Once a Bride (17 page)

When the girl wasn’t to be found in either hall or bedchamber, she tossed on her cloak against the day’s chill and headed out-of-doors. She found Isolde where the maid had been the other day — seated on a bench along the near wall of the practice yard while watching Timothy wield a lance.

At the moment only Roland and Timothy engaged in a lesson in swordplay. They used wooden practice swords, wore no chain mail or even a padded gambeson for protection. In snug, short-sleeved brown tunics, they slowly thrust and parried in a mock fight.

Eloise tried not to notice Roland’s eloquent form, the grace and power with which he moved. Now was the perfect time to have a private, heartfelt talk with Isolde about Timothy, and she’d not let the man’s surefooted, well-timed movements distract her.

As Eloise slid onto the bench, Isolde greeted her with a slight frown. “Did ye have need of me, milady?”

“Nay. I merely wondered what kept you from the hall so long. Now I see.”

Isolde’s frown reversed into a soft smile. “He is wonderful to watch.”

Eloise glanced toward the object of Isolde’s attraction, thinking the lad’s master wonderful to watch, too. “Is he?”

“Aye, milady.” She sighed. “He will make an excellent knight someday, just like Sir Roland.”

The men had lowered their swords, Roland speaking to his squire in too low a voice for Eloise to make out the words. Then Timothy nodded, put a determined look on his face, and again crossed swords with Roland. The pace picked up, wood striking wood in quicker and louder fashion.

Indeed, the lad kept up with his master, whose skill was unparalleled, even at this meager practice pace.

“He well may,” she acknowledged, which boded ill for Isolde, an orphaned peasant. The higher Timothy rose, the less likely he would be to choose Isolde’s company.

But then, if Edgar gained his knighthood, his sister would benefit with a rise in station, too. Unfortunately, Edgar’s prospects didn’t look good at the moment, not if John Hamelin’s fortunes fell to ruin.

Eloise steeled her courage and dove headlong into giving counsel she wasn’t sure was necessary or wanted, hoping she didn’t make a mess of the whole thing.

“Isolde, I know you have been with Timothy for most of the afternoon. Do you wish to tell me about it?”

Isolde tilted her head, the question there easily discernible.

“I was upstairs and overheard the two of you talking. I did not mean to listen, but neither did I wish to interrupt.”

The maid looked neither angry nor embarrassed at having been found out, merely thoughtful. “Do ye disapprove of him?”

“Not necessarily.” ’Struth, she’d thought Timothy both caring and gallant. “I just want to ensure you are not harmed.”

“Ye mean ye do not want me to get with child.”

Eloise hadn’t thought that far ahead, merely worried over Isolde’s feelings when Timothy left Lelleford, as he would someday. As would Roland.

“ ’Twould not be a good thing, you being so young.”

“Truly, ye need not be concerned. I know how to prevent such a thing from happening.”

This was news, both that a way existed and that Isolde was worldly enough to know.

“Is this prevention you speak of … effective?”

“Most times.” Isolde’s smile went sly. “Why, milady? Are ye thinking of taking a lover?”

Eloise didn’t want to think of what had shown on her face or come through in her tone to make Isolde think so. Unfortunately, the maid had hit the mark, not that Eloise would ever confirm it.

“There is likely to come a day when such knowledge might be useful.”

“Like with Sir Roland?”

“Isolde! Such insolence!”

The maid shrugged a shoulder. “ ’Twould come as no surprise if ye did. We have all seen the long gazes, how the two of you dance around each other. ’Tis the talk of the hall.”

Eloise closed her eyes, slumped against the stone wall, and groaned. She’d often been the subject of the servants’ gossip. It was unavoidable for the mistress of the household—who apparently should have guarded her actions more closely when dealing with Roland.

Why was it those sharp eyes never missed a thing, and those tongues wagged faster than bees’ wings?

And if the household servants talked, then the guards were privy to the speculation, and by now even the villagers had heard somewhat of the mistress’s admiration for Sir Roland.

Damnation.

“Is nothing sacred or even private?”

