“My mother has already noticed,” he put in reluctantly.
Reina had no doubt. Her father’s wife had already ordered her to stay away from Baron Erlegh, until after the betrothal negotiations. “As instructed, I shall stay in my chamber after his lordship arrives. Your mother has nothing to worry about.”
“I am sorry Reina.”
She shook her head. “Not today, Warin. This is your day.”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
She forced a smile to change the subject. “So tell me. Is it true that his lordship has met with Archbishop Corbeil of Canterbury?”
“Aye, in his lordship’s service, I may even get to journey as far as London to see the king.”
Reina brightened to see him so excited. “According to Father Godfrey, it is sure to be a certainty. His lordship has been in favor with King Henry for some time now.”
“I cannot wait to see Castell Maen.”
“You will be in his lordship’s service for eight years. You are bound to have your fill of the castle, Warin.”
He quickly sobered. “It is a long time to be separated from you, Reina.”
On the verge of tears, she said, “You better get back now, before father sends someone in search of you.” She gazed at the cloudless blue sky. “I intend to enjoy this beautiful day.”
Warin stood, absently brushing the dirt from the back of his best tunic. “Father still wishes for you to return. Do not tarry long.”
She watched him make his way back through the shedding trees before giving into tears.
* * * *
“Shall I ride ahead, my liege?” Osbert dared question his sullen liege.
After a two-day journey, they were within sight of Kenwick Village. A hot meal, cool ale, and soft pallet sounded good to the weary men.
“Aye, ride ahead. Though I warrant I am in no hurry to reach this journey’s end,” he replied, spurring his horse to brood alone.
After losing himself for years on the battlefield, he found his only solace exchanged for an unwelcome baronage. As if that were not bad enough, King Henry’s latest command had him seeking a wife in order to beget male heirs.
The king was a changed man since losing his only legitimate son.
At eight past a score, Fulke had no desire to settle down. Recently named overseer to the construction of a fortified tower in Rochester, he dared hope the king had reconsidered his decree. Instead, he commanded Fulke to accomplish the deed before his winter progress report in London.
The king’s older brother remained captive in Wales a full score after his failed attempt to take the throne for himself. Fulke did not intend to join Robert.
Muscled by years of battle, Fulke stood a head taller than most men did. His chest, dusted lightly with hair, tapered to a lean waist. His blonde, sun-kissed hair reached his collar and his ice-blue eyes had only to settle on a woman to find an unspoken invitation. One quirk of a well-shaped brow would have the lady warming his bed.
Thus far, the king chose to overlook his many court dalliances, dismissing more than one cuckolded husband’s pleas for justice. In a court rife with nobles as weak as their chins, Fulke stood out as a warrior.
Often finding pleasure in the beds of noblewomen, he could not name one he would willingly marry. Shallow and vain, they coveted titles, along with their possessions. Once they had them, they produced heirs to send to the country, while they enjoyed an immoral life of indulgence.
Left with no choice, the solution to Fulke’s problem arrived on his doorstep in Rochester with the appearance of a member of the gentry, Sir Everard of Kenwick. A wealthy elder knight seeking to foster his young son, he traveled from the country to meet him.
Lost in the overbearing shadow of his father, Fulke felt for the lad. Older than most pages, he still agreed to train him for knighthood. When Sir Everard also happened to mention his daughter had reached marriageable age, he decided on the spot to meet her. So long as she possessed a meek temperament, he would immediately follow the king’s command before he returned to court.
Since the abrupt end to his own childhood, he desired a life of battle in service to the crown. Only in the heat of combat could he find escape from the painful memories of his past. He did not intend to allow a forced marriage to hinder his plans.
“One would think you want to be alone, Fulke.”
Without turning, Fulke let out a resigned sigh as his oldest friend rode up beside him. “To what do I owe this dubious honor, Albin?”
“I thought to cheer you a bit with my pleasing presence.”
