The Knight's Conquest

by Juliet Landon

  None of them could have predicted how things would be after only two years, one year into her widowhood, how the confidence which had already begun to erode had, since her marriage, landslipped into a deep chasm of scepticism. Even he, Sir Crispin, had noticed it on his returns from London, though her accusation of complicity in Sir Piers Gerrard’s death at a tournament only three months after their marriage could not be taken seriously. He knew Sir Owain to be a proud man, but never a rash or vindictive one. He had invited Sir Owain to Jolita’s betrothal celebrations in the hope that he and Eloise might conceivably rekindle that flame, if it had ever truly died, and had been gratified to discover that, if he still smarted, he had learnt to conceal it better than she. That they both had grounds for doubting each other no one could deny, Sir Owain obviously having believed that the incredible emotional connection they had made on that day, which others had felt, would be enough to make her wait for him, for ever, if need be. Which went to show, Sir Crispin mused, that no man, however experienced, could truly anticipate a woman’s mind.

  As for the manner of Sir Piers’s death, that was something about which she was far better not knowing, though one could hardly blame her for being doubly unenthusiastic about meeting the man she believed to be in some way responsible, however little evidence she had to go on. Even the mention of the man’s name was enough to send sparks flying; a pity when the two of them would be under the same roof for the next few days. ‘A pity,’ said Sir Crispin, reflectively. ‘Such a pity when he’s looking for a wife.’ He stood up, pulling Eloise with him, and together they sauntered towards the largest glazed window that looked out over the small town of Handes. Below them, the sun caught the tops of the trees in a wash of pink and, in a field beyond the thatched rooftops, the striped arming-tents fluttered with colourful pennants ready for the tournament. Flashes of silver and steel caught the sun where men practised at the quintain, and the river slithered away into the distant landscape punctuated by the splashing bodies of small children and flapping ducks. The deep window-recess was like a small ante-room in the thickness of the castle wall where people could sit in private conversation.

  Eloise’s response to her father’s nonchalant remark was, however, hardly subdued. ‘Looking?’ she scoffed, loudly. ‘For a wife? Such men don’t look for wives, father, they have them hurled at their heads. They’re inundated with women falling under their feet night and day. I know. I wish I’d known of it before I married Sir Piers. But I’ll not make the same mistake again—’ she didn’t hear the door open quietly on the opposite side of the chamber ‘—and don’t let Mother imagine she can pair me off with that great overwheening clod who prances about knocking men off horses for a living.’

  ‘Eloise!’ her father warned, placing a hand on her arm.

  ‘He may be your neighbour, Father, but he’s not mine, and I’d rather have my sober steward any day than your local punch-drunk hooligan, no matter how celebrated he is.’

  ‘Eloise…please!’ Sir Crispin said in alarm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but you must not harbour any ideas in that direction. Tell Mother to say I’m too expensive, even for him.’

  Sir Crispin heaved a sigh, wiping a hand around his chin and shaking his head sadly at some point beyond Eloise’s shoulder. ‘You may tell them both yourself, my lady. Sir Owain had best hear that from your own lips, I believe.’

  Suddenly aware of her father’s attention directed elsewhere, Eloise whirled round, immediately understanding the significance of his attempts to silence her outburst. Behind them, standing on the deep clean rushes only a few yards away, were three figures, her mother, her sister Jolita and their guest, Sir Owain of Whitecliffe. Her breath stayed frozen in a distant corner of her lungs, and she found that her mouth was suddenly dry. They must have heard every word, every insult.

  But while her mother, Lady Francesca, was plainly embarrassed by her daughter’s aggression, her sister was just as plainly eager to witness the next bout. Her pretty eyes danced with anticipation. Eloise did not look to see the effect of her words upon the tall knight in the surcoat of deep gold velvet, though she suspected some amusement, and because she could find no reason for regret, nor could she explain her unaccustomed virulence, her instincts told her to flee while there was still a chance.

  With barely a glance in Sir Owain’s direction, she whispered a quick, ‘I beg you will excuse me, please,’ and headed for the door with as much dignity as she could summon.

