His to Keep: A Medieval Romance

by Sherrinda Ketchersid

  “Nay, only wanting to know what the whispers were about.” He shrugged.

  Claire lifted her chin. “We were planning your demise.”

  “Just as I suspected.”

  “You are a fool if you think we would try to overpower you again. You can see by the bandages on my men how that went the first time.” She must placate him and the Scot—make them feel she and her men had given up. The thought rankled.

  “I hope you speak the truth, for it wouldn’t go well for you otherwise.” He walked back to his post by the door.

  Claire clenched her fists, wishing she had her bow so she might shoot an arrow into the retreating man’s back. She’d sunk low to let such murderous thoughts stampede like wild horses through her head. ’Twasn’t a godly sort of thought, to be sure.

  The door behind Phillip opened, and Whitfield’s servants streamed into the great hall—five in all. Edith, the old nursemaid who cared for Claire when she’d arrived at Whitfield as a child. Alma, the middle-aged cook. Toly, the stable hand. And two younger servants, Noah and Leticia. Claire rushed to Edith, enfolding the shaking woman into her arms. “All will be well,” she murmured into the woman’s gray hair.

  Edith pulled back, her gnarled hands trembling. “That Scot found us hiding in the cellarium and told us to come here.”

  “Aye, ’twill be alright. Where is he now?”

  “I know not. He didn’t believe us when we told him there were no more servants. He went to search.”

  “Good. That should keep him busy for a while.”

  “Go sit by the guards until Sir McGowan returns.” Phillip crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  Claire nodded. “Aye, do as he says.”

  “But the Scot said to prepare food to break our fast.” Alma’s round face reddened as she glanced at the Scot’s man.

  “Did he now?” A smile crossed Phillip’s face. “That sounds good to me, so go on and do as he bids.”

  “The women shall attend Alma in the kitchen.” Claire motioned for Edith and Leticia to follow. She wasn’t about to leave the frightened women to sit and stew in their fear. They would fare better with their hands and minds busy.

  Phillip nodded, then pointed to Toly and Noah. “You two. With the guards.” The two shuffled over to where the guards sat.

  Claire followed the women to the kitchen. Once inside, she turned to the ladies. “As much as I hate to acquiesce, we must obey the Scot until I get released from the marriage.”

  “So ’tis true? The papers he brought were real?” Edith’s brows drew together.

  “Aye, they bore the king’s seal.”

  Edith brought a hand to her mouth and shook her head. “Oh, what a predicament. A Scot, no less.”

  Claire clasped her hands together. “But I have a plan. After everyone is asleep, Ralph and I will travel to London and gain an audience with the king. I must be released from this marriage.”

  “Nay, Claire! ’Tis too dangerous to travel with only one guard. And Ralph? He … he can’t defend you.” Edith’s lined face paled.

  “Though he carries excess weight, he is the strongest of our guards.”

  “That is not saying much, given the sad state of our men,” said Alma.

  Edith nodded. “True. But why can’t you stay and marry the man? Surely living at Whitfield as its lady is preferable to leaving us?”

  Guilt stabbed Claire. How could she abandon them, the true family of her heart? “I … I cannot marry a Scot. Not after what they did to my parents. Perhaps the king would let me stay as healer and appoint a titled lady to marry Sir McGowan instead.” For the sake of her people she could tolerate being under a Scot’s rule—as long as she didn’t have to share a bed with him.

  Edith sighed. “You are a good healer, but I do hate that a stranger would usurp your authority here.”

  Claire pondered the woman’s words. She enjoyed her work at Whitfield and the surrounding villages. She didn’t need to be in charge of the castle in order to feel at home. Tending others would give her life meaning. God would help her to be content. “In truth, I have no real authority at Whitfield. I’m but a pawn in a game played by powerful kingdoms—an insignificant piece that no one would miss should I step out of play. Tonight, I leave to beg for my freedom from this inane play of control.”

  One thing was certain—she would not marry a Scot.

