L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  The hour was late—past midnight, he’d guess. Far too late to pay a visit to a lady. But she’d said she wanted to see him, and far be it from him to refuse a beautiful woman, he thought with a smile.

  He passed through the hall, silent but for the occasional snores and coughs of the servants sleeping there. He ran lightly up the stairs and rapped on the door to her solar.

  There was no answer. Either she’d fallen asleep while waiting for him, or she hadn’t waited for him at all, but had sought her bed straightaway.

  He eased open the door, his gaze sweeping the room. The one candle gave light enough to show that she wasn’t there.

  Taking care to be quiet, he crossed the floor and nudged open the unlatched door to her bedchamber. The only illumination came from the low-burning fire in the hearth, but he could see that the bed was empty. “Moira?” he said softly, but heard no reply.

  Where could she be? he wondered as he stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. By the saints, ′twas the middle of the night—where else should she be but in her bed?

  He crept past the sleeping servants once more and left the hall, pausing at the top of the outside stairs. The rain had stopped while he’d been in the guardhouse, and the sky had cleared in the short time he’d been in the keep itself.

  Will came out of the gatehouse and headed for the door to the barracks built against the wall opposite the keep. Connor hurried down the steps to catch up with him.

  “Milord,” Will called quietly. He stopped in the middle of the bailey and waited for Connor. “I thought you’d have retired by now.”

  Connor shook his head. “I went looking for Lady Moira, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

  “Did you look in the barracks?”

  “The barracks? What would she be doing there?”

  “Hiding from you among her new champions?” Will suggested with a cheeky grin. Connor frowned. “′Tis naught but a jest, milord,” he added. “We all know you’d never harm a woman—and I’ve no doubt the lady knows it, as well.”

  He’d just as soon ignore that topic altogether. Connor rubbed at his right shoulder, where a dull throbbing had settled, and grimaced when the motion jarred his injured arm. “Why would she be in the barracks?”

  “She and the old woman, Brigit, went there to care for the wounded, soon after she left the gatehouse. Though no one was hurt bad, perhaps she’s still there.” Will nodded toward Connor’s arm, wrapped about with a scrap of his surcoat. “Looks to me like you could use a bit of her help—if she’s forgiven you for shouting at her,” he added with a laugh. “Otherwise, I don’t believe I’d want her sticking a needle into me.”

  “She may have at me with a needle if she wishes, after the way I spoke to her,” Connor said ruefully. “Though I’d rather it happens without the audience we had earlier. I suppose I should be grateful she wasn’t armed.”

  They resumed walking, heading to the barracks. “Aye. No telling what she might be capable of if she were,” Will agreed. “According to Cedric, Lady Moira proved herself Lady Gillian’s equal tonight. ‘Commands nigh as well as our lady,’ he said.”

  “Lofty praise indeed,” Connor acknowledged, knowing how highly the men of l’Eau Clair regarded their mistress’s ability to lead.

  He mulled over Cedric’s words. “I wondered why Cedric and Jean obeyed Moira so easily, without reservation. I didn’t stop to think that they’re used to a woman giving them orders.”

  “It’s not that Gillian orders them about, as a rule,” Will said. “But they know that any command Sir Henry gives might well come from Gillian.” He stopped before the door to the barracks, eyeing Connor with a measuring gaze. “She was a fine leader, back before your brother took command of l’Eau Clair.”

  “And will be so again, when my brother must be away,” Connor said. “I found no fault with Rannulf s choice of wife, Will. Gillian is dear to me, a woman—and wife—to be proud of. My brother is a fortunate man.”

  “May you be as fortunate, milord,” Will said, his expression serious, though his eyes were bright with humor. “You very well might be, if you’ve the sense to recognize a prize when you see it.”

  Connor frowned. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded, though he believed he knew what Will meant.

  “Lord Connor, you’re not a stupid man,” Will chided.

  “Faint praise—”

  “But if you don’t take advantage of the opportunity the good Lord placed right beneath your nose, I might need to alter my opinion.” He jabbed Connor with his elbow—on his left side, saints be praised. “A comely Irishwoman, fertile—” he waggled his eyebrows “—with the courage to face down an ill-tempered, scar-faced Norman. If you’re fool enough to let her get away from you, milord, I just might have to try my luck with Lady Moira.”

