Rosamunde shrugged, her gaze sliding to Tynan. A beguiling color touched her cheeks, then she met Alexander’s gaze again. “I grow no younger, Alexander, and the risk of the seas holds less allure than once it did. Perhaps I shall become a nun.”
Both men laughed uproariously at this prospect, and Rosamunde chuckled in her turn.
“We are agreed that the family trade will finally halt,” she continued more soberly. “And also that the last of the relics must leave Ravensmuir to ensure Tynan has his peace.”
“But what will you do with them?” Alexander asked. “Surely you do not mean to grant them as gifts?”
Tynan chuckled darkly. “I would be a generous donor indeed.”
“We intend to auction them, in the midst of May, when all are anxious for a diversion,” Rosamunde declared, her eyes bright. “We will invite noblemen, bishops and knights from all of Christendom to bid against each other for these prizes. It will be a grand fête and a fitting end to my trade.”
“Madeline might find a spouse there,” Alexander mused, but his aunt laughed aloud.
“Be more bold than that, Alexander!” she declared. “You sound like a man three times your age.”
“Rosamunde,” Tynan warned again, but was heeded no more closely than the first time.
Indeed, Rosamunde’s voice dropped low and she tapped a finger upon Alexander’s knee. Mischief emanated from her every pore. “Perhaps, Alexander, you should auction the Jewel of Kinfairlie. You said you were in need of coin.”
Alexander glanced between the pair of them. Tynan had dropped his brow to his hand and shook his head in apparent despair. Rosamunde looked so delighted with herself that Alexander knew he had missed some critical detail.
“But there is no Jewel of Kinfairlie,” he began cautiously. Rosamunde laughed and understanding dawned. “Oh! But Madeline would loathe me forever if I auctioned her hand!”
“Shhhh!” counseled Rosamunde. Tynan, with obvious resignation, closed the portal and leaned against it.
Alexander looked between the pair of them, his blood quickening at the prospect. Oh, he could well imagine how infuriated Madeline would be—and truly the prospect gave him some pleasure. “I should not dare,” he said carefully.
Rosamunde laughed. “There was a time when you would have dared far more than this to best Madeline.” She braced her elbows upon her knees. “Do not tell me that I have to dare you to do this deed? Alexander, what has become of you? Surely the ruffian we knew and loved is yet within your heart?”
And that was all it took.
Alexander raised a finger. “We will do this upon one condition. I will compile a list of those I deem suitable matches, and only those men will be advised that the Jewel of Kinfairlie is for sale.”
“There is nothing amiss with a private auction, provided all those invited have weighty purses,” Rosamunde conceded.
“I cannot believe that I am a part of this foolery,” Tynan grumbled.
“Of course you are a part of it,” Rosamunde said crisply. “It is you who must pass the word along.” She patted his arm and a spark danced between the two of them, one so hot that Alexander felt obliged to glance away. “Who better to quietly and competently ensure that our niece’s needs are met?”
A ghost of a smile touched Tynan’s lips. “I came also with a proposition for you, Alexander, and one you may find timely. It is fitting for an uncle to train his nephews for knighthood. If you are desirous of it, I will take your brother Malcolm to Ravensmuir, for he is old enough to be so groomed.”
“You are too kind, Uncle. And I know that Malcolm would welcome this trust. He has great fondness for you and is most anxious to begin his military training.”
“And should you desire it,” Tynan continued. “I could send word to the Hawk of Inverfyre. I do not doubt that he would take Ross beneath his care, and train him. It might be a good scheme, for the Hawk has so many sons of his own with whom Ross could practice.”
“It would see another mouth from your board this winter,” Rosamunde said quietly.
Alexander felt his burden lighten. “You are too kind to aid me in this.”
“We are family,” Rosamunde said firmly. “It is our solemn duty to aid each other, and you have need of more aid than most in these times.”
“I thank you for your counsel and your aid,” Alexander said, knowing his gratitude showed.
