Once a Bride (18 page)
Marcus nudged him and pointed to a group of boys who’d donned animal furs and masks, now sneaking up on a group of girls, who naturally went running—shrieking as only little girls can—as soon as the boys growled and roared.
With a chuckle he noticed disguises other than animal skins, on both children and adults. Devils and demons mingled with the occasional saint, mixing the earthy pagan celebration of Samhain and the Christian holy day of All Saints.
Eloise had apparently decided to spend the day as herself, as did Roland and most of the knights and men-at-arms. Someone had to look after the security of the keep while others spent the day in revelry.
Barrels of ale had been brought out and set along the inner wall of the outer bailey. Tables were laden with platters of dark bread and yellow cheese, large bowls of nuts and baskets of bright red apples.
“I need to light two more bonfires between the keep and the village,” Marcus said. “Care to come along?”
Roland considered for a moment, then caught sight of Eloise making her way to the food tables. Suddenly he was in the mood for an apple.
“Nay, go have your fun. I will keep an eye on things here.”
Before Marcus could take a step, two blond-haired little girls came running at him, their eyes wide with fear, which he would have thought real if not for the huge smiles on their bright faces.
“Save us, Papa! Save us!”
Marcus a father?
Roland hadn’t thought any of the household knights married, and didn’t remember seeing the girls about the keep, nor being introduced to a wife.
A masked lad bore down on the girls, draped in a piece of bear’s fur, growling his loudest and meanest.
With a laugh, Marcus scooped up the girls. Roland captured the bear, picking him up and tossing him over a shoulder.
“Not fair,” grumbled the lad, his voice muffled behind the mask. “You always save them, Papa.”
Marcus gave the girls a squeeze. “That I do, as I expect of you when you are not bent on terrorizing them.”
“ ’Tis only in fun.”
Marcus chuckled. “Fun for you, mayhap. Your mother tells me a different tale.” He set down the girls. “Run along, now. Try to stay out of trouble, will you?”
With assurances no clear-thinking grown-up would believe, the girls scurried off. The boy gave out an aggrieved sigh.
Roland bounced the lad, guessing him no more than seven. “So what do we do with this bear, Marcus? Such a fierce predator should not be allowed to harry the countryside.”
The boy stiffened, just now realizing he’d been caught up by someone he didn’t know.
“What say you, Otto? Shall I let Sir Roland deal with you as I dealt with the bear whose hide you wear?”
“Nay!” Otto rose up and flipped off his mask, revealing a face undeniably similar to Marcus’s. “You would not let him skin me, Papa, would you?”
Marcus rubbed his chin. “Well, now, ’tis a puzzle. Mean bears cannot be allowed to roam at will. Perhaps, if you were a tamed bear …”
“Or at least better-tempered,” Roland said. “Perhaps if Lady Eloise can find him a sweet or two to satisfy his hunger, Otto will be less inclined to growl at his sisters.”
Otto’s surrender to the bribe came as no surprise, though Roland, remembering his own childhood, realized the solution likely wouldn’t last long. The boy’s sisters would need saving several times over before the day was through.
Roland handed Otto into his father’s outstretched arms. After a brief hug and affectionate swat on the hindquarters, Marcus put the boy on his feet and left to light the bonfires.
Otto stared up at Roland, wary.
With hands on hips, Roland stared back at the tyke. “So, what sweet do you like best?”
“Tarts.”
“Any tart in particular?”
Otto shook his head.
“Not fussy, hmmm? Let us see what her ladyship has to offer.”
They strode across the bailey in companionable silence, dodging other scrambling children, greeting people along the way. Otto put his mask back in place as they neared the table.
Eloise spotted them, her hand going to her chest as she inspected Otto. “Sweet mercy, Sir Roland. A fierce bear has breeched the gate! Whatever are we to do?”
The boy giggled through a growl.
“The bear is in search of a tart. He promises not to maul or eat anyone if we can pay his price.”
“A hard bargain, but I do believe I saw…” Eloise glanced back toward the table. “Will apricot do?”
Otto nodded vigorously.
The tart presented with a flourish, Eloise sent the boy off with another warning to not torment his sisters. She turned to him then, her smile softening.