  In two long strides, the man she had just condemned reached it before her and placed his hand upon the latch. She thought, hoped, that he was about to open it for her, but his intention was just the opposite and, for what seemed to Eloise like an eternity, their eyes were locked in a silent battle of wills.

  They had met only once, two years ago after the Essex knight to whom she had been betrothed for three months died of the terrible pox in March, 1349. He had changed little since then, except for the disappearance of a beard which had once outlined his square jaw. She supposed that the white scar along his lower cheek was the reason for its removal. Now she saw anew the keen intelligence and indomitability in his expression which had first excited her, and instead of the shifty leer of so many men, his steady gaze bored deep into her mind and found the shiver of fear at the root of her anger.

  She recognised again the astonishing virility, the animal vigour and strength of him, even while motionless. There was the muscled throat and the commanding backward tilt of the head, the wide mouth that she was sure was well practised at kissing, but never her. His dark silky hair had been well cut, but was now combed back off his forehead, slipping forward to touch one angled brow. His eyes, dark-rimmed and dangerously narrowed, sloped down at each corner. And now his powerful bulk made an impossible barrier that he patently had no intention of removing. A momentary flicker of his eyes towards her father was the only minute signal Sir Owain gave that she should yield, as if to remind her of unfinished business. Incredibly, and inexplicably, she lowered her angry stare and turned to meet her father’s advance.

  Hoping to save a situation that appeared rapidly to be slipping beyond his control, Sir Crispin drew her away from the human barrier. ‘Come, lass,’ he whispered. ‘For Jolita’s sake?’ He led her back into the private solar hung cosily with bright tapestries and lit by shafts of evening sunlight. ‘Our guests will be sharing the same board for a few days, and your mother and I would prefer it if they spoke to each other. Will you not greet Sir Owain? He’s been looking forward to meeting you again.’

  Determined not to lose the next skirmish, she lifted her chin and turned to face again the fearless man who had come to stand by her father’s side. ‘Then I fear our re-introduction will be a crushing anticlimax for Sir Owain, Father. Shall we hope, sir, that the victor’s crown will be a fitting compensation for any other expectations you brought with you to the tournament?’

  The great man met her cold appraisal impassively and, since she had declined to curtsy, gave her no return bow. ‘I shall take back everything I came for and probably more, my lady,’ he said. His voice was as she remembered it, richly baritone and cultured. His arrogant reply came as no surprise; these men had to be self-confident, cocksure, or they’d not be so successful.

  A surge of excitement shivered unreasonably through her, and the will to continue the battle from the safety of her family’s presence spurred her recklessly on. ‘Ah…’ she smiled ‘…then your short journey must once again be scarce worth the effort. For myself, I appear to be successful only in terms of three months, like the last marriage to a man you knew well. Could it be that you happen to have a spare three months between tournaments, sir?’

  He had not moved a muscle throughout her self-deprecating volley but stood with his chin up, appreciating her performance, noting every nuance of sarcasm but seeing also a quiver of uncertainty behind the amazing green-brown eyes. ‘Is that what it takes, lady? Three months? Well then, yes, I have a spare three months in which I could ma
ke you passive and obedient, which is more than your father and late husband have been able to manage between them, apparently.’

  ‘And now,’ she replied, icily, ‘I fear I am well beyond their control. And yours too, Sir Owain.’

  ‘Backing off already?’

  ‘Not as fast as you, sir!’ she snapped.

  ‘Pity. I thought I heard a challenge.’

  ‘I was stating a fact. Claim your victor’s crown at the tournament and take it home.’

  ‘And who will you sharpen your tongue on, lady, with me gone? Your next husband?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Owain, my next husband. A remarkably loyal man. We shall be wed later this summer.’

  His eyes, which until now had been laughing, cooled perceptibly as the impact of her words clearly caught him by surprise. But he would not allow her to win so easily. ‘Then I hope you’ve made him aware of your three-monthly terms, or the remarkably loyal man will be in for a nasty shock by Christmas, lady. Is he someone I know?’

