The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (18 page)

Dinner had just begun, the first course but barely served, when Rowland entered the hall. He was back from his search for details concerning the history of Greneforde... and Cathryn. This William knew. Ulrich had come to him earlier, just before the meal, to relate that he could make no inroads into the Greneforde mind. The people were cordial to him, easier with him than they had been with men who had achieved the accolade, but they had revealed nothing. Wisely, Ulrich had not pressed, not wanting to give away his purpose, no matter how earnestly he sought to prove his worth to William. For that wisdom, he had been sincerely praised. It would serve no good purpose for the people of Greneforde to think that their lord was not dealing from an open hand. But Rowland had a gift for understanding more than was said. Rowland would have news.

Cathryn and William, sitting in polite animosity and together for the first time since their conversation earlier that day on the wall, watched as he strode toward them. In truth, Cathryn had never seen Rowland look so grim. Nor had William.

Rowland seated himself next to Cathryn, his rightful place as William's closest friend, and began to eat. He did not appear to be enjoying his meal. In truth, he looked as though he would choke on each and every bite. His looks, dark as they were, were only for William; for Cathryn he spared not a glance. It was as if she were only air, of no substance. Or as if he would make her so if he but could. In such a strained atmosphere, Cathryn lost her taste for food. She reached for her wine-filled goblet.

Cathryn endured the first two courses in silence. By the time Ulrich had filled her goblet for the third time and the venison was being carried in by John, she summoned breath to speak.

"Rowland," she said, "my lord and his knights have earned the gratitude of all Greneforde this day. It has been long since we tasted of fresh meat. I give you my thanks."

Rowland, as skilled in diplomacy and chivalry as William, did the impossible: he said nothing. He did not acknowledge her words, her thanks, or even her presence. Rowland stared at William, his dark eyes shimmering with an inner fire.

William's mood worsened.

Cathryn reached again for the wine.

William's hand upon her arm stopped her. With a reluctance he could feel, she rested her hand upon the linen cloth, her goblet just out of reach. She would not use that means of escape again. Not today. Not when he was using all his warrior's strength, skill, and discipline to fight the desire to lay her beneath him again.

It tormented him that he wanted her so. She was a beauty—he could admit it—but she was as sly and deceitful as a serpent. Untrustworthy. Impure. Undisciplined. He could not want one such as she, yet the delicate line of her nose, the slender column of her throat, the fine, golden smoothness of her hair told him she was none of those things. To look at her, he could believe that she was pure and worthy and innocent. When he looked at her, he wanted to possess her and protect her in the same instant. When he lay between her harlot's legs, he wanted to shout his betrayal to God and have God take His vengeance upon her. That he yearned still to lie with her was his agony.

Greneforde was the object of his yearning and had been for so many years that he could not recall a time when he had not pursued her, though he had not known the name of his future home until just days ago. Greneforde was home and legacy. Greneforde would be his children's heritage and their birthright. Children... to lie with Cathryn...

Nay!
Greneforde was the object of his desire, only Greneforde. He had not sought a wife, and certainly not a ruined wife. Ruined as she lay in the arms of... whom?

William gulped his wine in silence. Cathryn, whose arm lay entrapped by his mighty hand still, did not watch him, though she could feel the waves of his anger until they washed over her in a crimson tide. Her husband's anger was a quiet thing—as quiet as the slice of sword through flesh, and just as fatal to her heart. This she knew, though she did not know how. Perhaps his anger was the deadlier of the two, for with a sword thrust, there was warning. With William, there was just the strike.

As his anger and his torment rose, so did the chill from the center of her heart, until he pounded against the rock-hard walls of ice that she had called forth to shield her. If his anger, the cause of which she did not know, rebounded against her, it would strike walls of thickest ice, and she would be safe within their innermost core.

It would be so. There was no other course for her, and it was a familiar path.

Father Godfrey, seated at William's other side, understood the present situation. Knowing William as he did, he knew that his unease at his marriage had grown since last evening, and that he must have sent Rowland to cover his flank. It was always so between them. Their friendship went back years and was beyond question or doubt. Rowland would have beaten the ground itself for information in his effort to protect William. Rowland knew what had occurred in Greneforde. That knowledge was written on his face, and it was knowledge he was desperate to impart to William.

Godfrey sighed and sipped his wine. In truth, he was also eager for William to know what had befallen Greneforde and Greneforde's lady during the past years. The words would be bitter to hear, yet he believed that William would be able to come to terms with the truth; he would never be at peace grappling with the suspicions that plagued him now. And, as much as Cathryn objected, he also believed her husband's discovery of the truth would do her no lasting harm. No, it would be of benefit to her, if her husband understood the desperate times that Greneforde had barely survived.

"Rowland," Godfrey interjected into the oppressive silence of the high table. "Lord William will not enjoy his meal, a meal so long awaited by all, until he hears the words crowding your tongue. Go. I will stay with the Lady Cathryn and entertain her with stories of battle until your return."

Rowland rose without a word, his entire manner bespeaking ready eagerness, his dark eyes urging William to follow him from the hall. William rose also, yet he was not so urgent. He had sent Rowland out to learn what he could about Cathryn and Greneforde, but there was a part of him that shrank from what he suspected he would hear. And still he was drawn to her. It mattered not; he would know what there was to know. There was no other path.

Gazing at Cathryn, he said, "Enjoy your meal, Cathryn." He added softly, his smoky eyes not leaving hers, "Ulrich, no more wine for my lady; I fear it blunts her appetites."

