The Maiden and Her Knight (8 page)

“Steady?”

“Aye, like a rock beneath me. And trust me, young sir, when you are wearing eighty pounds of armor and rushing at your enemy, you want to feel as if you are sitting on something as strong and steady as a rock.”

Edmond regarded Demetrius with new respect. “Was he with you on the Crusade?”

“Yes, and I would have died more than once but for him. Smarter than me, he is sometimes, moving to avoid a blow.”

“What battles were you in? Did you kill any Saracens? Are they as fierce as they say?”

Ah, so here it was—the reason this boy had ventured forth in the chill of dawn to see him. The reason
many young men and boys sought him out, aye, and women, too. They wanted to hear about the Crusade and, inevitably, Richard.

He didn't want to talk about either one. “Does your family know you are in the ward?”

“They won't miss me until mass.” He pointed at Connor's sling. “My sister told us what happened to you. Yours is the worst injury,” he noted, as if that should be a great comfort.

Connor bowed in acknowledgment of his superior harm.

“All the wounded must stay here until they are well again.”

“Until we are well?”

Edmond nodded. “It's our duty as hosts, and Allis says you must always do your duty. Without complaint,” he added as a grudging afterthought.

Connor suppressed a sympathetic grin.

“Edmond?”

They both turned to see Lady Allis marching toward them, her plain, pale blue gown whipping about her ankles with her brisk pace. A simple leather girdle around her slender waist was her only ornament, and she wore no scarf or wimple; her bountiful hair was drawn back in a single, long braid. Despite her simple attire, she still looked astonishingly lovely and very regal, as if she were a princess masquerading as a commoner.

His chest tightened. Had he spoken aloud his praise of her hair? Was that why she had not covered it—and if so, what did that mean? Or was this a mere coincidence?

“Is it time for mass?” Edmond asked as his sister came to a halt.

Allis kept her attention on Edmond and not on the tall, handsome man beside him. “Not yet. You should have told Merva or one of the other servants where you had gone.”

When she had discovered that Edmond was not in his chamber, she had guessed that speaking with a man who had been on Crusade had been too tempting to resist.

Edmond slid his toe back and forth over the dew-damp ground. “I'm sorry, Allis.”

“He wants to know about the Crusades, like a good many other people,” Sir Connor said. He turned to Edmond. “I have an apple in my tent for my horse, his usual reward after a melee whether I win or not. Would you like to feed it to him before you go?”

Edmond nodded eagerly and went to fetch it.

She told herself that there was no reason she should be afraid to look at Sir Connor. She had seen him half naked, after all, and she had pledged herself to another. That should strengthen her against Sir Connor's potent fascination, which should not be so strong when he was simply standing in the ward waiting for her brother—to whom he spoke with such genial good humor, although she could tell he was still in pain. “How is your shoulder this morning?”

“It aches, but not so bad as yesterday.”

And surely it was only right that she examine him. By touch. “May I?” Without waiting for his answer, she put her fingertips on the wrist of his left hand. His blood pulsed beneath her fingertips and his flesh was warm and strong. Like him.

She must control these wayward thoughts and concentrate on her task.

Despite her inward admonitions, she envisioned his naked chest. The small scars, the muscles, the dark hairs circling his taut nipples.

She then took his right hand and pressed her fingers to that wrist. The pulse beat beneath her fingertips as vibrantly as the other. How tempted she was to let her fingers linger there, feeling the life force within his virile body.

“My lady?” he queried softly.

So would his deep voice sound if they were alone in the same bed, whispering after a night of passionate intimacy.

God help her restrain these wicked thoughts, these sinful longings! She belonged to Rennick DeFrouchette by her own decree, and to have such thoughts about another man was wrong.

She let go of his hand as if it burned hot with the flames of hell itself. “They are both the same still. That is good.”

“My head aches a little, from that medicine, I think.”

“Yes, it can do that.”