“There is naught that would please me this day. Fall back with the men and leave me be.”
“If marriage were such a punishment, Henry would not command it of you,” Albin replied matter-of-factly.
“You believe as the rest that I am in favor with Henry? If that were so, I would not be obligated to take a wife.”
“Henry oversees your own interests, Fulke. You are a titled baron now. It is vital you produce an heir to secure your holdings.”
“I did not seek a baronage, Albin. I would never have petitioned Henry, had I known what he would force me to do.”
“Surely, you did not believe Henry would release you to join Hugues de Payens and his band of nine? I warned you of the futility of your request, before you made it. He would never agree to send you to the Royal Palace on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem.”
“The order has been charged to protect Christian pilgrims’ enroute to the Holy Land. It is a noble, just cause. Since the crusade, it has become a necessity. As a loyal subject, it should not have been denied me."
“The Templar order also happens to be a religious order, Fulke. Perhaps they seek knights of a more pious bent.”
“I missed the crusade, banned from entering a noble order, commanded to marry, and now forced to endure the company of a fool.” Spurring his horse, Fulke ignored the loud laugh behind him.
He rounded a bend to find the small village of Kenwick spread out before him. Carved from the dense woods that surrounded it, the village consisted of two rows of small thatched peasant huts, separated by a rutted dirt road running down its center.
As he reached the road, he caught a flash of red in the sun’s setting rays. Glancing towards one of the smaller huts, he spotted a petite woman with gold streaked auburn hair in the midst of a heated discussion with his newly acquired page.
Wearing a long-sleeved under dress of cream with a short-sleeved kirtle of brown wool, her plaited hair reached below her slender waist. Gesturing wildly with delicate hands, she shook her head angrily at the flushed lad.
Warin looked up with alarm as he approached.
As she followed his gaze, the brilliant blue eyes of the woman widened as they locked on his.
Fulke inhaled sharply as he felt her searching gaze reach deep within him. Exhaling only after Warin recaptured her attention by touching her sleeve.
Stunned by her delicate beauty, lust coursed through Fulke. His shaft bulged against his braies, forcing him to shift in the saddle at the sudden discomfort.
Preparing to dismount, he stopped himself when the woman abruptly pulled away from Warin.
Without so much as a cursory glance in his direction, she entered the thatched hut behind her. Staring in disbelief at the rickety door shut against him, the approach of his men drew his attention.
By their bawdy comments, it became clear he was not the only one affected by the woman. Marking the hut with his eyes, he fully intended to make a future visit to the peasant lass.
“My liege, welcome to Kendrick,” Warin called.
Gervase interrupted from behind him. “Who was the beauty you were having words with, lad?”
“My sister, Sir Gervase. She is tending an ill child” Vaulting onto his horse, he added, “She will return to the keep before long.”
In a better mood, Fulke smiled at his flustered page. “Be at ease lad. Your sister is to be commended for her noble task.”
“
Of course, my liege,” Warin replied. “With your permission, I shall ride ahead to see that all is in readiness for your visit.”
Fulke dipped his head. “We shall follow directly.”
He watched Warin ride off as he nudged his horse into motion, thinking of the jests he had endured from the men regarding his future wife. Glancing over his shoulder, he slanted a brow. “What think you now of Sir Everard’s daughter?”
Satisfied with their crestfallen expressions, he spurred his horse to a faster gait.
Amazed he felt more than a passing interest in a woman; something about Warin’s sister fascinated him. Not only beautiful, her stubborn determination to tend a child not her own showed a depth of compassion lacking in the well bred ladies of court.
He suddenly could not believe his luck. Perchance King Henry granted him a boon when he commanded him to wed, he mused. A beautiful woman to warm his bed when he wanted her might not be such a bad thing after all.
Their hopes dashed, his knights grumbled at his back.
Gervase once again spoke up, “Perchance the lad has a few more sisters secreted away, my liege.”
Fulke chuckled, “Can you not go anywhere without thinking of women?”