  Connor found it amazing that Will had the mettle to say to his face what he knew others said behind his back. But far from being offended, he respected Will all the more for his honesty.

  That didn’t mean he intended to step aside, however. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Connor said dryly. “Besides, I’ve already asked her.”

  “Milord! You sly dog.” Will grinned. “I take it she hasn’t given you an answer yet, else we’d have heard the happy news.”

  “Let’s say I’ve yet to bring her around to my way of thinking. But I’m hopeful she’ll—” A roar of laughter sounded from inside the barracks. Connor reached for the latch. “They’re a merry lot.”

  “Been celebrating our victory, I imagine.” Will motioned for him to go ahead. “We should be in there doing the same.”

  “′Tis no place for Moira, then, if they’ve been drinking,” Connor said, a sudden urgency filling him. They were decent men, but rough. No telling how they might treat her once the ale flowed freely.

  “Sit you down here, Padrig,” Moira directed, pointing to the bench beside the one she occupied. She resisted the urge to rub her lower back, for she knew if Brigit caught her at it again, she’d nag at her to leave off stitching and bandaging the injured men, and make her return to the keep to seek her bed.

  Not that the thought didn’t hold a certain appeal … A very strong appeal, if truth be told, for her body ached with weariness. But she didn’t want to leave the barracks, not now that the men—hers and Connor’s—had joined in a bond forged in the heat of battle.

  A bond that included her, for some reason.

  Whether from the fact that she’d given a command to some of them—which they’d surprisingly obeyed—or that she’d been willing to come into the barracks to tend their hurts, they’d decided to include her in their post-battle revels. Every man had a tale to tell, some straightforward, others embellished. Especially once the ale began to flow.

  She motioned Padrig closer and smiled at something Cedric said. They’d never know how much their easy acceptance and camaraderie meant to her.

  By the rood, even Brigit had joined in their celebration once she’d determined that Moira had the better skill at stitching up cuts. She’d claimed the one crude chair in the place, accepted a foaming tankard of ale—much depleted already—and sat there smiling widely as the stories flew.

  Moira reached for the hem of Padrig’s shirt, intending to tug it up and over his head as she would a child’s, to examine his bruised ribs, but he scooted back from her and pulled the shirt down about his waist, clutching the worn linen in both hands.

  “Lad, are you daft?” one of the men asked, his voice loud and slurred with ale. “Never refuse a lass when she wants to help ye take off yer clothes.” He grunted when the man next to him gave him a poke in the gut. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady.”

  A roar of laughter greeted his comment, and Padrig’s face went from milk-pale to cherry-red in an instant.

  Before she could try to ease his humiliation, the door flew open and Connor stepped inside, Will behind him.

  Moira placed a hand on Padrig’s shoulder—for support and to hold her balan
ce—and rose.

  She didn’t know how to interpret Connor’s expression, but to her eyes, he didn’t appear best pleased. Don’t let him spoil this for them, she prayed.

  He glanced about the crowded room, his gaze lingering the barest moment on Brigit, then on Moira, before he grinned and turned to Will. “Why weren’t we invited here sooner?” he asked. “Do you think they feared we’d guzzle all their ale?”

  The men roared at that, as enthusiastically as they had earlier, and the man tending the ale keg held out brimming mugs to Connor and Will.

  Relief took the strength from Moira’s knees and she dropped down onto the bench. “Are you all right, milady?” Padrig asked, concern replacing embarrassment on his face. “Do you need Brigit?”

  She peered over at the maid, slumped back in the chair, her wrinkled cheeks pink, her veil askew, and shook her head. “Nay—and ′tis a blessing I don’t, for I doubt she’s able to stand, let alone do much else.” Meeting Padrig’s eyes, she added, “I believe she’s been drinking something stronger than ale. How shall we get her back to the keep?”

  He gave a mischievous smile. “Mayhap Lord Connor will carry her to her bed.”

