Juliana Garnett (29 page)

It had not been a pleasant scene, ended only by his insistence that she join him willingly in the hall or be forcibly dragged there.

“Your presence is important, Ceara. These are Saxon barons, and if they think you reluctant, so they might be.”

“Let them be! That knave Oswald, when I called up his knight service he did not come … what do I care if he risks his neck now? I hope you burn down his castle with him inside it.”

No, it had not been pleasant.

If he had not been so unsettled by the sharp bite of fear he’d felt at thinking her about to be run down by Oswald’s man, he might have been more lenient about the wolf. But all he could think was that she had imperiled her own life for that of her pet. His blood still ran cold at the thought of her being hurt. Nor had he forgotten how she had answered him when he’d spoken in French. Now he wondered just how much French she could understand. Then, the moment had been chaotic, and since, she had not seemed to comprehend the language. Still …

Now she sat like a sullen lump in her chair, staring straight ahead and replying politely but curtly to any pleasantries from Lord Oswald or the others, Leofric and Eadwine, former vassals to Balfour. It must rankle her that they had not answered Ceara’s call to arms, but they would have made little difference in the outcome. Luc would have won the day if their forces had been added or naught, as he had told her.

“My lord,” Oswald said, turning to Luc and snaring his attention once more, “it is said that you were born in England. How came you to be aligned with the Norman cause?”

Luc’s brow lifted. An unwise question to ask in front of all. Was Oswald that foolish? To be so bold and insolent at the table?

Leaning forward, Luc toyed with the stem of his jeweled goblet as his eyes caught and held Oswald’s gaze. “If you have
heard that I was born here, then you no doubt heard that my parents were Norman by birth.”

Beyond Oswald, Jean-Paul laughed shortly. “Yea, but if a man is born in a kennel, it does not necessarily follow that he is a dog, I warrant.”

Luc’s gaze shifted to his brother. Wine flush had heightened Jean-Paul’s color, and his eyes were fever-bright. “You choose an unflattering comparison, Jean-Paul. Do you suggest that my mother slept in kennels?”

Silence fell. Jean-Paul looked down at his empty wine goblet. “No, of course not. As you said, an unflattering comparison. It was unwise of me to speak thusly, and I beg pardon for any offense.”

Oswald and Leofric exchanged glances, a gesture Luc noted well. This was not the impression he wanted to make on these visiting Saxon barons, and he turned again to Oswald in an attempt to smooth over any dissension.

“Lord Oswald, my father was granted lands in England by your own king, Edward, many years ago. He held them long and well, and until he broke with William, was still Norman in his thinking. If he had not betrayed the duke, he might still hold those lands, but his loyalties were withheld from William and given first to Edward, then to King Harold.”

From Oswald’s nod, Luc knew that the baron was well aware of all this, and most like, the entire truth behind Jean-Luc de Montfort’s fall from ducal grace. At a time when men’s loyalties were being tested, Jean-Luc had made the decision he considered best for his future, and that of his son and heir, Jean-Paul.

And he had betrayed his oldest son for not following him, for choosing Duke William over the Saxon king.

It had been a decision both father and son would come to regret, though for far different reasons.

“There were rumors, of course,” Oswald murmured, and his eyes focused on the jeweled goblet instead of his host. “In
these times, one never knows what to believe, for much is said that is not true.”

“Hear this, Oswald de Paxton, for I tell you only the truth—William of Normandy has taken firm hold of England, and will deal fairly with all who deal fairly with him. If a man swears an oath, it will be expected that he hold to his sworn word. We have all seen that the church frowns on men who forswear oaths, even when a kingdom is at stake.”

The unsubtle reminder of how King Harold had lost the church’s favor in his claim to England still had the power to sting, and Luc saw it in Oswald’s narrowed eyes. But it was the truth, however unpleasant, and there were men who needed to be reminded of what brought them to this point.

An ugly flush stained Oswald’s cheeks. His voice was tight. “William tricked Harold into swearing an oath over the bones of saints.”

“Yea, but Harold was willing to swear to an oath he did not mean to keep. Listen well, Oswald—William will not be stayed. If he must resort to trickery, he will do it to have his way. Yet he will not lie, and if he makes a promise, he keeps it. Never have I known him to renege on his sworn word, whether to prince or peasant, and if he promises you will keep your lands if you are loyal to him, then that is how it will be. Think on it.”