“What else is there to life, if not fighting, food and fine women?” He grinned at Guy beside him. “Not necessarily in that order, of course.”
“Aye,” Guy seconded. “Perhaps the mistress has a twin, my liege.”
Albin let out a frustrated sigh as Talan shook his head.
“You are both out of luck,” Fulke called over his shoulder. “Sir Everard only mentioned one daughter.”
The two knights groaned their defeat in unison.
* * * *
Closing the door to Eddiva’s small hut, Reina splayed her hands on the worn wood. Still feeling the effects of his lordship’s intense gaze, she needed a moment to compose herself.
In the midst of an argument with Warin for refusing to leave Rolfe’s side, she looked up to find the most formidable, handsome man she had ever seen, sitting astride an imposing black destrier, fifteen hands high. Frozen in place by his piercing gaze, she noticed the cleft in his chin beneath a full days beard growth. Unlike his knights who sported mustaches with pointed beards, he remained clean-shaven. The folds of his gray cloak rustled in the chill; autumn air gently caressing his powerfully built frame. Most of all, she noticed that beneath the exterior of strength he projected, there seemed to be an even greater sorrow.
Garbed in a loose outer tunic of black emblazoned with the Erlegh coat of arms, three silver shells on a field of red, his commanding presence stole her breath.
In the old fashion, he and his men wore cloaks, short outer tunics, and chainses with tight-fitting sleeves, breeches and high-leather boots. Instead of the ankle length tunics, belled chainses and striped hose currently in favor.
Envisioning the giant warrior in a flowing skirted tunic and flared chainses almost made her smile. The baron’s choice of clothing clearly marked him as an individual, something she found surprising in a nobleman.
If Warin had not recaptured her attention, she feared she would still be standing there staring at him like a besotted maid.
Pushing from the door, she crossed to the pallet beside the hearth in the center of the hut. All thoughts of the handsome baron fled as she knelt beside the small form of her ill charge. Throughout the day, Rolfe’s condition had taken a turn for the worse, his body weakened by the fever that held him in its deadly grip.
Since his mother found her in the woods, Reina had labored to cool his overheated skin. Seeing the fear in Eddiva’s eyes, she trickled water past the lad’s cracked, blistered lips. Rolfe’s father died of an illness the previous winter. She feared what it would do to Eddiva if she were to lose her only child.
She motioned for more water with composed features. When Eddiva stood to retrieve it, she closed her eyes to send up a quick prayer.
* * * *
Built of stone in the Norman fashion, Kenwick Keep sat high on a sloping hill, overlooking the village below. The large single structure, boasted watchtowers at each of its four corners. As the group approached, serfs were busy lighting torches set in iron brackets on the curtain wall surrounding it.
Warin waited beside the gate leading into the courtyard. As the men drew near, he reined his horse around to lead them to where Sir Everard waited beside Osbert at the base of the steps.
Sir Everard’s cold green eyes briefly shifted from Warin to the village beyond, before coming to rest on Fulke. “You are most welcome, your lordship.”
Dismounting, Fulke tossed the reins to a stable-hand. “Thank you, Sir Everard. We were pleased to make it before vespers.”
Attired in somber black, Sir Everard stood in silence while the rest of the men dismounted. As serfs led the horses away, he returned his gaze to Fulke. “Please follow me, your lordship.”
Walking behind the brusque elder knight, Fulke found his gaze returning to the village below. A hint of a smile touched his lips as he envisioned a proper introduction to his future bride.
Sir Everard gestured towards the hearth once they entered the Great Hall. “Warm yourself while refreshment is brought, your lordship.”
Fulke selected one of the two oak throne-like chairs set before the large hearth in the center of the hall as Sir Everard sat beside him to watch Warin lead the rest of the men to one of the two trestle tables lining the sides of the hall.
Once the men were settled, he came to stand beside his father’s chair as serfs rushed from the upper kitchen level. Laden with large platters of steaming meat, loaves of crusty bread and large foaming tankards of ale for the road weary men.