“Not much, milady. If it eases yer mind, everyone thinks it’s grand. In fact, Cook thinks yer overdue for a lusty, rousing affair. Do ye good, she says.”

Eloise’s eyes snapped open. “She does, does she?”

“Aye. And why not? Sir Roland is a fine figure of a man, and an honorable knight to boot. Ain’t a soul in Lelleford who would blame ye for takin’ him to yer bed. Includin’ me.”

Her cheeks flushed with heat, Eloise thought this was probably the most unseemly conversation she’d ever shared with Isolde. They’d always been blunt with each other, but never to this degree, or on so delicate a subject.

But with whom else could she do so? Certainly not her father or brothers. Her mother had died long before this talk would have been necessary, and her sister had married young and moved away. Still, to discuss these things with a maid, a
younger
maid, who seemed to know more about life and the goings-on in the keep than her mistress wasn’t seemly!

“I do not recall asking for anyone’s permission, including yours.”

“Ye do not need our permission, milady. I just thought ye might like to know.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the males go through their paces. Sweat gleamed on Timothy’s brow while Roland seemed to hold himself back for his squire’s sake.

Damn, but the man looked good. He appealed to her so much that sometimes her heart beat dangerously fast and her knees went appallingly weak. She could sit and watch Roland for hours, admiring the play of muscle in his arms and the grace of his long legs.

’Twasn’t fair he was also gallant when the occasion called for a mannerly mien, and considerate of her feelings when she needed him to be. Oh, he could be forthright, even rude when his own emotions got the better of him, like when they’d exchanged words at the village church.

But then he could be gentle, even tender, as this morning when they’d kissed. When she’d begun to have the most sinful, delicious thoughts about where another kiss or two might lead. To her bed or his. To acts she’d only heard meager hints about and not yet experienced for herself.

All her life she’d believed the first man she would ever bed would be her husband, been told she must protect her maidenhead and virtue at all costs. But she knew not every noble bride went to the marriage bed a virgin, that betrothal contracts between families were more concerned with the transfer of property and coin than the state of a woman’s virginity. So long as the woman didn’t carry another man’s child at the time of the marriage, such things might be overlooked, depending on the groom’s pride.

Could she truly take a lover and not suffer the worst of consequences? But more, would it not be wonderful if her first experience with coupling was with a man she knew would be gentle with her, a man she’d come to care for more than she ought?

A man she desired.

Eloise nudged Isolde. “Tell me.”

Isolde didn’t mistake the meaning. “If ye do the deed with the female atop, then the male’s seed mostly runs out on its own.”

Eloise wrinkled her nose. “Sounds messy.”

“And some men do not like having the woman above. So if the man is on top, then he has to jerk his rod out before he spills his seed.”

She was beginning to wonder if she wanted to do this at all. “Messier still.”

Isolde giggled. “Aye. Everything gets all sticky if the male is not mindful of what he is about.” She paused, then added, “I have also heard you can wash yer insides out real good right after with lemon water. ’Tis said to kill the seed before it can plant.”

“Lemon water?”

“With lots of lemon.”

“Lemons are costly.”

“Which is why we mostly use the other two ways.”

Eloise decided she didn’t want to know which method Isolde and Timothy had used.

With a hearty laugh, Roland clapped Timothy on the arm and handed the squire his practice sword. The lad sprinted off toward the nearby armory and Roland turned toward the inner gate, likely planning to go up to the keep.

Then he spied her, and shifted his direction.

Isolde rose off the bench. “If ye ask me, milady, ’twould be good to have a lemon or two on hand before All Hallows.”

All Hallows. A mere two days hence. A holiday marked by bonfires and feasting, dressing up in disguises to perform good-natured trickery. Some of the superstitious still practiced pagan rituals to ward off ghosts, witches, devils, and assorted demons, and the village priest turned a blind eye because he could do nothing to stop them.

A day on which a good deal of ale and wine flowed and much debauchery occurred.

Isolde gave Roland a courteous bow of her head as she passed him in the yard. His smile for the maid was gracious, though he didn’t speak to her or even slow his steps.