“You must contrive to bring Madeline to Ravensmuir for the auction,” Rosamunde said with resolve. “For if she guesses the truth afore the nuptials are complete, there will be trouble. We must act with haste and daring to succeed.”
“Woe will come of this particular scheme,” Tynan said darkly.
Rosamunde laughed. “You always say as much. I have a feeling, though, that Madeline might well meet her match.”
“It has long been said that you see more than most,” Tynan acknowledged.
“Yet I do not see what is evident to all,” Rosamunde admitted with a laugh. “Given a choice, I am not certain which I would choose, but the choice was made for me.”
Their banter made all seem aright. For the first time in many months, Alexander felt himself begin to smile. With such a plan, much could be resolved, and truly a mischievous part of him looked forward to irking Madeline as he had for decades. He would not have been her elder brother otherwise.
“I mean to ensure that she does meet her match.” Alexander imagined Madeline’s outrage and chuckled, even as he compiled a list of suitors he knew would treat her well. Within a year, Madeline would forget about her lost betrothed James and the wound in her heart would heal. He knew with utter certainty that she would be happy once she was wed and had a babe in her belly. Within a year, Madeline would thank him mightily for his daring deed.
Truly, this was the best possible solution.
“But I have been remiss,” Alexander said with a heartiness he could not have imagined he would soon feel again. “You are my guests, yet you have neither wine nor ale in your hand. Come to the hall, come and make merry with all of us. Your presence at Kinfairlie is welcome. I thank you, Aunt and Uncle, for you have brought good tidings and welcome counsel indeed.”
Meanwhile, some miles down the coast that faces the North Sea, a warrior met with a priest. The warrior was a stranger to all at Kinfairlie and at Ravensmuir, though his quest would soon bring him to those gates. He sought another Madeline, Madeline Arundel, a Madeline who should have been twice the age of the Madeline Lammergeier we have met at Kinfairlie. Alnwyck was the keep where priest and warrior met, and this was the day that a mystery would be solved for the warrior.
Rhys FitzHenry touched a fingertip to the name inscribed in the ledger. After many months of searching, he had finally found his cousin Madeline Arundel.
She had died in the winter of 1398, some twenty-three years before.
Rhys looked out the window of the chapel, blind to the windswept shore beyond these stone walls. It rained, a steady patter upon the roof that cast silver across the sea and coast. But in Rhys’ mind’s eye, he saw his cousin on a summer’s day, daisies woven into her raven hair, her hand clasped in the firm grip of Edward Arundel. They had been young, handsome, and vigorously happy.
His uncle Dafydd had called Madeline a tribute bride, a woman exchanged in matrimony to seal a treaty between new allies, but no one would have believed that Madeline wed Edward out of duty alone. There were stars in her eyes and laughter in her voice: even those two old warriors responsible for the nuptials, Dafydd and Owain Glyn Dwr himself, had smiled at her merriment. Rhys had only been a boy, but he remembered the jubilation of that day well.
Madeline had lived a mere year after that. It was impossible to believe, though no surprise that no one had known, given the chaos that had claimed Wales in those years. Rhys' heart clenched in recollection of the couple’s laughter as they left to rejoin the knight’s family in Northumberland.
One year they had savored together. It seemed far too little for the h
appiness they had found.
“God bless her soul,” the priest murmured and Rhys echoed the blessing.
He was disappointed, he realized, though logically he should not have been. Though he remembered Madeline only vaguely, though she alone could have thwarted his ambitions, he wished his search might have ended differently.
It would not have been all bad to have found some kin left breathing in these sorry times. The rebellion in Wales against the English crown had plucked the ripest fruit from their family tree, and there were precious few of the multitudes of Rhys’ childhood left living.
With Madeline deceased, he would possess Caerwyn himself. Rhys closed his eyes for a moment, the vigor of his desire weakening his knees. He had grown up at Caerwyn, he had learned to wield a blade there, he had joined the ranks to defend her walls when he had been yet a youth. He loved that keep more than life itself, he had dreamed of possessing her, he had despaired that such fortune could ever come to him.
