Snow in July (7 page)

It was a fine estate Alain could become accustomed to governing if only it weren’t encumbered with an emotional price.

Edgarburh’s central compound had been built atop a hill with a commanding view of the plains. He nodded to himself with satisfaction. Of all the likely sites they’d passed, he’d have chosen this one too. Around its base sprawled a town that boasted a huge market, complete with livestock pens and all their attendant sights and sounds and smells. In size, the church was comparable to St. Mary’s in Winchester, though Edgarburh’s appeared to be in far better repair. The many merchants’ shops, selling everything from apothecary’s wares to wine, implied a more affluent patronage than those who frequented the church ministering to Winchester’s tannery district.

Edgarburh’s town reminded him of Bellencombre in Normandy, and the association sparked pangs of longing and regret.

He sighed.
Holy Mother, please let this lady of Edgarburh be a cost I can bear.

As they plodded up the manor’s road behind an oxcart laden with ale kegs and crated supplies, he tried to banish his concerns about his promised bride and imagined instead how the timber palisade would look replaced by stone walls.

The manor’s compound was laid out with more precision than the town. Near the main gatehouse stood the stables and barracks, across from a training ground where more of Waldron’s men drilled both mounted and on foot. As the gate sentries had done, the soldiers exchanged waves with the incoming patrol before returning to their drills. The smithy was situated next to the barracks, where a warrior stood waiting while his horse was being shod. Beyond the training ground, women and older children toiled among the long rows of a vegetable garden. A few of the women greeted the patrol with giggles that did not go unnoticed by the men. The kitchens stood between the hall and the manor house, connected by timber-roofed walkways. A chapel flanked the manor house on the right. Between chapel and house bloomed an exquisite rose garden.

The whitewashed, timber-ribbed manor house looked unassuming by Norman standards, though Saxons probably considered it opulent. Diamond-paned glass windows glittered across its double-storied face. Chimney pots bristled atop its timber roof in pairs, most disgorging gray tendrils of smoke in spite of the warmness of the waning June afternoon. A stout wooden staircase serviced the upper floor.

From each building fluttered a gray banner bearing a dark blue
V
. A memory nudged Alain, but he couldn’t place where he’d seen the device.

The escort halted at the base of the wide granite steps leading to the house’s main entrance. Ruaud dismounted, as did Alain, who moved to take Azure’s reins in one fist while holding Chou’s reins and the packhorse’s tether in the other.

The massive oaken doors swung outward. Two men stepped forth. The elder, a white-haired man of at least threescore years, stood elegantly attired from head to foot in dark blue velvet. The tunic displayed a repeating
V
pattern wrought of silver thread. A matching cape draped from shoulders to waist. His cap sported a peacock plume. The other man, perhaps five and twenty years younger, which would make him a decade older than Alain, was similarly dressed. This one carried himself with a warrior’s haughty air. A clean bandage showed from underneath the sleeve on his left wrist.

As Alain matched the younger Saxon’s stare, he got the distinct feeling he’d seen this man before.

At court, perhaps? Or in battle?

Hastings, most likely. It would explain why the Saxon’s face had folded into an expression of contempt. But who was he? Thane Waldron’s son? For there could be no doubting the identity of the older man as he approached Ruaud with an extended hand and a welcoming smile.

No welcome resided in the younger warrior’s expression.

And where was Waldron’s fabled daughter? Alain felt his brow crease as he gazed past the Saxons into the shadows of the open manor house behind them.

“I am Thane Waldron. You are well come to Edgarburh. Please forgive the delay,” Waldron said to Ruaud. “Lady Kendra is putting the finishing touches on her attire. By the time your retainer sees to the needs of your horses and returns, she should be ready, and we can complete the formal introductions.”

Ruaud leaned toward Alain. “I hope you understood him,” he whispered in French.

Alain pursed his lips to suppress a grin. “His daughter is not ready. Our host wants me to put up our horses and return.”

“Go,” Ruaud commanded loudly. “
Vite!
”

Hurry, indeed. Dawdling couldn’t have been further from Alain’s mind.

KENDRA CUSHIONED her head with the back of her hand on the window’s frame, careful to remain hidden from the group that had gathered on the manor’s steps, two stories below her window.

Sir Robert appeared every inch the brute she had imagined.

Even worse, it seemed as if he could barely speak English. Although the glazed panes prevented her from hearing the conversation, she could tell by the way he kept looking toward his manservant, who seemed to be responding as if in explanation.

If she’d not been born into nobility, she might have found Sir Robert’s servant intriguing, Norman or no. While being deferential, he interacted with his master and Waldron with respect yet confidence. Distance prevented her from discerning details, but his body seemed far more fit than Sir Robert’s.

What she found more surprising than her own attitude toward the squire was that Ulfric appeared to eye him with a measure of grudging respect.

Sighing for more reasons than she could count, she turned from the window and strode toward her destiny.

ALAIN LEFT the packhorse’s tether with a member of the patrol, explaining that he would unload the animal upon his return. He led Chou and Azure to the stables, found a groom, and conveyed his wishes for their care. Anticipation mounting, he all but ran back to the manor.

A young woman was standing on the staircase’s top landing. No, he amended, feeling his eyes widen and his blood heat, a goddess. The suggestive clinging of her grayish-blue gown made him forget his blasphemous lapse.