Eloise started to rise, but a wave of his hand commanded that she remain seated. She obeyed, the tingling sensation he evoked affecting her innards and weakening her knees. Considering the subject of her talk with Isolde, her fast heartbeat didn’t surprise her.

He took the seat Isolde vacated. He leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees, then let out a long breath, steeling himself for whatever he had to say.

“Timothy and Isolde. They did it.”

They certainly had, and Eloise still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, Isolde seemed to know what she was about, but on the other, sweet mercy, the girl was only ten and four. Her lover was not much older.

“I know. Timothy told you?”

“He was late coming to the practice yard, and there was a certain swagger to his walk that gave much away. When I called him on it, he admitted what he’d been about. Isolde confided in you?”

Eloise crossed her arms and slumped against the wall behind her. “I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears. When you left after we … talked, had you turned toward the servants’ stairs instead of the main stairs, so might you have come across them.” She sighed. “I could have interfered then, but did not.”

“Do you wish now you had?”

“I am undecided.”

Roland nodded, understanding. “Shall I order Timothy away from her?”

“Would he if you did?”

“I should like to think so.”

“Then the question is, would we be doing them a service, or merely interfering with what is truly none of our affair?”

He glanced sideways at her. “Timothy is my squire and Isolde your maid. Who better has the right to interfere for their own good?”

“Then you think we should?”

Now Roland crossed his arms and leaned back, their shoulders nearly touching. To her amazement, given her previous reactions to his nearness, she felt comfortable. She merely wanted to lean her head against his shoulder and bask in his shadow for a while.

“Is Isolde upset?”

“Far from it. She seems … content, happy, which is rather rare for her. Timothy?”

He gave a short sharp laugh. “Strutting like a cock. When I asked if he knew how to protect Isolde from… consequences, he looked at me as if I had gone daft. He said he knew what he was about. ’Twas such a strange conversation to have with the lad. Made me feel old.”

Eloise knew exactly how he felt. Not only had she felt old, but ignorant. But thanks to her maid, ignorant no longer.

“Isolde knows, too.” She sighed. “Which means, I suppose, we should leave them be.”

After a moment’s silence, he said, “They are young, but not children. I know of marriages that have occurred between younger parties. And they seem to care for each other.”

She had to smile at a sudden realization. “So we are talking each other into doing nothing about the situation, which sits hard for both of us.”

He turned his head toward her then, and Eloise didn’t try to tamp down the tingles his intense gaze evoked. Sweet mercy, Roland possessed the most gorgeous eyes, and up this close she could see gold flecks amid the brownish green.

“Betimes ’tis best to allow events to run their natural course.”

His voice had gone lower, softer, and she had the distinct feeling they were no longer discussing their maid and squire.

“Betimes,” she whispered, willing him to catch her meaning.

His gaze lowered to her mouth. “You truly think so?”

“Aye.”

The bang of the armory door jolted her, made her remember they sat in a very public place. Timothy had come out, and was now strolling across the yard, doing his best to ignore the two people who sat on the bench.

The spell broken, Roland rose from the bench and held out his hand. Too formally for her taste, he said, “Come, milady, I will escort you back to the hall. I desperately need a wash.”

Eloise took his hand to rise and willed her knees to obedience. He dropped her hand almost immediately, making her wonder if she’d imagined more than he’d intended.

All the way back to the keep, he kept silent and distant and Eloise wondered if she’d truly have need of the lemons she knew were in the storage room.

Except for meals, Roland had seen little of Eloise during the past two days. Between overseeing the sewing and making preparations for the All Hallows’ celebration, she’d flitted between upstairs and down, the kitchen and the village.

Roland stood beside Marcus and watched her, torch in hand, bend to light the first of the bonfires that would burn all afternoon and well into the night. A cheer went up from the crowd as the flame caught hold, the wood hissing and crackling and spitting sparks.

Her smile was wide and joyful, as brilliant as the flames meant to welcome kindly spirits and keep the evil ones from coming near.

Two days of pondering, and he still didn’t know if he’d understood her correctly or misunderstood her completely. After their talk on the bench, she’d given him no sign one way or the other, and it was frustrating the hell out of him.