“Now that the bear is vanquished, perhaps his captor should enjoy a reward, too. A tart?”
A kiss.
Roland reached for an apple. “This will do,” he said, then took a bite to keep his mouth busy, to keep from blurting out what he considered a suitable reward.
He took too big a bite. A drop of juice escaped through the corner of his mouth. Before he could bring his hand up to wipe it away, Eloise dispatched it with a fingertip.
He froze, carefully swallowing so he wouldn’t choke.
“How did you come to be with Otto?” she asked quietly.
The last chunk of apple slid down his throat. “I was with Marcus when his girls rushed him, begging to be saved. He picked up the girls, I caught the lad.”
“A good strategy.”
“So it seemed. I did not realize Marcus married.”
“He is not. His mistress lives in the village with their children.” She sighed. “Marcus would marry Claire if she would have him, but she has already buried two husbands and refuses to take a third. She claims she enjoys the freedoms of a widow. ’Tis my opinion she fears if she marries Marcus something untoward will happen to him.”
As had happened to Eloise. With Hugh.
Enough.
The last thing he wanted was to remind Eloise of his half brother.
“So, what other festivities are planned for the day?”
“Games for the children. Bobbing for apples. Tonight there will be music and dancing. I know of one group of girls who intend to go down to the stream this eve and wash their gowns.”
To his arched eyebrow, she explained, “ ’Tis said that if one washes a gown in a cold stream on All Hallows’ eve, one can see the face of one’s true love in the wet skirt.”
“Sounds highly doubtful to me.”
“Possibly, but a woman takes assurances where she can get them.”
She said it so seriously he feared they were once again talking about Hugh. But Hugh was gone. His face couldn’t possibly appear in the skirt of her wet gown.
“Going to the stream with them?”
Her sapphire eyes glittered with something akin to mischief. Feminine mischief. “Nay. I have… other plans for the eve.”
She flirted with him. Ye gods. “Such as?”
Eloise blushed, a rosy bloom highlighting her cheekbones. Enchanting. As seductive as a siren’s song.
“Oh, we shall think of something. Perhaps a dance.” The confirmation that her plans included him set his mind reeling and blood boiling. He could dance, all night long if it meant he could hold and touch Eloise.
“I like to dance.”
“Wonderful.” She glanced at his hand. “Finish your apple, Sir Roland. They are best eaten before they turn brown.”
He’d forgotten about the damn apple, but took another bite as he watched her walk away. Did her hips sway more than usual? Did the brief glance over her shoulder beckon him to follow?
He might have whooped for joy if not in the midst of so large a crowd. A crowd that would become more boisterous as the ale flowed, some of the revelers likely passing out before the dancing began.
Aye, he would dance around the bonfire with Eloise, and when assured few would notice, whirl her off into some dark, secluded bower and steal a kiss, mayhap two. Mayhap more.
Eloise nearly stamped her foot in frustration.
’Twas finally evening. The music had started and she saw no sign of Roland in the yard. Surely he knew she would be waiting here for him.
Sweet mercy, she’d been so forward this morn her cheeks burned whenever she thought of how blatantly she touched the corner of his mouth. How she nearly commanded him to dance with her around the bonfire.
Never before had she courted a man’s amorous attention, and now she began to wonder if she’d done it badly.
For the past two days she’d watched the maids, noted the telling glances and how they moved their bodies when among the men. She’d learned much in her observations and endeavored to practice the more subtle ways of seduction.
Perhaps she’d been too subtle. Maybe he didn’t truly know she had plans for a dance, and then more intimate contact. Well, there was still time to correct any error she might have made. The night was yet young, and everything was ready.
She’d found and secreted away two precious lemons, their juice now mixed with water and hidden in her bed-chamber. Isolde had casually informed her mistress not to expect her in the chamber tonight.
All she needed now was the man she intended to make her lover, a prospect that thrilled and terrified her all at once.
She saw him then, on the other side of the fire, prowling around the edge of the light, searching the crowd. She barely refrained from jumping up and waving to give him her location.
Her stomach fluttered when he saw her at last. It seemed an eternity before he stood before her and made a courtly bow.
“Will you honor me, milady?”
She found her voice. “How could I refuse so gallant an invitation, kind sir?”