“I had some very strange dreams,” he continued, and his brown eyes, as deep and intriguing as his voice, studied her intently.

She warmed beneath his steadfast regard, for there was more gentleness and kind concern than had ever been in Rennick's hard blue eyes. “That is not unusual.”

“They were very…vivid.”

She took a step back. “The potion can have that effect.”

Edmond came out of the tent holding an apple. He went toward the huge horse, which lifted its head and whinnied.

She had been alone with Sir Connor only a few moments, but she felt as if she had experienced a lifetime of emotions, both thrilling and sad.

“Demetrius will be his friend for life now.”

If Sir Connor sensed her mood, he did not show it. He stood and spoke as if they had merely exchanged meaningless pleasantries while Edmond was gone. Perhaps, in his mind, that had been all they had done.

That realization added to her sorrow, until he turned to her. Then she saw, in the brown depths of his eyes, a spark of true respect and even affection that lifted her from the depths of her despair. Yes, it was wrong of her to feel as she did when she looked at him thus, but oh, how good it was! And yet because of that look, she had to tell him that she was not free. Because of that look, he deserved nothing less.

She settled her features into the familiar mask of calm dignity that was so easy to assume with Rennick.

Gesturing for Sir Connor to follow, she walked away from her brother and the horse. When they were far enough from Edmond that he couldn't hear, she said, “I believe you may be under the mistaken impression that I do not care for Baron DeFrouchette, the man to whom I became betrothed yesterday and will soon marry. At times he does annoy me a little, but what couple does not have their little spats?”

She watched Sir Connor's face, seeking some sign of the effect of her words, but if she had assumed a public mask, so had he, and she found no answers there.

“I wonder why you did not tell me this before.”

“I am not in the habit of telling everyone my business. I would have, if I had known you were going to kiss me.”

“On the wrist only.”

“Yes, but you shouldn't have done that.”

He made a little bow. “Forgive me.”

How cold and aloof he sounded, and so very proper. And how she silently mourned the change, which was necessary and inevitable, yet agonizing all the same. She was tempted to leave, but she had another reason for coming here. He had made a serious accusation yesterday when he was under the influence of Brother Jonathan's draft, and she had to know if he still had the same suspicions. “Yesterday you implied that you suspected someone of foul play.”

Standing as stiffly as a solder, he inclined his head in affirmation. “That is true. My lance should not have split and shattered that way.”

“It was made of wood, Sir Connor.”

“Oak, my lady. Hard and strong. To split along its length is unusual, but not unheard of, if a chisel is driven into the shaft at the base just above the hand guard and along the grain. Then the gouge is filled with colored clay to hide it.”

“Can you prove this?”

“Perhaps, if I have the pieces.”

“They were all gathered up and taken to the armory in the keep. You may examine them later.”

“I shall.”

“You believe the baron did this?”

“I think he might have reason.”

“What reason?”

“Can you not guess, my lady?”

She looked away from his accusing eyes and enticing lips toward her young brother, so happy and innocent of the ways of the world. So few things he did could have serious consequences, while she…“The baron has no cause to be jealous.”

“Then I am wrong and I shall have to try to discover who else might cheat.”

She glanced at Sir Connor once more, and this time their gazes met and held, as they had that first night. She saw no harsh accusation, but a longing that seemed to meet and touch her own lonely soul, as if his hands reached out to save her as she teetered on the brink of a dark and bottomless chasm.

“Don't accuse Baron DeFrouchette even if you have proof.”

C
onnor drew backed abruptly, as if she had hit him. Her words had been as sharp and firm as if they had been a blow, another shock in a morning of confusion. No woman had ever raised such a tumult inside him, of joy and anguish, hope and despair. One moment, he was sure she shared his desire, the next she was calmly telling him she was betrothed to another.

“He has powerful friends and allies. He will not hesitate to destroy you if you become his enemy.”