Accepting a pewter tankard of the cool brew, Fulke took a long drink. Surveying the dark hall, his eyes burned from the smoke. Rushes soiled with animal excrement covered the filthy slate beneath his feet. The offending hounds barking from the corner where they were currently chained. What little fresh air there was came from the ventilation shaft, high above the hearth. Narrow arrow slits spaced along the outer wall cast slivers of light, doing little to alleviate the gloominess. Without so much as a tapestry to keep out drafts or brighten the soot-blackened stone, the only welcoming feature the hall boasted was the fire blazing before him.
A man of few words, Sir Everard sat in silence while Warin questioned, “Is it true my liege that you fought in battle with the king?”
“Aye lad, that was some years ago.”
“I would have given much to have been there with you.”
Seeing a glimpse of himself in Warin, Fulke replied, “The church frowns upon those who covet battle, lad. I have lost many a friend in pointless skirmishes with France.”
Sir Everard shifted his cold gaze to Fulke. “You count them as pointless? Has not the king rewarded you richly for your service to the crown?”
Recalling the battlefields littered with the bloodied gore of broken, dead or dying men, Fulke frowned. “Only a just cause would warrant the death of a loyal man’s life, Sir Everard. I have yet to take part in such a battle.”
“It is a well known fact that in one of those pointless skirmishes you saved the king’s life,” he persisted.
“Leave us a moment, Warin.”
“Aye, my liege.” Sneaking a glance at his father, Warin joined the men.
“Might I speak plainly, Sir?”
“I expect nothing less,” Everard replied curtly.
“With an abundance of houses that would willingly foster the lad, I well know why you sought me out in Rochester.”
“I sought the best house to foster my only son, your lordship. You would hold that against me?”
“If that were all, no. However, it is true the king rewarded me richly with possessions coveted by most men.”
Sir Everard looked incredulous. “You do not count yourself as one of those men?”
“Accoutrements of battle are all that I find necessary.” He shrugged. “I have no need for more.”
Everard looked as if he would disagree, yet remained tight-lipped. They sat in an uncomfortable silence until a door on the second level closed, drawing Everard’s attention.
Following his host’s lead, Fulke stood impassive as two plump, dark haired women made their way down the stone steps. He assumed the one wearing a white linen veil to be the Lady Baldith, the other the lady’s younger sister; so much alike were they in appearance.
With distaste, he noted the vulgar display of gold the two women boasted on their fingers as they approached.
Spotting the women, his men grew silent.
Dropping into curtseys, Everard gestured towards the younger woman. “Your lordship, may I present the daughter I spoke to you about, Mistress Sibilla.”
Fulke choked on his surprise, before managing, “Your daughter?”
“Aye. The one I spoke to you about,” Sir Everard reminded him.
I was left with the impression you had only one daughter, sir.”
Before Sir Everard could reply, Sibilla rudely spoke up, “My father has a daughter from his dead wife, your lordship. She is beneath your noble regard.”
Rejoining the group, Warin opened his mouth to speak when a look from his father had him snapping his mouth shut to bristle in angry silence.
Unable to make sense of Sibilla’s words, Fulke fully intended to find out what she meant by them.
About to question her, Sir Everard snapped, “See to his lordship’s chamber, Sibilla.”
“Aye father.” She smiled coyly at Fulke before taking her leave.
“We shall see you at supper, your lordship.” Pushing Warin ahead of him, Sir Everard escorted his wife up the steps.
Stunned at the latest turn of events, Fulke stood staring at their backs.
* * * *
Frustrated, Fulke stubbornly remained in the Great Hall. Staring blindly into the fire’s flickering light, his thoughts were held by a pair of brilliant blue eyes.
Replaying the evening’s events, he was no closer to finding out about the beauty than when he started.
Candace C. Bowen - A Knight Series 01 Page 2