But against all odds, Caerwyn would be his.
Rhys gave Madeline’s name a last caress of farewell, then noted a word he had not seen before.
“In childbirth?” he asked of the priest, fear stirring within him. “Madeline died in childbirth?”
The priest nodded. “I am sorry, my son, but it is not uncommon for women to be lost this way. It was said that her husband, Edward, was devoted to her, and I have no doubt that he procured the services of the best midwife...”
“But what happened to the child?” Rhys dreaded that his search was but partly completed. The child would be a direct descendant of Dafydd. The child could inherit Caerwyn in Rhys’ stead.
He must know the whereabouts of the child!
The priest smiled. “You have uncommon charity for a mere cousin, my son. How kind of you to have a care for your kinswoman’s child.”
Rhys spoke through gritted teeth. “What happened to the child?”
“Perhaps it died as well.” The priest shrugged. “Perhaps the father raised it alone, or wed again.”
“I must know the truth of it!” Rhys shouted and the priest flinched at his vigor. He was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Father, but the matter is of utmost importance to me.” Rhys swallowed. “This child would be the last living soul of my kin.”
“Of course, of course. Your devotion is most admirable, my son.” The priest ran a fingertip down the ledger and frowned. “No other death is recorded here in that year. I cannot imagine that the babe would have died unshriven if the priest recorded the mother’s demise. There is no mention of a christening, but my predecessor was not always complete in his records. No child was returned to Lady Madeline’s kin?”
“Nay.” Rhys was certain of it.
“How curious. Perhaps it remained here, with the father...” The priest mused as he unfurled the scroll, and Rhys barely restrained himself from snatching the vellum from the old priest’s hands.
“Ah!” The priest granted Rhys a smile. “There is a note here in 1403 that might be of interest. Lady Catherine of Kinfairlie attended the funeral mass for the knight Edward Arundel, who died in battle with Henry Percy.” The priest glanced up. “It is writ that the old Earl of Northumberland wept a thousand tears for the untimely demise of his son and heir, Henry Hotspur.”
“So it is told in the tales I know, as well.”
“But the account states that this Lady Catherine then took the babe of Edward to be her ward, the child’s blood parents both being deceased.” He nodded. “One would assume that the two ladies had been friends, for Lady Catherine to take on Lady Madeline’s young child.” He removed his spectacles and considered Rhys. “Perhaps your kin can be found at Kinfairlie, my son.”
“Perhaps so.” Rhys donned his gloves, knowing his quest was not yet complete. “Where lies this Kinfairlie, Father?”
Chapter One
The auction of Ravensmuir’s relics promised to be the event of the decade. Madeline and her sisters had spent the short interval between the announcement and the event ensuring that they would look their best. Uncle Tynan had declared it imperative that they appear to not need the coin, and his nieces did their best to comply.
It was beyond convenient that they could pass kirtles from one to the next, though inevitably there were alterations to be made. They might be sisters, but they were scarcely of the same shape! Hems had to be taken up or let down, seams to be gathered tighter or let out, and bits of embroidery were required to make each garment “new” for its latest recipient.
There were disagreements invariably between each one and her younger sibling, for their taste in ornamentation varied enormously. Madeline preferred her garments plain, while Vivienne savored lavish embroidery upon the hems, preferably of golden thread. These two did not argue any longer—though once they had done so heatedly, for Madeline sorely disliked to embroider and had been convinced as a young girl that it was unfair for her to endure a hateful task simply to please her sister.
Now, they bent their heads together to make Madeline’s discarded kirtles better suit Vivienne, while Vivienne’s quick needle made short work of any new garb destined for Madeline. Vivienne was also taller than Madeline, even though she was younger, so the hems had to be let out.