She spoke quietly, presumably so that her brother wouldn't hear, but to him she sounded as she would nestled against him, sharing his bed.

He had guessed she was unhappy, but this hinted at something far worse. “He is the sort of man who threatens people who oppose him?”

“Just believe me.”

So he would—and there was the reason she would look with loathing at the man, yet become his wife. Lady Allis was the sort of woman who would do whatever she must to protect her family. She would never ask a man like him for help or protection, and he was in no position to offer it unasked, but as she had no call to warn him about DeFrouchette, he would let her know that she had an ally, if she so desired. “You do not have to explain to me. I have met his sort before.”

She faced him squarely, as one warrior to another, although they fought different battles, with different weapons. “Let the matter rest. You will heal and live to fight in other tournaments, against other wealthy men. As a knight, I'm sure you understand duty and know how to accept it—as do I.”

“Yes, I understand duty and sacrifice very well, as I know you do, my lady,” he said softly, but not with pity. Pity would be an insult to her, as it would be to him.

Then he saw her sister standing awkwardly by the tents, a large basket in her hand. She looked very young and fresh as the dew in her pretty lavender gown, as Lady Allis must have when she was that age, before the years and responsibility had brought out her womanly beauty.

“Isabelle, what are you doing here?” Allis demanded, caught off guard again.

Since meeting Sir Connor in the garden, it seemed as if the very ground beneath her feet had become as unstable and unsteady as sand, and the most disconcerting thing of all was not the desire he aroused in her, powerful and undeniable though it was. It was his sympathetic understanding, offered not with pity, but with respect, as he might a comrade-in-arms.

“I thought Sir Connor might need some refresh
ment,” Isabelle murmured, blushing and looking at the ground.

Isabelle was right, and Allis wished she had thought of that.

“How kind of you to remember me, my lady,” Sir Connor said, giving Isabelle a warm smile. “However, I feel capable of walking to the hall, if I may have the pleasure of your company.”

His good-natured, deep voice stirred the embers of desire Allis hadn't been able to extinguish. Excitement, hot and turbulent, simmered anew.

And she was not the only one affected, for Isabelle beamed and blushed even more. “You will join us for mass, too?”

“Thank you, but I prefer to sit near the door of the chapel. The scent of incense…” He paused, then began again. “The scent of incense can be a little overpowering.”

Thank God for small mercies
, Allis thought, telling herself she was glad. She didn't need the complication of Sir Connor near them in the chapel. “Edmond, it is time to go to mass.”

He reluctantly left the horse and came to stand beside her. “You don't have a squire, do you?” he asked Sir Connor.

“No, I don't.”

“I could be your squire.”

“Edmond!” she cried, aghast at his bold request.

“Flattered as I am by your offer,” Sir Connor replied without condescension as he addressed Edmond, “I cannot afford a squire.”

Edmond's eyes flashed indignantly. “A squire doesn't get paid.”

“Edmond, you are too young.”

Her brother ignored her. “I could be your page.”

Had Edmond taken leave of his senses, or forgotten she spoke for their father? Or was it that Sir Connor made him also feel the world was upside down and the young could disobey their elders. “No, you could not.”

“There are pages here as young as Edmond,” Isabelle pointed out, smiling at Sir Connor. “I think it would be wonderful for Edmond to be Sir Connor's page.”

“Much as I would welcome his assistance, and proud as I am that the heir of Montclair wishes to serve me,” Sir Connor said before Allis could reply and quell this sibling mutiny, “I cannot provide for another. Besides, there are others of higher rank for Edmond to serve, as befits his station.”

“But you were on the Crusade,” Edmond protested. “I saw the cross on your surcoat. Nobody else here has been on Crusade.”

Allis put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Edmond, we are not going to quarrel about this.”

“I am our father's heir, not you, so you can't order me!”

“He's right, Allis,” Isabelle said. “You're always telling us what to do.”