He held out his hand, and as she slipped hers into his, all trepidation and doubt fled. This felt so right, so inevitable, that she should be twirling about the fire with Roland St. Marten. Into his arms and out, slides and bows. She heard the music, felt the warmth of the flames, but heeded nothing else than the glow in his eyes.
Then the music dimmed and the light faded. Alone in the dark — she knew not where and didn’t care — he pulled her against him so hard and fully she could feel his arousal.
His lips whispered across hers, “Will you be missed?” “No more than you.”
Another kiss, harder this time, setting loose the tingling sensation she’d come to expect when near him.
“Are you sure, Eloise?”
Echoes of Timothy.
“Are you sure, sweetling?”
Like squire, like master. She had no fears either.
“I am.”
“Where?”
“My chamber. All is ready.”
He smiled at that. “I certainly am.”
Hands entwined, he led her across the bailey, keeping to the deepest shadows. They’d nearly made it to the inner gate when Simon appeared in their path.
He glanced down at their clasped hands and heaved a sigh. Eloise gave the barest thought to being embarrassed when he said, “I beg pardon, milady, Roland. A messenger from the earl of Lancaster has arrived. He brings news of Sir John.”
S
HE REVEALED no emotion as she read the missive in the dim torchlight of the great hall.
Was this the same bright-smiled woman he’d observed all day? The same warm, blatantly sensual woman he’d kissed in the dark, who’d been leading him up to her bed-chamber? Roland could hardly believe how instantly she’d changed from wanton to regal, from sheer woman to mistress of the keep.
And yet, Roland had to admire Eloise’s dignity in the face of adversity. If there was a battle to be fought, he’d want her on his side. Look how long it had taken them to come to a wary truce, longer yet to reach an accord. Physical attraction sped the process, or they might yet be snapping at each other.
She rolled up the scroll before she addressed the messenger. “You will find food and drink aplenty in the outer bailey. Pray partake of our hospitality.”
The messenger bowed. “My thanks, my lady. I must be on my way at first light, and would be pleased to carry a reply, if you so wish.”
The messenger dismissed, she handed the missive over to Simon. “ ’Tis not good news.”
She began to pace, rubbing her hands together, palm sliding over palm, a sure sign of her agitation.
He wanted to go after her, hold her, tell her all would be well, but held his ground. First he had to find out how bad was the news. Nor did he think she’d welcome an embrace just now, in front of Simon. She’d been taken aback enough when the steward caught them holding hands.
Eloise might intend to allow him liberties she allowed no other man—but in her own time, privately. ’Twas his intention, too, to keep them both from derision.
Simon sat at a trestle table and unrolled the scroll. Roland tore his attention from Eloise to read over the steward’s shoulder.
With the earl of Kenworth hot on his trail, Sir John had made for London and turned himself over to the protection of Henry, earl of Lancaster, who Roland knew to be a staunch supporter of King Edward. Instead of giving sanctuary, Lancaster had sent Sir John — and Roland imagined Edgar, too—to the Tower of London to await the king’s pleasure.
That had happened two days ago.
No wonder Roland hadn’t heard from Kenworth. The earl must have picked up John Hamelin’s trail and forced the man’s hand.
“Why did he go to Lancaster?” Eloise asked.
Simon pondered a moment. “Lancaster is a reasonable man. He and your father often agree on the issues brought before a parliament. They are not fast friends, but I suppose Sir John considered the man his best ally.”
“A misjudgment.”
Roland didn’t think so. Henry of Grosmont was not only the earl of Lancaster, but also of Leicester, Debry, and Lincoln. A powerful ally. Nor was the Tower of London merely a prison, but a fortress that boasted the royal armory and mint, a menagerie, and a very secure royal residence.
“Beg pardon, my lady, but your father may have made a good choice.”
She took exception. “Lancaster locked him in the Tower! How can that possibly be good?”
“The Tower is not so bad a place.” To her incredulous look, he explained. “True, your father is locked in a chamber, but his rank affords him some comforts. He will have a decent bed and meals and be allowed, under guard, of course, to stretch his legs in the yard. Too, he is in the heart of London. From there he can contact those he believes might aid his cause, and have access to the latest gossip. Most importantly, he is no longer in any danger from Kenworth.”