Leofric, Oswald’s boon companion and a man of the same age, studied Luc through hooded eyes as he absorbed the grave implications of the discussion. He was a handsome man, with a florid face and the bright gold hair of the Saxons, his manner bluff and hearty, but his clear blue eyes shrewd. He had spoken of little but trivial things, remaining silent during this exchange, but now cleared his throat.

“It is said that few Saxons have kept their lands since William was crowned. How know we that he will allow us to hold our ancestral estates?”

“Since Hastings, those Saxon barons who have gone home
and not taken up their swords against the king have lost nothing. Those who have joined with outlaw earls have been deseisined of lands and titles, and sometimes their lives. It is a brutal choice, but a simple one. Swear fealty to William as your rightful king and live on your lands in peace and prosperity.” His voice hardened, and he saw Ceara turn toward him with pensive eyes as he said, “Take up sword against him, and he will destroy you.”

“And you, Lord Luc, will you destroy those who defy you?”

“Yes.”

It was a swift answer, meant to convince them of his determination, and he saw another quick exchange of glances. Between the three barons, Oswald, Leofric, and Eadwine, only Oswald seemed disinclined. Leofric nodded, and Eadwine, a spare man with nervous gestures and thinning hair, said gruffly that he was willing to offer allegiance to William if his lands would be left alone.

“I am old now, my lord, and not so quick to offer fight when the outcome is uncertain.” Eadwine smiled, and glanced at Ceara. “Already, I have seen Normans and Saxons mingle their blood, and have come to realize that William is here to stay. With all of England united under one ruler, it may be that we can keep the Scots and Welsh at bay, instead of wasting time and lives and money waging petty battles at our borders.”

“Fie on you,” Oswald said angrily, his hand fisting atop the table, “you speak as a sniveling coward, Eadwine.”

Eadwine drew himself up with dignity, his voice cold and steadier than yet Luc had heard it. “It is not cowardice to mislike watching serfs starve in their huts for want of food, or to walk fallow fields that will bear no yield for lack of seed and men to work them—no, and no, I say. I am weary of war. I would have peace, and William offers us what none other has yet attempted—a united kingdom.”

“Well put, Lord Eadwine.” Luc smiled a little, but knew that the barons words would not convince Oswald. “But this is
a conversation for another place. Now there are other things to think on, more pleasant subjects to discuss. My steward has planned entertainments for your amusement. Let us deal as companions this eve. Later, as men of judgment, we will come to terms on what is best for us all.”

The next day, the six vassals who had already sworn to Luc arrived to accept his invitation, and Wulfridge was near to bursting with knights, barons, and their retinue. There were not enough chambers, and those who lagged behind ended up sleeping in rolled blankets on the hall floor, lining the corridors at night, and lying under stairwells and in alcoves. During the day, hunts were arranged, with barons ranging out into the forest to bring back game for the tables. A festive atmosphere prevailed for the most part, though there were several tense moments when quarrels broke out.

Through it all, Ceara remained aloof and remote. She had still not forgiven him for leaving her wolf behind. Nor had the beast come back, though four days had passed since he had plucked her from the road and the wolf had run away. Snow lay deep and thick on ground and road, and loud winds had lashed the castle for three days. Paul had not been able to find Sheba, though it was no wonder as the white wolf would most like blend in with the snowy slopes.

Every morning, Ceara would trudge through the snow to the postern gate and call. She repeated this at noon, and again before dusk, but there was no answering howl, no wolf bounding toward the castle to gladden her.

Luc intercepted her on the third Monday of Advent, when the hall was rowdy with merriment, and acrobats and tumblers entertained the guests. He followed her to the gate and caught her by one arm when she would have pushed past him.

“The wolf will return when she is ready, Ceara.”

Pushing at his hand, she flashed him a hot look. “Leave me be. Go to your guests. Play the perfect host and leave me to my own.”

“Own what?” He grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. Beyond the castle the setting sun painted the sky rose and lavender, making dark lace out of silhouetted tree branches and deepening the flush on Ceara’s angry face. He shook her a little when she refused to look at him. “Own what, by all that is holy! This is your own, Ceara. Look about you. Wulfridge is yet yours, and it is habited by Saxon and Norman alike. If you feel apart, it is of your doing, for my intentions are to have us all as one people here.”