She took a deep breath. She didn't want to have a family squabble in public. “I know what my place in the world is, Edmond. Now come along to mass.” She turned to leave.

“I'm old enough to be a page, and if you won't let me, I'm going to ask Father!”

She whirled around and glared at him. “No, Edmond, you will not—”

He stuck out his tongue at her, then ran toward the castle, as fleet as a deer.

Calling for Isabelle to follow, Allis hurried after her brother, while Sir Connor went to pat Demetrius again, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Neither of them noticed Isabelle looking back over her shoulder with every step she took.

 

Allis hustled Edmond and Isabelle into the solar, then shoved the heavy door closed, setting the tapestry on the wall beside the jamb rippling. “Don't you dare go to our father and bother him with this!” she ordered Edmond.

“I want to be a page. There are even some pages as young as nine, and I'm twelve,” Edmond retorted as they faced each other. “You probably won't let me be a squire, either. How am I to be a knight if I cannot be a squire?”

Allis struggled to keep her voice calm. “There is plenty of time for you to be both page and squire after I'm married.”

“So you keep saying, but you aren't even betrothed!”

“He's right,” Isabelle said as she sat in the chair nearest the window. “I know Father isn't well, but Edmond has to become a knight, and I have to—”

“
What
do you have to do?” Allis demanded, arms akimbo.

Isabelle tossed her head defiantly. “Find a husband. I don't want to wait until I'm as old as you.”

“Is there anyone you have in mind?”

“Maybe.”

“Sir Connor, perhaps?”

Isabelle frowned and crossed her arms.

Allis marched toward her. “Listen to me, Isabelle. That man cannot be your husband. He is poor, and the
baron tells me he was sent back to England after quarreling with the king. Clearly, he is not worthy of marriage to the daughter of the earl of Montclair.”

Any
daughter. In spite of the way he made her feel, or the emotions he inspired. Despite her yearning for him to kiss her, and hold her, and keep her safe, so that she need never fear again.

She turned back to Edmond. “Yes, he was on the Crusade, but that seems to be the best that can be said of him, and there are other things about him that make him unsuitable.”

“What things?” Edmond demanded.

“Percival says he's very skilled in the arts of war,” Isabelle offered defiantly.

“That may be, but he has no land and no money, and he has quarreled with the king. Now, as to the matter of my marriage, that you are both so keen to have me make,” she said, looking from one to the other, “yesterday I agreed to become the baron's wife. He will formally announce it when he has chosen the day.”

Her brother and sister exchanged surprised looks.

“After that, I will try to find a suitable knight for you to serve as page, Edmond, and Isabelle, I will try to find a husband for you.”

“I want to find my own husband.”

Her self-control, stretched to the limit, finally snapped. Her hands balled into fists. “Then do it,” she cried, bringing her fists down as if striking an imaginary table, “just as long as it is not Sir Connor of Llanstephan!”

Edmond and Isabelle stared at her, as well they might. She looked and sounded like a peevish child, not the chatelaine of Montclair. “I'm sorry. Forgive me.
I'm tired.” She rubbed her temples. “It's the strain of the tournament.”

Isabelle hurried to embrace her. “No, I'm sorry. I know you've been putting off getting married because you hoped Father would get better.”

“I'm sorry, too,” Edmund said, taking her hand. “I won't bother Father, or you, about becoming a page or squire anymore.”

Allis pulled them both into her arms and hugged them tight. This was why she was marrying Rennick DeFrouchette—for Isabelle and Edmond, and their father, too. When Edmond started to squirm, she moved back and smiled at them. “I promise I
will
act upon these things. You two go to the chapel. I'll be along in a moment, after I see how Father is.”

They nodded their acquiescence and departed.

She did not immediately go to their father. She needed a moment alone to restore her equilibrium, if that were possible, or at least calm herself. Although she loved her father dearly, it was difficult to see him so different from the father she had grown up adoring, a man of strength and power, yet good humor, too.

