His Fair Lady (34 page)

Or his own
,
Royce thought, drawing on his drink. He recognized Henry as being
among those who nearly salivated when Juliana swept past him in the
hall. Where the elder Grenfell appeared literally blind to the
maid’s attributes, naught escaped the son, his appetites sharp and
ravenous.

“Thank you for coming, Lord Grenfell, I will
consider your suit.” Royce helped him from the dais, then refilled
his goblet and bid the next man approach.

The following ten suitors proved of middling
years with some property already to their names. All sought to
enlarge their holdings and exhibited a keen interest in warming the
sheets with the maid. Predictably, their main interest lay with the
land. A wife they viewed as a domestic helpmate necessary to
provide an important service — the begetting of an heir. They all
appeared eager to undertake that effort.

Royce called for a new pitcher of ale, as
the youngest among the suitors took the seat opposite him. He was a
scribe with no holdings and so timid Royce was uncertain he knew
how to find his way out of his chausses. Royce recognized him to be
one of the swains from Wallingford who’d trailed Juliana about
everywhere she went.

As the day progressed to night and everyone
in the hall continued to imbibe of their cups, the suitors became
more bold, their tongues loosened, their pretenses gone.

“Have no fear, I’ll treat her like the queen
herself, and keep her belly filled with babes,” claimed one.

“If she be shy, she won’t be for long. I’ll
give her something warm to enjoy between her legs,” boasted
another.

When Royce asked what provisions would be
made for Juliana should she be widowed, most named relatives to
become her guardian. A few suggested she retire to the nunnery.
Royce grew warm, fueled by the ale and his burgeoning temper.

Sir Ulric Bonsall was next to join Royce on
the dais. The knight was thirtyish, claiming to have gained his
wealth at tournaments but now seeking an heiress with land. Royce
found the man coarse in his manners, but owed it in part to the
drink. Bonsall claimed he was capable of protecting Penhurst and
its lady and keeping her satisfied.

“Let’s be honest,” he said thickly, leaning
forward.

“Lady Juliana is a beauty —rarest of the
rare — a choice piece to gratify any husband, but a temptation to
all others. I know you will agree, ‘tis best to keep such a
temptation out of sight.”

“Out of sight? Locked up, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“You’ll find Juliana is a strong-willed
maid.”

“She’ll pose no trouble, or bear the
consequence,” Bonsall bragged, focusing blearily on his hand as he
formed it to a fist. “‘Tis a
cunte’s
place to obey.”

Royce’s knuckles exploded across the man’s
jaw, knocking him off his chair and into the rushes.

“Guards, remove this refuse,” he bellowed,
standing over the cur who did not deserve the name of knight. “See
that he and his men depart at once.”

Royce dropped back into his chair and stared
into the bottom of his goblet. ‘Twas empty again. Sighing heavily,
he raised his hand, bidding the next man forward.

Edmond appeared before the dais. “My lord,
that was the last one.”

“Good.” Royce pushed to his feet. “I can
stomach no more.”

»«

“My lord?” Edmond’s voice penetrated the
thick wadding of wool that crowded Royce’s skull. “My lord, wake
up.”

“Lord who?” Royce muttered, tasting of
the wool in his mouth. ‘Twas like an old sock — a
very
old sock. He turned to his
other side.

“You, my lord,” Edmond persisted. “You are
Lord of Beckwell and thus, ‘my lord.’“

Royce grunted at that logic and burrowed
deeper into his fine feather pillow, a most welcome rest for the
block of iron weighting the space where his brain should be.
Everything around it seemed stuffed with wool — or perhaps old
socks. He couldn’t tell.

“My lord, Lady Juliana did not appear for
her lessons and is yet to be found. Her maid, Luvena, is most
agitated. We’ve looked all about, but we fear something might have
befallen her ladyship.”

Royce hauled open his lids and strove to
focus on the man. ‘Twas no easy task. “Befallen her? How so?”

“Luvena fears one of her suitors may have
carried her off.”

“Kidnapped Juliana?” Royce dragged himself
upright. “‘Tis unlikely. None seemed so desperate to do so.
Besides, I doubt any could have easily managed it, given the maid’s
capabilities.”