She had naught to say to that and watched in puzzlement as William and Rowland left the hall. William le Brouillard was an unexpected man; anger rolled through him as well as desire, and both swirled in the same current. He was definitely an unexpected man. His anger she could understand; his desire in the wake of his carnal knowledge of her was not what she had expected. Not after his heartfelt proclamation that he cared nothing for her as she lay naked upon his bed.

Father Godfrey moved to Rowland's place and seated himself next to her. Her usually calm expression was replaced by one of mild confusion. Wanting to comfort her without betraying the confidence William had placed in him, Godfrey offered, "Rowland has information regarding the well-being of Greneforde that is of supreme importance to William. They should rejoin us soon."

Cathryn nodded, her brown eyes fixed upon her plate, the food scarcely touched.

"The bond between them is strong," she commented, lacking anything of substance to say, her mind on William's remark regarding her appetites.

Godfrey smiled. "Yea, a bond unbreakable they share."

Cathryn lifted her eyes from her plate, her interest aroused. Godfrey's smile widened. He had achieved his purpose: to draw her thoughts off herself and onto another.

"It takes time to forge such a bond," she said.

"Time and much heat," he supplied.

"And hammering?" she asked.

"Yea, they have had their share of hammer blows in this world," Godfrey agreed, "but they are the stronger for it. So it is that God causes good to come of evil."

Cathryn's eyes turned again to her plate, her expression almost wistful.

"Does He?" she asked softly.

"Yea, Cathryn, He does. Though 'tis hard to give Him thanks when obstacles litter the path He has chosen for us, but thank Him we should."

"And William," she challenged, "did he thank God when his family lands were lost to him?"

Godfrey's eyes did not reflect censure or even surprise. He only said, "So you know something of William's long fight for Greneforde? I wonder, do you know the whole of it?"

Before Cathryn could answer, he said, "Nay, for how could you when no man knows the full tale of another, though he hear it word for word. 'Tis in traveling the same path that the true tale is known, and each man travels his life path alone, save for the knowledge of God he carries in his heart."

Godfrey suspected that Cathryn would adjust herself more readily to her husband if she knew the long travail his life had been, yet he did not want to be the one to share it with her. That should come from William, and from William she should seek it.

"Rowland and William met in Damascus, did you know?" he asked.

"Yea, Ulrich told me a pretty tale of valor beneath the blazing sun and the shadow of the wall," she answered with a smile.

"A pretty tale and true," Godfrey informed her. "There has been naught that could separate them since that day, not even Rowland's grief."

He let that lie between them, understanding women better than many another priest of God.

When Cathryn could no longer bite back the words, she asked, "And what caused Rowland's grief?"

Godfrey settled into his seat, fingering the tassels on his cushion, before he began what Cathryn prophesied would be a long and sad tale.

"If you know of Damascus, you must also know that Rowland d'Albret is of France, but not of Normandy, as is William. Rowland is of Aquitaine." Godfrey sighed and took a sip of wine. Cathryn waited for him to continue.

"Lubias was his wife."

Cathryn's eyes widened. She had not suspected that Rowland was married, or had been married.

"Rowland has been long from his wife," Cathryn said.

"Nay, his wife has never left him," Godfrey contradicted, his voice heavy with emotion. "The journey to the lands of our Savior is a long one, and Rowland was not eager to go, though he is a worthy and earnest soldier of Christ; 'twas his love for Lubias that hindered his going. But go he must, for is there a man alive that does not hunger for war and a chance to wet his blade on God's behalf? Lubias, loving Rowland, understood his quandary and solved it for him, Lubias rode at Rowland's side when they left Aquitaine."

Cathryn had heard of such. It seemed there were wives, loving God as deeply as their husbands, who also followed the Way of the Cross and willingly endured the certain privations that came with such a journey. Few, even the hardiest of men, survived such a trek; Cathryn knew by Father Godfrey's tone that Rowland's wife had not survived.

"She was not at his side when he left Damascus," she said quietly.

Father Godfrey looked at her lingeringly and said sadly, "Nay, for William rode at his shoulder then."

"Was the road Rowland and his Lubias shared a long one?"

"Rowland would answer nay, but she was no flower to wither at the first frost. Lubias rode with her husband the breadth of France to Verdun. She bathed in the waters of the Rhine and the Danube and they entered Vienna together."

"Did she ever see Damascus?"

"Nay," he answered, "she traveled as far as Philippopolis, a noble Latin town. There the Germans—" Godfrey frowned—"in ungodly fashion, turned the market into a brawling mass, which was their usual practice."

"To what purpose is such an ill-advised practice?"

"None but a German could tell you, and I doubt even he, for they act without thought, moved by impulse and not by reason. In this instance they charged ahead, not allowing the French to inspect and buy the goods we all so earnestly needed; they were intent only on filling their own needs with no thought of those others who traveled with them. As a result, a brawl broke out, and French and German rained blows and shouted insults upon each other in equal measure. The French managed to break free of the market with their newly acquired goods, and this enraged the Germans. Seizing their arms, they pursued their allies in the cause of Christ. The French took up arms and put up a stiff resistance against the rage of the German horde. It ended only when God caused night to fall."

Godfrey looked into his goblet, now empty, for many moments.

"What of Lubias?" Cathryn whispered, knowing the answer.

Godfrey looked up, his eyes weary.

"Lubias." He sighed. "Lubias was with Rowland in the market that disgraceful day. A German knight faced him and they fought with swords ringing, the sound clanging like a dissonant bell. Rowland slipped and fell to one knee. 'Twas not a mortal fall, and I am certain he would have recovered swiftly, but Lubias would not take such a chance."

Cathryn edged forward on her seat, certain of what was to come and recoiling from that certainty.

"She rushed to Rowland's assistance, striking a blow upon the helm of the German. Striking from behind."