  After that rudeness, Eloise had no intention of telling him, but her father felt that this was the perfect time to place a fly in the ointment, so to speak, before the king did it less gently. ‘Lady Eloise intends to marry her steward, Master Stephen atte Welle, a man of—’

  ‘Her steward?’ Laughter and incredulity returned together, and Eloise could happily have killed both him and her father on the spot.

  Rather than wait for the next provoking remark, she turned quickly away, taking Jolita’s hand as she passed. ‘Come, Jollie. Pray excuse us, Mother. We have much to talk about.’

  Lady Francesca de Molyns intercepted her daughter’s brisk departure as only a mother can. ‘Child,’ she said, enclosing her as the men moved to the far end of the solar. ‘Child…hush now! Sir Owain is our neighbour, you know. He and your father are bound to meet socially and exchange news. Don’t allow him to anger you so.’

  ‘Insensitive, Mother,’ said Eloise, her voice low with displeasure. ‘For my father to choose this particular time for Jollie’s betrothal and to stage a tournament and to have that man staying here at the castle. Insensitive!’

  ‘Unavoidable, my love,’ her mother cooed, lifting a strand of the glossy copper-beech hair to one side. Her fingers were soft and gentle, her own hair streaked with threads of silver through deep red coils. She was still a beautiful woman. ‘It was not our choice of dates. It had to fit in with your father’s duties at Westminster, and with Lord and Lady Pace. And think how the men would be without a tournament. They’d not know what to do with themselves except hunt. At least this way we get to be with them. And as for Sir Owain not being invited—well, it would have been unmannerly to leave him out, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Obnoxious creature!’

  ‘You didn’t have to pick a fight, my child. Not with such a man.’

  Three pairs of eyes strayed towards the two men, taking in the broad shoulders and slim hips girded low with jewel-studded belts and scabbards, the easy grace and sudden laughter. They like each other, those two, thought Eloise, suddenly aware that she would be foolish to tell her father any more of her future plans than she strictly needed to. ‘I need only keep out of his way, Mother,’ she replied. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Yes, dear. That’s all,’ said her mother, catching Jolita’s smile.

  Arm in arm, the two sisters chose solitude on the broad walkway along the inside of the battlemented wall that looked out over the town of Handes and the green Derbyshire hills. Though not quite deserted, it provided an escape from the throngs of house-servants, the soldiers, and the guests arriving daily, adding to the inevitable lack of privacy.

  Overlooking the part of the wall farthest from the busy gatehouse, they peered down the sheer drop into the satin waters of the River Dove that fed the moat and encircled the castle walls, holding it apart from the rest of the town like an elderly but robust parent wreathed in silver tissue. Below them, a group of young squires washed their masters’ horses, flank-deep in water, their coats shining like ripe chestnuts. They looked up and pointed, waving cheekily, bringing a smile to the sisters’ lips. An admiring bunch of children watched from the shallows, their toes dabbling in the ripples.

  To Eloise, memories of her childhood flooded back with an almost painful nostalgia. Although she was now a guest at her parents’ home, this had been hers where the two of them had once been free of responsibilities. They had run barefoot in the fields and flown kites from the hills, shot arrows at the butts, fished for tiddlers in the river and ridden their ponies over logs. But none of that had prepared them for times like this when she herself would be widowed and Jolita, at eighteen, was about to celebrate her betrothal.

  Outwardly, the two of them were similar, Jolita being slight and prettily dark with merry brown eyes and a nose that the squires called cute. As a maid, she wore her hair loose, held down by a golden circlet that sat low on her brow, and though she had the same slender grace as Eloise, she had not the same voluptuousness. Her green velvet sleeveless surcoat was worn over a plain green linen gown that skimmed the wide neckline and caressed her creamy skin.

  Eloise squeezed her sister’s arm. ‘Forgive me for that dreadful scene, love,’ she said. ‘I’ll not spoil your festivities. But that man…’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s all right, Ellie. He disturbs me, too.’ She sighed. ‘I wish Henry would disturb me like that.’

  ‘Tell me about Henry. Is he handsome?’

  ‘No..oo,’ Jolita whispered, watching the scene below. ‘Not very handsome. Not particularly young. Not bold. Courteous, but not loverlike.’

