Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume II

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Lady Ryan, I should like to introduce you to my sister,” he indicated the knight astride the black charger. “This is Charlotte d’Vant.”

  Ryan thought she had heard him wrong. She looked around to see if there was another lady standing about. But the knight aboard the great black steed removed the helm and a woman gazed back at her; the eyes were gray and vaguely familiar, like Dennis’, but the expression was anything but warm. In fact, Ryan felt her defenses go up as the large woman inspected her from head to toe. Charlotte d’Vant had features very similar to her brother’s, but whereas Dennis’ square jaw and strong nose were immensely attractive, Charlotte’s were misshapen and bold. She wasn’t pretty in the least; in fact, she was more frightening than Dennis was, and Ryan realized her situation had just turned very, very ugly, for more reasons than the obvious.

  She dipped into a curtsy nonetheless. “My lady,” she said graciously. “’Tis an honor to meet you.”

  Charlotte did not reply. She was still studying Ryan quite closely, examining every nook and cranny from the top of her amber head to the goat chewing grass by her side. The contempt in her expression was obvious when she looked at Dennis. “Ryan? What sort of name is that for a woman? ’Tis a man’s name.”

  Ryan sensed that if she did not take a stand for herself now, she would be forever subject to Charlotte’s disgust. She could immediately sense the hostility and the rage, and she further knew she had to make Charlotte aware that the new Lady d’Vant was no weak woman to be trifled with. What was it that Dennis had said? I give you and my sister two days, maximum….

  “I was named by Lord Richard, Duke of Cornwall, brother to King Henry III,” she said strongly, looking Charlotte in the eye. “My father has seen many years of service with him and when I was born, Lord Richard asked for the honor of naming me. He named me Ryan, in honor of his brother, because it is Gaelic for ‘little king’, and Elizabeth because he liked the name.” She watched Charlotte’s features harden. “I am quite blessed by both names, my lady, and am quite proud of them.”

  Charlotte’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you for not ruining my opinion of those who support the Earl of Cornwall,” she said her voice nearly as low as her brother’s. “Ill-bred, insolent savages and this one with a peculiar name.”

  Ryan could feel the venom and she wasn’t about to back away. Protocol stated that she should be gracious, which she had already tried, but her overture had been refused. Now it was time to play Charlotte’s game to win.

  She looked thoughtful. “I wonder what is worse, my lady,” she said. “A woman who looks like a woman yet possesses a man’s name, or a woman who looks like a man yet possesses a woman’s name. What’s in a name, after all?”

  Charlotte stared at her a long moment. There was a myriad of emotions passing though her hard gray eyes, but nothing that could be termed even remotely pleasant. It was like watching the swirls of a vicious storm. After a moment, she turned to her brother.

  “Treaty or no, Dennis, I shall kill this one. I swear it.”

  Dennis’ expression was as even as always, even in the face of a death threat. “You will do nothing of the sort. And I will never hear those words from your mouth again. Is that clear?”

  Charlotte tried to rein her horse sharply away from him with no intention of answering, but he grasped the reins and stopped the horse in its tracks. The beast snorted and stomped as Dennis’ gaze fixed on his sister.

  “Ryan is my wife,” he said. “That means that I would protect her with my life, even against you. If so much as a hair on her head is disturbed, I will forget you are my sister and do what is necessary to avenge and protect my wife. Do you comprehend me?”

  Charlotte grumbled something, yanked her horse’s reins from her brother’s hands, and tore off in the direction of the keep. Dennis watched her go, his features expressionless, before turning to Ryan.

  “’Twould be best to stay clear of her for a while,” he said quietly. “She, like those at Launceston, is opposed to this marriage.”

  Ryan gazed up at him; he was so tall that she had to crane her neck back. His gray eyes locked with her golden-brown and after a long moment, she smiled weakly.

  “I defended you against de Lohr,” she said. “I would expect that you would defend me against your sister.”

  He could not help the flicker of a smile that crossed his lips; it was difficult to resist. “I suppose,” he stroked his bearded chin. “But I did not antagonize de Lohr. You deliberately provoked my sister.”

