveled here the courtesy of listening
to what he has to say.”

“Fairness?”
she cried. “Fairness to them, but what of to me?” Incensed,
she hurled the goblet into the rushes, sending the contents
splashing wide.

Juliana gave Royce her back and crossed to
the back of the hall, exiting to where her chamber lay. As she
disappeared from sight, the visiting lords and knights converged
upon Royce, each trying to make himself heard.

Royce grabbed for the seneschal. He caught
him by the sleeve and hauled him close. “Edmond, see these men’s
cups are kept full of ale and order me a hot bath. I’ll meet with
them once I’ve rid myself of my armor and the layers of dirt I’ve
garnered in my travels.”

Royce started to release the seneschal
then drew him
back. “I nearly forgot. I’ve brought
with me a certain Friar Tupper from Beckwell. You’ll find him in
the ward somewhere. He’ll be needing quarters.”

Edmond bobbed his head in understanding,
then raising his arms over his head, clamored for the men’s
attention, allowing Royce a chance to slip from the hall.

»«

Once bathed and dressed, Royce returned and
settled himself upon the dais, assuming the traditional high-backed
chair of the Lords of Penhurst. Calling for a goblet and pitcher of
ale, he braced himself for the coming hours. ‘Twould likely require
the remainder of the day and possibly the night to meet
individually with Juliana’s suitors.

As Royce filled his goblet, he bid the first
man forward, his mood darkening. He’d returned to Penhurst chilled
to the bone and chafing over his lands of Beckwell. He wasn’t of a
mind to confront the issue of a husband for Juliana. Not yet. But
he must if he was to give the king an answer by Christmas.

As the first suitor climbed onto the dais,
Royce downed a mouthful of ale. His gaze leapt to the vessel. If
there would be one compensation this day for his efforts, ‘twould
be the drink. ‘Twas uncommonly good. Excellent, in fact. He could
not remember when he’d had better.

As Royce looked to the man lowering himself
onto the chair beside him, he found a battle-scarred warrior of no
less than sixty years. He wore a patch over one eye, presumably
missing, his other whitish and cloudy. His hair hung in stringy
wisps from a balding pate and half his teeth were gone. The man
identified himself as John De Grenfell, Penhurst’s neighboring
lord. He spoke candidly and to the point. He wanted to join the two
properties and add the extra knights’ fiefs to his own.

“And what of the bride, Lady Juliana?” Royce
pressed.

Grenfell shrugged. “Her needs will be met,
and I expect she’ll breed. I’ve some fire left in the hearth for
the task. Though, it matters not if she drops any brats. I’ve sons,
four full grown. Henry here is the oldest and will one day
inherit.” He pointed to a bearish-looking man waiting by the dais.
“Should I fail soon, fear not. He’ll take guardianship of the lady
and see to her interests.”