  ‘Wealthy? Will you like him?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he’s wealthy. And I expect I’ll grow to like him. Eventually.’ She sat in the wide crenellation with the view behind her. ‘Ellie, do you mind very much it being on the twenty-fourth? My betrothal? It was not by my choice, and it’s not the best time for you to be celebrating, is it?’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s kind of you to remember, and I can’t be a mourning widow for ever, can I? St John’s Day has always been a special day for tournaments, and a betrothal without jousting would be a bit of a waste. It’s just unfortunate that it’s also the first anniversary of Sir Piers’s death, but there’s no reason why that should concern Henry and his parents.’

  ‘Has it been awful for you this last year?’

  Eloise sat beside her sister and smiled ruefully, not willing to give her the details of the last nightmare year in which she had had to fight Sir Piers’s relatives tooth and nail for her rights of dowry, dower and jointures, and to pay off his many debts. They had resembled vultures in their avarice, using every strategy and excuse to make it difficult for her, including a refusal to allow her to compile an inventory of his goods, since she had not been named as an executor. She had fought them, but the effort had left her drained and bitterly resentful.

  She turned to look over her shoulder at the green hills where, in the distance, another bright cavalcade of horses and wagons winked gaudily in the sunshine and snaked its way along the dusty track towards the castle. Her own manor near Stafford was in a direct line between her half-brother’s home at Coven Hall in Staffordshire and her father’s castle at Handes just over the border. She had put aside her widow’s weeds for this occasion and, to deflect Jolita’s question, brazenly smoothed her hands over the topaz silken fabric of her tightly fitting bodice. ‘First time I’ve worn this in a year—’ she smiled ‘—and it still fits.’ It had indeed been made to fit like a second skin by a tailor who knew how to dart beneath the bust, over the hips and waist, how to flare the skirt with wedge-shaped gores, how to set the sleeves into the tight bodice in the newest fashion and to set tiny buttons all the way from elbow to fingers. Eloise needed her maid to lace it down the back and to attach the long extravagant tippets to each elbow from where they hung to the ground, lined with pale-grey squirrel fur, like the low neckline.

  Jolita agreed, laughing. ‘Not for long, love. I saw a pair of eyes peeling you like an apr
icot in there while you were doing your bit.’

  ‘Let him peel away,’ said Eloise, dismissively. ‘That’s the nearest he’ll ever get. Let him see what he’s missed, Jollie.’

  Jolita’s smile faded. ‘As bad as that, Ellie? Truly?’

  ‘Yes. Truly. I’ve found a dependable man, this time, all by myself without anyone’s help or interference. Stephen atte Welle may not be the most fascinating of men, but I can rely on him utterly.’

  ‘Your steward? How old is he?’

  Eloise hesitated. ‘About twenty-eight, I think.’

  ‘That’s young to be in such a responsible position.’

  ‘The previous one was old. He stuck to the Gerrards like a leech. I don’t think he’s ever approved of me, and I was not inclined to keep him on after Sir Piers died, so when the time came for him to renew his ten-year contract, I let him go and appointed the man who’d been bailiff for five years.’

  ‘But why marry him, Ellie?’

  The reply was evasive. ‘Father thinks I’m mad. He says the king won’t allow it. He’s probably right.’

  ‘The king has sent for you, then?’

  ‘I shall be going up to London with Father after this. And I shall offer the king a fine to release me.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a big one, love. Is your steward worth it? You love him?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t. Love doesn’t come into it. This is a business arrangement, that’s all. Look, Jollie…’ she saw the bleak expression in her sister’s eyes ‘…they’ll find me a new husband if I don’t take matters into my own hands. I’ve had years of that and look where it’s got me. Two betrothals and a three-month marriage. Stephen is quite content to get on with managing my affairs. He’s good at it, the men like and trust him, and so do I.’

  ‘But if the king refuses his permission and finds you a hus—’

  ‘Don’t, Jollie…please! I can’t think any further than this.’ Her voice suddenly broke and disappeared, her eyes filling with tears.