  “She was deliberately provoking me,” Ryan countered. “Should I have just let her get away with it and let her know she can insult me at her will? I think not. I must establish the rules of this game at the beginning, my lord.”

  His gray eyes were twinkling again. “I do not imagine anyone can get the better of you, can they?”

  She wriggled her eyebrows at him, a coy gesture he found charming. But her response was cut off by Bute charging Dennis’ legs, yet this time his greaves prevented his shins from being bruised. He simply looked at the goat as it rammed against him stubbornly.

  “He doesn’t like me, does he?” he muttered.

  Ryan reined the goat back, easily distracting him with a cluster of dried sea grass. “Do not feel bad,” she said. “He does not like anyone around me. He barely tolerates Lyla.”

  Dennis cocked an eyebrow at the beast. “That will change, lady, when you and I sleep in the same bed. I shall not forbid you your pet, but I shall be damned if a stubborn little goat is going to pound me all night.”

  At the mention of sleeping in the same bed with him, Ryan felt her legs tremble. It was the strangest sensation she had ever experienced. Good or bad, she could not tell. It almost made her forget her train of thought.

  “I… I am sure he will become accustomed to you, my lord,” she stammered.

  He thought that she was upset by his statement. What else would explain her lowered head and stuttering words?

  “Perhaps,” he said, noticing her reddened cheeks. “You must be weary from travel, my lady. I am sure you would like to rest.”

  Ryan glanced at the keep, a quirky smile on her lips. “Your sister is probably lying in wait for me in my chamber.”

  Dennis shook his head and gently took her arm, leading her back to her palfrey. “We are sharing my chamber. Charlotte would be foolish to go anywhere near it.”

  “Does she always dress as a knight?”

  “She does. And she fights like one, too.”

  “I do not understand. Who permits her to do this? What of her husband?”

  “Charlotte is not married, and she has been schooled in the warring ways since she was very young. When I fostered as a squire, so did she. Instead of being schooled in the arts of ladies, she insisted on learning the warring ways. No one could sway her otherwise.”

  “And your father permitted this?”

  “He is the one who schooled her.”

  Ryan pondered that statement. She thought she might even pity Charlotte d’Vant, schooled as a man by her tyrannical father. No wonder the woman was so aggressive and hateful. But Dennis’ hand on her elbow was warm and wonderful, distracting her from thoughts of the mannish Charlotte. When he put his hands on her slender waist to lift her to the saddle, he let them linger there longer than necessary. His gray eyes were on her and she smiled, grasping his hand. He thought she was showing him an affectionate gesture when he realized she was handing him Butte’s leash.

  “Perhaps if you walk him, he will become accustomed to you,” she suggested, though she was grinning as if it was all quite humorous. In fact, he thought it was an attempt to somehow embarrass him and he wasn’t about to fall victim to her trap. But he knew someone who would.

  Riston was lingering nearby. He had been eyeing Lyla for the better part of the afternoon, and Dennis could see where his thoughts lay. But he had better ideas for his lustful vassal. He emitted a piercing whistle from his teeth and the knight was immediately at his side. H
e demanded Riston down from his charger and handed him the leash to Bute, who bleated loudly and starting kicking at Riston.

  “What am I supposed to do with him?” Riston demanded, trying to stay out of the line of fire.

  Dennis held the reins of Ryan’s palfrey. He gazed disinterestedly at Riston as the man dodged flying hooves. “Tend to my wife’s pet, of course. Perhaps Lady Lyla can assist you.”

  Riston looked at Lyla, who turned as red as the setting sun. Ryan would have felt sorry for her cousin had she not been so concerned with her own fluttering heart.

  *

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Lyla hissed.

  Ryan gazed out over the great hall of St. Austell. Beyond, in the smoke-hazed atmosphere, lingered drunken soldiers, dirty wenches, and packs of ravenous dogs. It was the loudest, smelliest, and unruliest gathering she had ever attended. It was, in fact, her wedding celebration, the feast to celebrate the marriage of the Lord of St. Austell, and his subjects were unrestrained in their revelry.