  Chapter 4

  Ian searched every square inch of the castle grounds and found no more servants. Only the five he had sent to the keep, plus eight guards. ’Twas no wonder the property stood in disrepair with so few to do the work. The only good thing he’d encountered was a small stable housing five horses. Not enough for each guard, but the steeds looked healthy and well-cared for.

  He crossed the bailey as the early morning sun softened the sky to a silky lavender hue. His heavy footsteps echoed in the silence of the castle yard. Ian entered the great hall, and the room grew quiet. Phillip stood watch over the bound guards and two male servants sitting at the tables.

  “Where are the women?” Ian asked.

  “You sent them to prepare food, did you not?” Phillip started for the kitchen.

  “Wait! They dinna lie.” Ian rubbed his temple. He had forgotten. He needed sleep if he was to keep his wits about him and convince the people of Whitfield he meant no harm.

  Phillip came to Ian’s side. “I don’t trust them.”

  “At some point, we must. Where is Maid Beaumont?”

  “With the other women.”

  Out of sight and unguarded. Ian strode toward the door leading to the kitchen. Would she still be there? His feet quickened, and he burst through the door.

  Maid Beaumont fumbled the tray in her hands, and the three servants stopped their work. All went silent. Relief flooded through him. She hadn’t escaped. Perhaps she had only needed time to reflect and come to terms with the marriage. His gaze landed on the lass. “I need to speak with you.”

  She set the tray on the worktable and lifted her chin. “Go ahead.”

  “In the hall.”

  “You wanted food, so I’m helping the women obey your orders.”

  “They can prepare the meal. You need to talk to the guards.” Ian’s head pounded a heavy thrum. Would she thwart him at every turn?

  “For what purpose?”

  “Come. I will explain.”

  Once in the great hall, Maid Beaumont halted and folded her arms over her chest. She glanced across the room at her bound men. “Are you going to free my men?”

  “Before I release them, they must lay down their arms against me.”

  “Could you not ask them yourself?”

  Anger swirled within Ian’s chest, and the throb in his head quickened. “Aye, but I need your allegiance. They will follow your lead.”

  “My allegiance? As if I have a say in the matter?”

  “We always have a choice in our behavior.” ’Twas a lesson he’d learned long ago.

  “Our behavior, aye, but a person’s heart? You have no control over that.”

  “Compliance is what I am seeking. Not their love. ’Twould seem you hold that.”

  Claire’s countenance softened. “You will release them if they agree to not attempt to overthrow you again?”

  “Aye.”

  “So be it.” Claire dropped her arms to her sides and walked to her people. She stopped before them and released a deep breath. “Men, you are aware of my disdain at being forced to marry a Scot, but the king has spoken. I am asking you to not take up arms against Sir McGowan for—”

  Angry yells echoed throughout the great hall. “He will never be our lord!” “Never!” “I’ll die first!”

  A smile flitted across the lass’s face. By the saints, she enjoyed this display of loyalty and did nothing to quiet them.

  Ian drew his sword, the scrape of steel cutting through their cries. “Enough! Your lady has agreed to peace, and you will cease with your protestations.”

  The men quieted and sear
ched Maid Beaumont’s face. She dipped her head and said, “We shall not attempt to throw the Scot out.”

  “What does that mean for us?” asked one of the guards.

  Ian rested the tip of his sword in the rushes strewn over the stone floor. “A place remains here for you at Whitfield under my authority, or you may leave and find work elsewhere. ’Tis your choice.”

  The guard who spoke earlier turned to Maid Beaumont. “What say you, my lady?”

  “I do not know what my future entails and won’t hold it against you should you choose to leave.”

  “I will stay,” mumbled the guard.

  “And abide in peace?” Ian asked as he glanced at each man present.

  “Aye.” The men spoke their assent but didn’t look pleased. Ian could not fault them. Had he been in their place, he would chafe under a new lord as well.

  Ian sheathed his sword, then nodded to Phillip. “Release the men.”