He shifted from foot to foot to mask his reaction. Her ash-blonde curls, creamy complexion, and alluring curves conquered his fear of failure. As his heart thrummed its praises of her beauty, he vowed to protect this lady unto the ends of the earth.

But he tempered his lauds with a petition for wisdom, for he needed to ascertain her heart. Experience had taught him the folly of loving a beautiful but title-hungry woman like Marie.

Yet sorrow enveloped this lady like a shroud. The slope of her delicately boned shoulders, the tilt of her petite chin, the hooded reserve of her slate-blue eyes, the slight pout of her full lips all sang the same dirge.

Blessed Virgin, could I be the cause of her misery? Please, let it not be so!

He wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and kiss those lips until their song transformed from sorrow to joy.

Their gazes met. Her look, a cross between appreciation and reprimand, made him remember his “station,” and he looked down.

“This is Thane Ulfric, kin to Lady Edwina, my deceased wife,” Waldron said.

Recognition made Alain glance up. The name had to be a coincidence. This Ulfric seemed fit to rule an entire province, to say nothing of a few thousand acres. If he were suffering problems from outlaws and murderous beasts, Alain would gladly feast upon Chou’s fouled bedding for a week.

Ulfric’s glowering softened as Waldron’s daughter joined them. A suitor, then? Alain’s jealousy fought with his need to maintain composure.

“And this, as you gentlemen may have guessed,” Waldron continued, beaming at his daughter, “is the Lady Kendra.” He placed her hand into Ruaud’s. “Kendra, I am honored to present Sir Robert de Bellencombre.”

Ruaud made no attempt to correct Waldron’s error. Alain coughed into his fist. Ruaud shook his head and released her hand as if he’d been burned. “
Pardonez-moi, mon seigneur et ma demoiselle, mais je m’appelle
—”

“
En Anglais
,” Alain whispered, irritated and yet amused that the lady had befuddled his friend.

“Ah,
oui
. Apologies, my lord and my lady.” Ruaud grinned, spreading his hands. “I call myself Ruaud d’Auvay. Sir Robert’s—how say you? Man of speaking?”

Alain coughed again to hide his chuckle. Kendra looked downright relieved. Ulfric’s expression grew pensive.

“Messenger?” asked Waldron, eyebrows lowered and fists on hips. “Why? Where is he? What’s his message?”

While Ruaud struggled to answer the barrage of questions, Kendra repeatedly mouthed the phrase “man of speaking” until clarity lit her eyes. “Spokesman?” Her voice had a pleasing lilt.

Ruaud nodded. “Spokesman,
oui, ma demoiselle
. Yes, my lady. And friend. He is ill. Could not ride.”

“Ill?” Ulfric asked with a level of interest Alain mistrusted. “Not injured?”

“Ill. Fever of more.” Ruaud tossed a grin at Alain. “Sir Robert did not leave Winchester.”

Ulfric frowned but said nothing.

“Perhaps we should go to him, daughter.” That suggestion won Waldron a pleading look from Kendra. “With your knowledge of healing lore—”

“No!” Gentler, Ruaud repeated, “No, my lord. Sir Robert comes here soon. Sends
un cadeau
—a gift.” He glared at Alain and switched to French. “Your turn, Squire Bellefleur.”

He understood the sarcastic emphasis on the word “squire” and didn’t like the implications. Ruaud had agreed to do the talking unless absolutely necessary.

And “absolutely necessary” had arrived far sooner than Alain had anticipated.

AS SIR Ruaud babbled in his semicoherent English about Sir Robert, Kendra fought a jumble of emotions regarding Ruaud’s squire. Not only was his station beneath her rank, his being Norman placed him beneath her contempt. And yet she couldn’t tear her gaze from him.

Several inches taller than Sir Ruaud, the squire was trim where Ruaud sported a paunch, and he radiated quiet dignity to counter Ruaud’s comic disposition. Both men wore their blond hair cropped close, but Ruaud’s darker locks didn’t curl about his ears and forehead in whimsical wisps begging to be touched. Ruaud’s nose bore the lumpish evidence of having been broken at least once, but no scars marred the squire’s face. And those eyes—merciful heaven, if the squire regarded her once more with those probing, sea-green eyes, she would faint from the delectable agony.

Relief washed over her when he broke eye contact and strode to the packhorse. Broad shoulders and sinewy arms rippled as he wrestled something from a saddle pack. For one wanton moment, she imagined being encircled by those arms, protected, cherished. Loved…happy…

She shook her head. One of his countrymen had murdered her brother. She must despise this man.

And yet that task was proving to be a major chore.

The squire turned and approached, bearing a small gilt box across both upturned palms. His smile, slow in dawning, nearly stopped her heart. He knelt upon one knee at her feet.

“My lady Kendra,” he said in a rich, refined voice, “Sir Robert regrets the circumstances preventing him from being with you this day. I pray you will not be vexed by his absence. It shall be short, I assure you.” His French-accented English was as flawless as his face. He rendered another heart-stopping smile, holding the box aloft. “Please accept this gift, bearing the de Bellencombre arms, as but the smallest token of Sir Robert’s esteem.”