  “Never in my life,” Ryan replied. Truth was, she too had been drinking since the inception of the feast. It seemed to ease the disorientation of her situation. “Do you suppose they are always like this?”

  Lyla shrugged, her eyes wide on the crowd. Around them, those who weren’t falling down inebriated or stuffing themselves ill with roast mutton were flirting with the whores who usually traveled with the army. Ryan had overheard that they apparently slept in their own chambers in the soldier’s quarters. It was absolutely chaotic.

  “I wish we had been given time to dress for supper,” Lyla said, tearing her thoughts away from the wild room. “We were not even given the opportunity to wash or comb our hair. Do you even know where we are sleeping?”

  Ryan shook her head. In truth, she was feeling progressively worse; her sniffles had not seen significant improvement and now her head was swimming with too much wine. It was strong wine, too: a blood-red drink. It had come straight off one of the ships from St. Austell harbor, and was fermented somewhere in Italy. It was dark and rich and tangy, and it gave Ryan enough courage to sit across the table from Charlotte and not feel an inordinate amount of fear from the woman’s heady stares. Of course, Dennis by her side helped a great deal too. In fact, she was grateful for his semi-familiar comfort in a room full of people who would gladly see her come to harm.

  “Lady d’Vant,” Riston addressed her as he was seated across the table, next to Charlotte. His dark blue eyes were pleasant on her. “Have you been much out of Launceston?”

  Ryan felt every eye at the table focus on her, including Dennis’. He’d not spoken to her much this night, and she was, to be truthful, feeling slighted. He seemed to talk to her a great deal when there weren’t the judgmental eyes of his men watching him.

  “I have only lived at Launceston for eight years,” she replied. “Before that, I lived with my mother. When she died, I went to live with my father.”

  “Why did your parents not live together?” Riston asked.

  “My mother took care of her sick mother,” she answered. “When my grandmother died, my mother followed shortly.”

  “Tragic,” Riston said. “Where their deaths related? Contagious, somehow?”

  Ryan’s golden-brown eyes were soft, remembering that painful moment in time. “All of us suffer from the same affliction to our lungs,” she said quietly. “Though mine seems relatively tame compared to my mother and grandmother’s.”

  Across the table, Charlotte took a deep drink of her wine. “How convenient for us,” she rumbled. “Perhaps you shall die like your mother and grandmother and save us the trouble of having to kill you.”

  No one said a word; in truth, it wasn’t Riston’s place to say anything at all, and Dennis’s gray eyes hardened but he, too, kept silent. But it wasn’t cowardice that kept him quiet; it would do no good to argue with Charlotte at this moment. Any word from him and he could quite possibly find himself in a sword fight. His sister had a habit of speaking with her sword, especially when she was drunk. But he had no doubt that he would speak with her later when she was sober.

  Seated beside Riston, Clive alternately chewed his lip and downed his tepid drink. He, too, had been listening to the conversation, but like most of them, he had learned to ignore Charlotte when she was drunk.

  “What affliction is this you speak of?” he asked. “When they coughed, did it seem to bring up their very lungs?”

  Ryan was still trying to forget Charlotte’s words. “Aye,” she said. “It was… messy.”

  Clive nodded and took another drink. “But you do not cough blood?”

  “No.”

  “Then you do not have the same affliction as your mother and her mother.” The chalice in Clive’s hand was empty and he pounded the table for more. “What they had was a disease. I have seen it many times.”

  Ryan wasn’t sure if she should listen to an inebriated knight. Richard’s physic had called her affliction a disease, so she assumed it was the same as her mother’s and grandmother’s, which only grew worse with age.

  “’Twas difficult to watch them both suffer so,” she finally said. “In the end, I was taking care of them both.”

  Charlotte was gazing at her from across the table. A soldier tried to talk to her but she cuffed him on the head and sent him away. “How terribly noble of you,” she muttered. Then, she fixed on her brother, sitting silent in the midst of the conversation. “Well, brother, you promised us blood and submission this night. When are we to be privileged to this event?”