  “But they just tried to kill—”

  “They are loyal to their lady. We must trust them.”

  Phillip unsheathed a dagger and cut through the ropes binding the men.

  Ian turned to Maid Beaumont. Should he thank her for her help in gaining the men’s compliance? Nay, she would take the opportunity to demean him once more. He nodded toward the kitchen. “You may go help the women now.”

  She placed a hand over her chest and dipped a curtsy. Pretty manners, but he caught the roll of her eyes as she departed. Though she accepted his rule, he knew the truth. She would challenge him at each and every turn.

  Claire stomped into the kitchen, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. You may go help the women now. Dismissed as if she were a servant. Not that she minded helping—nay, she worked side by side with the servants daily—but Sir McGowan’s imperious tone stoked her ire. Insufferable man!

  “Is everything alright?” Alma stirred a pot hanging above leaping flames in the large fireplace.

  “As right as they can be. I had the men agree to cease arms against the Scot. ’Twas the only way to have them released.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door, making sure they were alone. “Their obedience will keep the Scot and his man from suspecting my escape tonight.”

  “Are you not disobeying by escaping?”

  Claire searched for heart for the answer to Edith’s question. “I never actually swore my allegiance to the man. I said we would not attempt to overthrow him. I did not say I would obey his every command. I cannot be aligned with a Scot whose very nature is one of malice, greed, and murder.” Though McGowan seemed kind enough now, he most certainly would reveal his true nature in time. She couldn’t marry such a person.

  “I still don’t like it,” said Edith, cutting into a loaf of bread.

  “I don’t either, but we must be smart and bide our time.” Claire grabbed some trenchers from the sideboard and laid them out on the center table.

  “Nay, I don’t like you on the road with only Ralph.” Edith huffed.

  “I will do what I must.”

  Edith shook her head. “I do not see why you can’t just marry the man. He doesn’t seem to be a violent man, and he is comely.”

  “Aye, he is most handsome,” said Leticia, shrugging a shoulder. “You could do much worse.”

  Claire placed her hands on the center table and bowed her head. How could she do worse than a Scot? Handsome or not, he was still a Scot. “Handsome does not always make a worthy husband. I leave tonight.”

  The women looked at one another but remained silent. They returned to their work and filled trenchers with bread and cheese and bowls with stew.

  Thankful for the silence, Claire filled mugs with ale while contemplating preparations for her escape. ’Twould take nearly a se’ennight to travel to London, so she must prepare for a lengthy trip. Provisions, her cloak, and a dagger or two.

  “Leticia, start taking the trenchers out.” Alma wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll take the stew.”

  “Edith, can you help with the drinks?” Claire pointed to a tray with a few full mugs.

  “Aye,” said Edith. The amber liquid sloshed over the rims of the mugs as she shuffled toward the kitchen door.

  In the great hall, Claire and the women served her men. Sir McGowan and Phillip sat at the head table on the dais, eating their fill. Food and drink had been set in front of the empty chair on the other side of the Scot. She cringed.

  Leticia took Claire’s empty tray, and Claire faced the head table. While she loathed sitting by the Scot, she must continue to make him think she was amenable to the king’s edict. She squared her shoulders and made her way to the dais.

  He watched her approach, his dark eyes following her until she slid onto the chair beside him.

  She dipped her spoon into the steaming porridge. If only she were hungry.

  “Is mealtime always this quiet?” Sir McGowan waved his spoon toward those at the tables before them.

  Claire looked to her people, their normal jovial chatter absent. “Nay.”

  “Is it our presence?”

  Claire shot her gaze toward the Scot. “Are you truly so dense you cannot imagine what turmoil we have suffered? Invaded, captured, forced to submit. Surely you can’t begrudge them some discomfiture amid their new circumstances.”

  The man shifted in his chair and nodded. “Aye. I can see how the events of the past day could dampen their spirits.”