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed,
he scrubbed his face with his hands and strove to clear his head.
Royce stilled, his eyes popping open as a thought hit his sluggish
brain like a bath of icy water. He’d not underestimate the maid to
find some clever way to slip from Penhurst unnoticed during their
visitors’ many departures.

Royce cast back the bed covers, bolting to
his feet, his head throbbing as he reached for his braies. “Sound a
bell, or horn, or whatever you have. Call everyone out to search
for Lady Juliana and have Hannibal readied.”

Royce donned his garments and armor as
quickly as he could manage then made his way to the ward. His
thoughts ran ahead to the Meon River and what transport Juliana
might have succeeded in catching there. God’s teeth, he’d not
anticipated this, but he should have. He never should have relaxed
his vigil of the maid. Now that Lord Gilbert had gone to his rest,
she’d returned to her troublesome ways.

Royce found Hannibal saddled and waiting and
started to mount. Just as he lifted his foot to the stirrup,
someone gave a shout, drawing his attention toward the kitchens.
Juliana appeared in view as she emerged from the back of the
buildings. Her sleeves were pushed to her elbows and an apron,
begrimed with dirt, covered her dress. She slowed her step as she
took in the commotion in the ward, blinking and obviously
uncomprehending of the cause of the uproar.

Crossing the distance with long strides,
Royce came to stand before her, struggling to hold rein on his
temper.

“Is something amiss, Sir Knight?” She looked
up at him wide-eyed.

“Where have you been?” he growled. “Everyone
is searching for you.”

“For me? Why? And why are you angry?”

“Because you were missing,” he said between
his teeth. “‘Twas feared you’d been kidnapped or that you might
have . . .” He halted his words, not wishing to reveal his own
speculations on the matter.

“Might have what?” she persisted, giving him
a long look. “Escaped? Would that I could,” she said with a note of
bitterness. “If you must know, I was sanding out kettles, there,
behind the kitchens.”

“Scrubbing pots? ‘Tis servant’s work,” he
snapped.

The maid lifted her chin, defensive. “‘Tis
merely work, is all, and most welcome to relieve my distress.”

“And what distress might that be?” He
scowled.

“The distress of knowing I am to be given to
a stranger like a piece of furniture, along with the castle, to do
with as he will.”

Royce hardened his jaw, feeling as though
steam were building behind his eyes and venting through his
ears.

“You should be at your studies with Edmond,
learning to conduct yourself as a lady and to run Penhurst’s
household.”

“Does not running a household include seeing
to its kitchens, Sir Knight?” she challenged.

“Overseeing it, aye, but not engaging in the
labors there.”

“But I am capable enough and find solace in
work.”

“‘
Tis not the issue and well you know
it. You are the lady of Penhurst. ‘Tis important you hold the
respect of everyone connected with the castle if you are to direct
its affairs and be obeyed.”

Juliana gave a short laugh. “And why should
I wish others to obey me?”

“For their own well-being,” Royce grit out.
How could he make her understand? “A castle may seem naught but so
much stone and timber and tillage of land. But I assure you,
everyone, at every level, is dependent upon one another in some
measure — none more so than upon its lord and lady. In times of the
lord’s absence, ‘tis the lady who oversees the estate’s many
functionings, and if required, holds the castle when under siege.
Even the knights must obey her.”

Juliana absorbed his words, but then
visibly shuttered her
emotions. “That may be so, Sir
Knight, but I own no wish to preside over a castle as its
lady.”

Royce arched a brow. He’d no energy to argue
words with her this day. Besides, he possessed a raging headache
from the quantity of ale he’d consumed, coupled with this latest
excitement. Juliana was the heiress of Penhurst, and that would not
change.

“Exactly what is it you wish, my lady?”

“To return to Chinon,” she replied firmly,
simply.

“Are we to that again? I thought you
accepted you are Lord Gilbert’s granddaughter.”

“The truth of my identity matters not, Sir
Knight. I do not belong here at Penhurst any more than I do at
Court, or any other place in England. That was made most clear to
me at Wallingford.”

“You are of noble birth, Juliana. The king
and queen themselves acknowledge that, and thus must their
subjects. ‘Tis more your manners and lack of learning that
separates you from the others of high station, and all the more
reason for you to attend to your lessons.”