“But we are not one people, Luc. For the love of God, can you not see that? You cannot force people to be what they are not, and there is yet too much enmity between our races to ignore. You are Norman. I am Saxon. We are separate. We will always be separate.”

“You are wrong.” He drew in a deep breath of cold air. “One day all of England will be united. If it is not, it will crumble into too many pieces to resist invaders. If we do not bind together, the Danes will come, and the Scots, and even the Welsh will seize portions of this country and chew them to bits. War will be constant, with neighbor against neighbor, none knowing who to trust. Every baron will have his own country, always holed up in his castle and afraid to leave for fear of being vulnerable. Is that what you want? Think on it, Ceara, for that is where England was headed until William came.”

“That is not true.”

Her answer was swift, but lacked conviction, and his grip on her shoulders eased. “Yes, it is. Even Harold’s own brother Tostig fought against him, bringing King Hardrada of Norway to England to seize the crown. Listen to me, Ceara. William will hold England united under one ruler. The barons may still rebel and war against each other, but with a strong king, it will amount to little more than children’s squabbles.”

Ceara’s taut muscles loosened beneath his hands, and she looked up at him finally, her eyes clear and direct. “I know what you say is true. It is just hard to hear.”

“Yea, it would be. But know that William has England’s welfare at his heart, for it is his chosen land.”

“Even over Normandy?” Her gaze was mocking now, her mouth curled slightly. “It is Normandy he favors over all.”

“He was born there.”

“And so? You were born here, yet I do not hear your praise of your native land, only all things Norman.”

It was a piercing barb, and true. He scowled. “It is not the same with me. William has no ill feelings toward England, only a sense of responsibility. My dislike is personal.”

“You blame a country for what was done to you by a man, Lord Luc?”

Her mockery angered him, and he glared down at her with fierce resentment. “I do not blame fields and fens, no. Yet my demons are my own to conquer, and will not be discussed with you so that you may taunt me with them later.”

“I would never taunt you with what you had not caused, my lord. You mistake me.”

“Do I? I do not think so.”

Ceara pulled away, agitated, her brow furrowed and her mouth tight. “I am not a fool. I may be stubborn, and at rare times mistaken, but I am not fool enough to think you the kind of man to knowingly choose folly over logic. You have proven otherwise in your brief tenure at Wulfridge.”

“Unexpected praise from an unlikely source, madam.”

“Curse you, Luc Louvat.” She flashed him an angry look. “You must know that I cannot help but approve most of what you have done here. Needed repairs are made, more stores saved against lean times, and though you may have the hall looking more like the inside of a goat’s stomach than the once austere beauty I admired, I must admit that you have taken great care and effort to better the castle.”

Luc stared at her, anger warring with amusement. Rosy light still bathed her face and glinted in her eyes. She lowered
her lashes to hide the sudden blue shimmer, and his anger faded. “So you do not approve of Norman furnishings.”

“They are garish.”

“Garish.” His brow lifted in amusement. “By the cross, madam, those hangings cover up shabby walls and crude paintings that look as if someone dipped a dog’s tail in paint and set it loose in the hall.”

“Better that than excessive display and overweening pride! Who do you hope to impress? Oswald?” She snorted. “That fat baron would not be impressed by the pope’s gold scepter. It may not have occurred to you, my lord, but Saxons are more impressed with an abundance of good food and drink in the stead of gold plate and embroidered hunting scenes. If you thought to sway Oswald with a display of wealth, you should have roasted an entire ox in every hearth and set out great tubs of ale for his consumption.”

Luc gestured impatiently. “Oswald is not the only baron here. And I did not display gold and tapestry to impress, but to civilize crude lodgings. Hear me, Ceara,” he said harshly when she turned toward him with fire in her eyes, “I may have been born in England, but I am Norman to the bone. Do not think to change me, or that my leanings to Norman ways are only temporary in nature. My father was born in Normandy, and my mother was born in Normandy, and the first eight years of my life were all that I spent on English soil until I became a man full grown. My allegiance is to King William. I owe everything to Normandy. England gave me nothing but pain, and I have no love for the country itself.”