Annelise was shorter even than Madeline, so those hems had to be double-folded when a kirtle passed to her. This often meant that the finest embroidery was hidden from view, though this suited Annelise’s more austere taste. Isabella, sadly, was nigh as tall as Vivienne, but could not abide golden embroidery. Her hair was the brightest hue of red of all the sisters and she was convinced that the gold of the thread made her hair appear unattractively fiery. When kirtles passed to her, the sisters would couch the gold with silver and other hues, and the kirtles would be resplendent indeed.
Finally, Elizabeth had the last wearing of each kirtle. This had never been an issue, for she seemed wrought to match the height of Isabella perfectly and was not overly particular of taste. Elizabeth was a girl inclined to dreaming, and was oft teased that she gave more merit to what she could not see than what was directly before her.
But there was a new challenge this year, for Elizabeth was twelve summers of age and her courses had begun. With her courses, her figure had changed radically. Suddenly, she had a much more generous bust than her elder sisters—which meant that she turned crimson when any male so much as glanced her way, as well as that Isabella’s kirtles did not begin to fit her. There proved to be insufficient fabric even with the laces let out fully to grant Elizabeth an appearance of grace.
Tears ensued, until Madeline and Vivienne contrived an embroidered panel that could be added down each side of the kirtles in question. Isabella, who was the most clever with a needle, embroidered patterns along their length that so matched the embroidery already on the hem that the panel appeared to have been a part of the kirtle all along.
Shoes and stockings and girdles took their own time to be arranged, but by the time the sisters arrived at Ravensmuir and were summoned to the chamber of the auction, no one could have faulted their splendor. They had even wrought new tabards for their brothers, Alexander’s bearing the glowing orb of Kinfairlie’s crest on its front, as was now his right.
So they rode beneath the gates of Ravensmuir, attired in their finest garb. A rider came fast behind them, a single man upon a dappled destrier. He was darkly garbed and his hood was drawn over his helm. Madeline noted him, because he rode a knight’s horse but had no squire. He did not appear to be as rough as a mercenary.
Oddly, Rosamunde answered some summons sent by him into the hall. She cried a greeting to this mysterious arrival, then leaned close to hear whatsoever he murmured. Madeline was curious, for she could not imagine what messenger would seek her aunt here, no less what manner of messenger would ride a destrier instead of a horse more fleet of foot. He had but a dog as companion.
“The colors of Kinfairlie suit you well,” Vivienne said, giving Alexander’s tabard an affectionate tug.
�
��This work is a marvel!” Alexander declared, sparing his sisters a bright smile. “You all spoil me overmuch, by sharing the labors of your needles.” He kissed each of them on both cheeks, behaving more like an elderly gentleman than the rogue they knew and loved. His fulsome manner left the sisters discomfited and suspicious.
“You were not so thrilled at Kinfairlie, when we granted it to you,” Vivienne noted.
“But here there are many to appreciate the rare skills of my beauteous sisters.”
Years of pranks played by this very brother made all five sisters look over their shoulders.
“I thought you would tickle us,” Elizabeth complained.
“Or make faces,” Isabella added.
“Or tell us that we had erred in some detail of the insignia,” Annelise contributed.
“To grant compliments are most unlike you,” Vivienne concluded.
Alexander smiled like an angel. “How could I complain when you have been so blessedly kind?” The sisters stepped back as one, all of them prepared for the worst.
“Do not trust him,” Madeline counseled, the two elder sisters sharing a nod.
“Alexander is only so merry at the expense of another,” Vivienne agreed.
“Me?” Alexander asked, all false innocence and charm.
“Well, at least you are not garbed like a duchess,” Malcolm complained. He gestured to the embroidery on his tabard. “This is too lavish for a man training to be a knight.”
“At least you do have not to wear this horrendous green,” Ross said. shaking his own tabard. “I would not venture to name this hue.”
“It matches your eyes, fool,” Annelise informed him archly.
“We spent days choosing the perfect cloth,” Isabella added.
“I surrendered this length of wool for you, Ross,” Vivienne said. “And I will not take kindly to any suggestion now that it would make a finer kirtle than a tabard.”
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 84