Last night he had paced around his chamber like a caged beast. Then, as always, the footfalls ceased, to be followed by the sound of his crying. He wept for their mother every night, and every day, he prayed to die.

Edmond and Isabelle didn't know that. She made sure of it. How could she explain that he wanted to leave them and join their mother in heaven when she didn't understand it herself? Were they not worth staying on earth for?

Last night, when she had told him of her agreement to become Rennick's bride, he had immediately
started to weep, bemoaning the fact that her mother was not alive to see her daughter become a wife. No questions for her about her feelings for Rennick, no wishing her happiness.

She quickly forgave him, because his questions or his blessing wouldn't have made any difference. She was destined for misery when she became Rennick's wife.

 

Connor stood in the dim shadows at the back of the chapel, watching Lady Allis and her family. The quarrel with her siblings had obviously been resolved, and happily, for they stood close and intimate, not as if they were still angry with one another. Her father knelt on the stone floor throughout the whole of the mass. Lady Allis was quietly attentive, but he ignored her and kept his head bowed in silent and fervent prayer.

Connor had seen grief, had known it himself, but never had he witnessed a man more broken by it. Yet, as unsettling as it was for him to witness it, it must be a hundredfold worse for Lady Allis.

Also unsettling was the way Baron DeFrouchette loomed over Lady Allis. With his hawklike visage and long black robe, he reminded Connor of the vultures who circled battlefields, waiting.

One day she must marry, and someone other than he. He knew that as surely as he knew his disgraced name, yet he could not bear to think of her married to a man who would do cold-blooded murder. He must discover if his suspicions about his lance had any basis.

The mass concluded, he tore his gaze from Lady Allis and left the chapel. Outside, the sky had cleared, promising a fine day for the squires' melee, which
would take place when all had broken the fast. Then the squires serving the knights who had been in yesterday's melee would face each other. They, too, would try to win ransoms and prizes, and begin to build a reputation for themselves, perhaps hoping for a place in the king's service or to please a father's pride, just as he had done all those years ago.

“Sir Connor? Sir Connor of Llanstephan?”

Halting at the sound of his name, he turned to look at the older man who addressed him. He didn't recall seeing the plump, pleasant-faced man at the welcoming feast, but he looked slightly familiar nonetheless. “Yes?”

“What a delightful surprise! I am Lord Oswald of Darrelby. I believe you knew my brother in the Holy Land.”

Knew him? Why, Osric of Darrelby had been with him through the worst of the fighting, steady and truer than even Demetrius, and had saved his life more than once with a well-aimed blow or warning cry.

What he had thought was familiarity was a family resemblance. Osric had had the same nose and the same wide mouth as Lord Oswald, but he had been skin and bones when he died. “I am very glad to say I did.”

Lord Oswald surveyed his injury. “I arrived yesterday after the tournament and heard you had been wounded, so I didn't wish to trouble you last night. You are feeling better, I trust, since you came to mass.”

“Yes. I had excellent care. I am delighted to meet you, my lord. My father spoke of you often, too, when he returned from his visits to Wessex.”

“Your father and I were great friends, and how he bragged about you! He thought your elder brother a fine fellow in his own way, he always said, but when
he spoke of you…well, I never saw a man more proud. A great pity he died while you were away from home. And your mother, too, I understand?”

“Yes, my lord, he died shortly after she did.”

“Truly unfortunate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Oswald clapped a beefy arm around Connor's shoulder and steered him toward the hall. “Osric was lucky to have you for a friend, especially at the last. He said so in his last epistle. We thought it must have been written on his deathbed.”

Connor nodded, and wondered if he should tell Lord Oswald the particulars of Osric's death, when he had been sick of fever and starved because of the neglect of his king. Richard took every care to make sure he himself was comfortable; he spared considerably less thought for his men. “I was with him when a priest wrote the letter at his behest.”