  Dennis looked steadily at his sister. “In time, Charlotte.”

  The faintly smug expression on her mannish features dissolved into one of anger. “That is what we have all been waiting for. You cannot deny the men their ultimate victory, Dennis. You promised.”

  Dennis simply stared at his sister. He felt as if he had been hit in the chest with her words. On the eve of their father’s death those weeks ago, he had said many things to appease his grieving troops and his own wounded heart. Now his words were coming back to haunt him.

  When he had proposed this marriage in the days following that terrible event, it had been with two things in mind; one was peace. He was so terribly sick of war. But Charlotte and his men hadn’t wanted peace. Therefore, to placate them, he had promised them something else. Now they were expecting him to follow through that promise.

  Ryan could not help but sense something ominous. Swept with a creeping sense of foreboding, she turned to her husband. “What is she speaking of, my lord?”

  Dennis looked at her, his gaze sweeping her beautiful, if tired, face. Christ, how he regretted his promises made those weeks ago. “We shall discuss it later,” he said quietly. “More wine, Lady d’Vant?”

  Ryan’s dread increased. “We shall discuss it now, and I do not require any more wine to help me to understand what your sister is implying.” She looked him in the eye. “What does she mean?”

  Dennis’ square jaw flexed. After a brief moment, he stood up so rapidly that Ryan nearly fell back, out of her chair. Before she realized it, Dennis was grasping her arm and helping her to rise.

  “Riston, you will please take Lady Lyla in hand this night,” he instructed. “She is not to be let out of your sight, is that clear?”

  Riston nodded grimly. Charlotte, however, rose to her feet as her brother did. “Is that what you intend to do now, Dennis? Attain one last victory for St. Austell?”

  Ryan listened in horror. Dennis’ normally even expression was in danger of altering, locking eyes with his sister. “Not another word, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte slammed her big hands on the table, shaking the implements and food that sat upon it. Her pale eyes were blazing.

  “You will not deny us, Dennis,” she growled. “We are due our retribution. You made a promise to all of those at St. Austell, or have your wife’s poisonous wiles conveniently erased your memory?”

  Dennis did not reply. Pulling Ryan by the arm, he took
her to a long flight of stairs that led to the second floor of St. Austell. On this level, there were two chambers and a loft; the loft held a huge, mussed bed with a variety of war implements scattered about the floor and walls. The other two chambers also held beds in various stages of dishevelment, and it was into the northernmost chamber that Dennis took her. He tossed her into the room, slamming the door behind them and bolting it. For a man who had thus far remained cool and calm, he seemed uncharacteristically disturbed.

  Ryan was terrified. “What is it you now intend?” she demanded, her voice a husky whisper. “What was your sister implying? Am I to be made a sacrificial lamb this night?”

  Dennis looked at her. Though his gray eyes were remarkably soft, his strong features were tight and worrisome. He moved away from the door and as he did, Ryan also moved to maintain the distance between them. Dennis came to a halt when he saw what she was doing.

  “You needn’t fear me, my lady,” he said softly. “Truly, I would never harm you.”

  Ryan wasn’t convinced. “Then what was she talking about?”

  He pursed his lips as if debating whether or not to tell her. He realized he had no choice.

  “You understand the politics of war, so I will not insult your intelligence by repeating the history between St. Austell and Launceston,” he said quietly. “As you know, my father was killed last month in a siege. Understandably, my sister and my men were devastated. Many things were said in grief, and many promises were made.”

  “Like what?” she demanded.

  Dennis moved slowly toward the bed, lowering his massive frame down onto the edge. He gazed into the chill darkness of the room, with not even a taper of flame to light the walls. From the lancet window, the glow of the December moon illuminated his strong face.

  “The army was looking to me to avenge my father’s death,” he murmured. “But I wanted something more. All I have ever known is war, and to be frank, I am sick to death of it. But in order to secure peace, I had to be considerate of my men’s feelings. I had to please them as I wanted to please myself.”