  “You honor me, lad, but you greatly overstate my strength,” Connor said from behind Padrig. He stepped over the bench and sat down facing Moira, giving her a nod of greeting.

  Despite her boldness earlier—or perhaps because of it—she felt shy of him. But it would not do to let it show, lest she destroy any progress she’d made in keeping the weak and tearful Moira hidden away. So she met his dark, intent gaze. “Have you finally come to let me tend your injury, milord?”

  “Later, perhaps,” he said. He turned to Padrig. “How fare you, lad? You took no serious hurt tonight?”

  “Nay, milord, I’m fine.” Padrig looked at her as he said it, as though daring her to refute his claim.

  What to do? she wondered, holding Padrig’s pleading gaze. She dared not send him off without seeing to his ribs, yet she knew he didn’t wish to appear weak before his master. “He’s a tough fellow, milord, for he took little hurt, save for someone thumping him smartly in the ribs.”

  Though Connor’s expression remained serious, she saw a spark in his eyes that told her he knew precisely what she was about. “Excellent, Padrig!” For a moment, she thought Connor meant to give his squire a congratulatory slap on the back, but he merely clasped Padrig’s shoulder briefly. “Has Lady Moira finished with you, then?”

  Before Padrig could make some excuse and escape, Moira held up a long strip of linen. “I was just about to begin, milord.” She met the squire’s resigned look with a faint smile. “Will you indulge my motherly concern, Padrig, and let me wrap your ribs? I know ′tis naught but a woman’s foolishness, but I’ll worry that you’ll end up with a rib stuck through your lungs by morning if I don’t bind them up. Just for tonight,” she added.

  “Excellent advice,” Connor said. “You cannot be too careful.” He stood. “We all must heal quickly, to be ready to fight again if necessary.”

  “Aye, milord, milady,” Padrig said. He tugged his shirt up over his head and emerged with his brown hair sticking out in every direction. “Do what you must,” he told Moira, his voice and face resigned.

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” Connor said, turning away. He took two steps, paused and glanced back at her. “Are you nearly through here?”

  “Aye.” She placed the end of the linen beneath Padrig’s arm and nudged him to his feet. “This is my last patient.” She reached around his slender middle and pulled the wrap tight. “Except for you, milord,” she added, loudly enough to mask the squire’s grunt of discomfort.

  Connor nodded, took a swallow of ale. “I’ll escort you back once you’ve finished here. Padrig can help me get this off—” he indicated his hauberk “—before he seeks his pallet.”

  Padrig shifted on his feet until Moira gave another tug on the bindings wrapped about him. “But what will you do with Brigit, milord?”

  Brigit, Moira noted without surprise, had nodded off where she sat, her head tilted back, a gentle snore emanating from her open mouth. “I’d suggest you leave her here, milord.” She chuckled. “But the men might not get much rest if you do. Once she’s had a bit of ale, she can snore fit to wake the dead.”

  “Are you certain you want her in the keep?” Connor asked. “She sleeps in your chamber, doesn’t she?”

  Moira nodded, resigning herself to a restless night.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. Two of the burliest men-at-arms will carry her over when you’re ready to go. I’ll find a place for her where she won’t disturb you.”

  Something about his voice, the promise in his smile, made a shiver of … something unrecognizable tremble along her spine.

  Whatever the sensation was, it made her breath catch, her heart race, her skin feel more sensitive. The brush of Connor’s gaze over her felt as solid and real as the touch of his hand might.

  Her weariness seemed to melt away. Sitting up straight on the bench, she met his smile with a tentative one of her own.

  His smile deepened. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Connor and Moira followed along as their motley troop returned to the keep. Two men supported Brigit, her bulk slumped between them. Padrig carried Moira’s basket of bandages and Connor the wooden box of simples. Moira, her mind still distracted by Connor, let him lead her through the silent, torchlit bailey, a supportive hand beneath her elbow.

  Somehow they stole through the hall full of servants without waking anyone. Once they reached the top of the stairs, however, they paused in the dimly lit corridor to decide where to put Brigit.

  “There’s that empty room at the end of the hall,” Connor suggested.