  Claire wanted to scream in frustration. He couldn’t know the depth of their fear of a foreigner taking over their home. He couldn’t know the hardships they had already endured due to lack of coin. Yet, she fumed at his weak choice of words. Dampen their spirits indeed! He had trampled, squelched, and killed their spirits. Typical of a Scot, murderous lot that they were.

  Setting down his spoon, Sir McGowan placed his hand upon her clenched fist. She snatched her hand away. He gave a small shake of his head before speaking. “’Tis sorry, I am, for the way things have transpired thus far. I only came to claim what is rightfully mine. You were the one who forced me to steal inside the castle. You were the one who had me captured. You are the one who wounded me.” He rubbed his temple. “I dinna want this kind of hardship. While I understand your reluctance in letting in a stranger, I had papers to prove the validity of my words. You made it the battle it became.”

  While his words rang true, Claire couldn’t discount his nationality. How could the king have decreed marriage with a foreigner? While she knew alliances were made between countries, must she be a pawn in the intrigues of court? The man before her sat expectantly, his gaze traversing her face. Did he expect an apology? “You’re daft if you think I am going to apologize for protecting my people from a—”

  “Scot.” Sir McGowan’s head tilted as if pondering another possible motive for her animosity. “I ken you hate Scots, but I am not the one who murdered your parents.”

  She picked up her mug and took a long drink. He didn’t kill them, but it could have been him. “’Tis none of your affair what I think.”

  “As you are my betrothed, I believe ’tis my affair.”

  Claire slammed her mug on the table, sloshing out what little liquid remained. Her body trembled at the anger—the frustration—pulsing through her. Sucking in a slow breath, she calmed her racing heart. She must make the man think she was in compliance with this … this marriage. She leaned back in her chair and let her gaze find his. “I’m not ready to talk further about my parents. Perhaps soon, but not today.” She resisted the urge to squirm under the dark eyes searching her own. So piercing … probing. How had she not noticed the color before? Deep brown, like fertile soil after a rain.

  “We shall have plenty of time to get better acquainted.” The corner of his mouth lifted, and he turned his attention back to his food.

  Not if she could prevent it. Claire pushed her food away, ready to be free of his presence.

  McGowan cleared his throat. “Is my Scottish blood the only reason you didn’t let me into Whitfield
?”

  “While it is reason enough, I wouldn’t let a stranger in. You could have been after money, provisions, anything. I wasn’t about to give you access.”

  The Scot turned to her. “Whitfield has money?”

  “Nay, only enough to pay taxes.”

  “Where does the money come from?”

  Claire wouldn’t admit the land had no income, not anymore. Her guardian had let Whitfield fall into disrepair and neglected the tenants. When he died, most of them had left. With no one to work the fields, there were no crops to sell. Even the small village nearby diminished every year. Whitfield’s dwindling money left Claire to wonder if they would all be forced to leave in search of work.

  Unless the Scot had coin to pour into the land.

  Claire looked to the man by her side. “Now that you are in charge, ’tis your responsibility to figure out how to raise income.”

  “With no income, how did you think to continue here?”

  How, indeed? She knew her options were limited. While she didn’t want to marry, she had considered Lord William Bardsley, the neighboring lord who had sought her hand while her guardian still lived. His authoritative demeanor and pompous attitude did not sit well with her, and she’d refused him time and again. She had feared Bardsley might petition the king for the land, but ’twould seem the king had other plans. Plans that included a Scottish heir. Would being bound to Lord Bardsley be any better? She wasn’t sure.

  Claire turned her attention to her food. “I had ideas.”

  “I would like to hear them.”

  She wasn’t about to tell the man that her only plan had been to consider marriage. “Nay. While you may soon be my husband, you do not possess my mind.” She shot him a glance and quickly looked away, stuffing a wedge of cheese into her mouth.

  Sir McGowan turned to Phillip, and the two discussed plans to inspect the keep and castle grounds.

  Claire noted the solemn faces scattered before her. She hated that the new heir’s presence stifled the normal joyful atmosphere. Once she finished her meal, she rose and picked up her dishes, only to be stopped by a hand encasing her wrist.