The maid compressed her lips, giving a
stubborn set to her jaw. “You still do not understand the whole of
it, Sir Knight, and I’ve no care to explain any further.
Please
, allow me to return to
Chinon.”

“Nay, Juliana, I will not. We shall speak of
it no more.”

“Oh, but we shall, Sir Knight,” she
retorted, her eyes flashing. “I can be quite mulish.”

“Of that, I’m well aware,” Royce muttered to
himself as he bid Luvena come forward.

Royce eyed Juliana’s smudged features and
soiled garb then looked to the little maid. “See Lady Juliana is
bathed, dressed, and at her lessons within the hour,” he
instructed. “And try not to lose her again this day.”

His head throbbing, Royce gave orders for
Hannibal to be attended, then started back toward the hall. The day
had to improve, he assured himself. With Juliana found and under
supervision, he could look forward to some hours of quiet and
peace.

»«

Installed in the south tower, in a
chamber with a sizable window and ample light, Royce studied
Penhurst’s many
and varied accounts. They enumerated
everything from the revenues of its lands and fiefs to the garrison
personnel, castle staff, household staples, on down to the stable
supplies and Penhurst’s offerings to the poor.

Taking up his cup, Royce glanced idly out
the window, past the curtain wall, toward the barns and a
drum-shaped dovecote. Contemplating the placid scene, he sipped the
ale, a superior drink. He must remember to commend the alewife.
Knowing he still needed to meet with Friar Tupper, he deemed now as
good a time as any.

Hardly had he finished the thought, when a
flock of doves burst from the far side of the dovecote and flapped
furiously away in a dark cloud. Instantly, shouting tore at the
silence.

“God give me strength!” Royce put down his
cup and hurried from the tower. Moments later he discovered the
heart of the problem — Juliana.

“Why are you here and not at your
lessons?”

“I finished them.” Guilt stamped her face.
“You wish me to be busy, so I brought the doves some carded wool
for their nests. ‘Tis how to coax them to lay their eggs.”

“Eggs? They’d no time for eggs!” Tomas the
cook cried in complaint. “My lord, the doves were being fattened
for today’s dinner, and she set them free. Now we have none.”

Royce rounded on the cook, taking a narrow
view of the servant’s uppitiness. ‘Twas not his place to fault
Penhurst’s lady on any matter. ‘Twas also a reminder that not all
in the castle yet accepted the change of authority.

“If there are no birds, then I suggest we
eat fish.” Royce glared at the man. “Is the pond stocked?”

“Aye, m’lord,” the man swallowed, his face
fallen.

“Fish it is then. See to it!”

“Aye, m’lord.” The man hurried off, his head
bowed. Royce bent his gaze to Juliana. “There must be other things
you might apply yourself to. Embroidery, mayhap?”

“Riding lessons would be more useful.”

“Why? To attempt escape?” She looked away,
refusing to meet his eyes or to answer. “Juliana, you are the
heiress of Penhurst and your place is here.”

‘Tis you who wish for it so, not I.”

“‘
Twas your grandfather’s wish, and
well you know it. Lord Gilbert desired only the best for you and
bequeathed to you all he possessed. Do you dismiss that so
lightly?”

Juliana’s mouth opened and closed several
times, though no sound came out. She appeared ready to burst, or to
pummel his chest again. Instead, she kicked at a clump of dirt,
then stalked off toward the hall, her skirt twitching.

Dinner offered no respite. As Royce shared a
trencher with Juliana, she ignored him as best she could, looking
exquisitely remote. Her features remained like marble, except when
she ate of the fish, grimacing after each bite.

At length, she bid Guy to play Ragnell’s
story, then turned to Royce. “I hope you enjoy the entertainment,
Sir Knight, and gain something of value from it as well.”

“And what would that be?”

“Insight, the same as Sir Gawain, and the
wisdom of allowing a woman to choose her own way.”

“You are mistaken if you think I will allow
you to choose in the matter of Chinon.”

“Forgive me, Sir Knight. I forgot you spent
many years in the desert, apart from the refinements of the
kingdom. ‘Tis likely you need to hear the story more than once,”
she goaded. “I can arrange for the minstrel to sing it each night
till you grasp its import.”