  “The bed’s not made up,” Moira told him, a shudder passing through her at the mere thought of going in there.

  “She sleeps on a pallet anyway,” Connor pointed out. “′Tis the easiest solution. The room has a door stout enough to quiet her snores, yet she’ll be close if you should need her.”

  He took the basket from Padrig and strode to Moira’s solar. He returned carrying a lighted candle in one hand and Brigit’s pallet rolled up under his other arm.

  While Moira stood watching from the corridor—feeling a fool for refusing to enter the room, but still not willing to do so—Connor and the others settled Brigit for the night.

  Once he’d sent the two soldiers back to the barracks, he turned to his squire. “Make up the fire for Lady Moira.”

  Padrig nodded, his eyes drooping with fatigue, and headed into Moira’s bedchamber.

  Connor took her by the arm, his touch making her senses spring to life once again. “Solar or bedchamber?” he asked. His eyes met hers, searching them for something.

  She took a step toward her solar, but realized there was no water there to wash away the blood from his wound. But the pitcher in her chamber should be nearly full … Did she want Connor in her chamber now? ′Twas past midnight …

  Padrig returned and bowed. “Go to bed, lad,” Connor told him. “Don’t bother waiting for me.” The squire nodded and crept past them to the stairs.

  Moira tugged free of Connor’s hold. “Come into my room. I’ll see to your arm there.”

  Not waiting for a reply, she entered the solar and lit a candle from the banked fire, then went into the next room and lit the two branches of candles there.

  The metal ewer held water—cold now, but not unbearably so. Still, she placed it on the hearth and knelt to feed more fuel to the growing blaze.

  The door from the corridor opened and Connor slipped into the room. “Let me do that.” He carried a pitcher—from his chamber?—which he set on the table beside the bed.

  “I need no help to lay peat upon the fire,” she said tartly. “I’m not some helpless idiot! I know I’ve not done much to prove otherwise since you came here, but I’m usually competent enough to get by without a keeper.�
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  “Nonetheless, you need not do everything yourself,” he chided. He joined her by the hearth, reaching down and clasping her about the shoulders.

  Even with his support, it seemed a formidable task to stand. She wavered on her feet, and Connor wrapped her in his arms.

  It felt so good, with his warmth and strength surrounding her, that Moira knew she must break away from him at once. But he refused to release her, instead cradling her to his chest. “Don’t run away,” he whispered into her hair. “Rest here a moment, till you’ve caught your balance.”

  “That’s not likely to happen if I remain where I am,” she said, too tired to hide her regret.

  He drew back to look at her. “What do you mean?” he asked, watching her with a hawk’s all-seeing stare. “I wish only to keep you from harm, Moira, nothing more than that.” He smoothed her hair away from her face, his fingers caressing her cheek. “For tonight, at any rate.”

  She remained in his arms for a time, savoring the closeness and giving silent thanks that he’d returned from battle relatively unharmed. But the rough weave of his hauberk against her face, felt even through the light padding of his surcoat, reminded her that he had yet to remove the signs of combat from himself.

  Easing away, she raised her hand to cup his whiskery cheek. “Come, ′tis late, past time to take care of you.”

  She retrieved the pitcher he’d brought, setting it on the hearth with the other one. When she turned back to him, he’d unbuckled his sword belt and hung it over the back of the chair. Moving gingerly, he tugged at his surcoat, trying to pull it up over his head one-handed. “Here, let me,” she offered.

  Together they drew it off. He yawned as he emerged from the garment, and she urged him toward the chair. She folded the surcoat and set it on the chest at the foot of the bed, then gave a cry of dismay when she saw him still standing there, trying to remove his hauberk by himself. “Should I wake Padrig?”

  “There’s no need.” He untied the material bound round his upper arm and handed it to her. Then, leaning forward from the waist, he let the heavy mail tunic slide down over his head to land in a pile at his feet. “I never had a squire till I left for Ireland,” he said, picking up the hauberk and setting it by the door. “You see, I’m self-sufficient as well,” he added with a tired laugh. “I’m used to managing on my own.”