by Hall, Diana
“He’s much better, thank you, Lord Ranulf.” She chewed the tender morsel. One of the many pages scampered over to fill the agate wine cup. The tip of his tongue showed while he poured the red liquid into the heavy cup.
Lord Ranulf waited with patience for the lad to finish his task. “I suppose ‘twas the heavy rains that delayed you. ‘Tis a shame you missed what competition there was. The rains canceled much of the tourney, also.”
“The roads were nearly impassable, but my aunt was determined to come.” She watched the page and felt the lad’s nervousness.
With trained grace, the page returned the goblet without a spot on the white linen tablecloth. He let out a loud sigh of relief. She gave the boy an understanding smile. ‘Twas not easy to be at everyone’s beck and call. An opportunity to gain information on her adversary came to her. “I have heard that much of what victories there were belong to Sir Roen de Galliard. Is he here?” She flashed the elderly knight a brilliant smile.
“I’m sure he is.” The gray-haired man scanned the crowd, then smiled. “The knight approaches Henry now. He’s a hard man to miss.”
She turned toward the high table and knew instantly who Lord Ranulf spoke of. Roen de Galliard towered over the king and the rest of the men in the room. The modest cut of his tunic did nothing to hide the man’s brutal strength and power. Lenora wondered at the aura of self-assurance the man radiated.
Broad shoulders filled the back of the chair he sat in while he conversed with the king. Worn long and in the old Saxon style, his mane of hair flowed to just past his shoulders. The flaxen hair hid much of the man’s face.
She concentrated on deciphering what she could from his half-hidden features. His sharp profile showed rugged lines and dark color. Battle scars, white with age, gave him a fierce look but did not mar him in disfigurement. No emotion humanized his face. Like a marble statue, he sat on the dais. He seemed to dismiss the crowd of people with a bored disregard, as though they were not important enough to consider.
A sudden movement and he turned to face her intruding gaze. Eyes the color of thunderclouds pierced her own. Humiliated, Lenora broke contact, not sure if he had truly seen her or if her guilt made her self-conscious. Unwelcomed warmth burned her cheeks.
“Lady Lenora?” Lord Ranulf wrinkled his brow in concern. “You look ill.”
“Nay, I am fine.” A quick gulp of wine calmed her. She prodded the man to speak to give her a chance to recover from her embarrassment. “Pray, tell me of your daughter. I have not seen her here.”
“Expecting again. The girl has given me three strapping grandsons. I think this time she and her husband wish for a daughter to spoil.”
The gregarious elder recited story after story of his eldest grandson’s strengths and wits throughout the meal. She nodded at the right moments and made the correct oohs and aahs but listened only halfheartedly. Every long tale gave her the opportunity to reconstruct her composure.
Fortified at last, Lenora hid behind heavy lidded eyes and spied on the dais table. The king sat with his advisers and the Lord of Tintagel, but the knight had disappeared. She probed the hall for his whereabouts and spotted him with no trouble. He stood near the back of the hall with a dark-haired man. At first she thought ‘twas Geoffrey he spoke to, but the smaller man carried himself differently, his stance more lighthearted than her friend’s serious one.
Lord Ranulf’s tales continued to roll from his tongue. The abundance of wine the man had drunk probably explained his exceptionally good memory. A horn blasted from the balcony above. At last, the end of the meal; time to break away from her talkative companion. “Lord Ranulf, thank you so much for the delightful entertainment. You must come and see us soon.”
“Oh, aye, I will.” The man reached for the wine cup and slurped the last few drops. “But let me finish my story. Charles, that’s the oldest boy, he grabbed the horse’s tail and—”
Lenora shot to her feet; friendship could demand only so much. “As much as I would love to hear the tale of the tail, I must speak to King Henry. Father wishes me to extend his sorrow at not being able to attend.”
“Of course, of course. I will see you later and finish the story. That boy is a rascal.” Lord Ranulf raised his hand in salute and turned to the man seated across the table from him. “Darius, my friend. Come let us share a cup of wine. Have you heard of the prank my grandson pulled?”
Lenora whistled under her breath at her escape and took off to scan for her relatives. Luck came her way; they stood not far from her. A woman in a garish blob of color flittered near them. Lady Marguerite. Thank heaven for such a stroke of luck.
Rushing to her aunt’s side, she whipped her arm through Matilda’s and swung her around. “Aunt Matilda, may I introduce you to one of Queen Eleanor’s favorite ladies-in-waiting. Lady Marguerite, this is my aunt, Lady Matilda.”
With a slingshot motion, she propelled her aunt forward and pushed the two ladies together. “I know you have much to discuss. Lady Matilda was at Stephen’s court, you know.”
The two dowagers sized each other up. Curiosity won. Each dropped a snippet of gossip, then their heads drew together and the real news began. Her plan was working.
She backed away with Beatrice behind her. After she cleared the eagle eyes of Matilda, a giggle burst from her lips. “Step one, accomplished. Hurry and find Geoffrey. I’ll take care of Galliard.”
For the first time all day, her cousin’s face glowed with hope. “Perhaps this will work.”
“You had doubts?”
“Your plans don’t always work. Remember when you tried to-”
“Don’t think failure, think victory.” A gentle push toward the window displayed her urgency. “Now hurry off. Stay in the garden as long as you can and watch for your mother.”
Beatrice merged with the crowd and met Geoffrey near the window. He leaned to whisper in her cousin’s ear, his brown curls merging with the blond ones.
“Step two, taken care of.” The blond giant of a knight came into view and she slapped her thighs. The crunch of paper reminded her of another mission. She struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “I’ve got to deliver Father’s letter.”
King Henry rose from the high table when she scurried to his side. Breathless, she pulled the wrinkled sealed missive from her pocket. “Your Majesty, my father wishes me to extend his regrets at not being able to fulfill his obligation of counsel due to his health. He hopes this will aid you in your decision on the property dispute between Sir Ranulf and Sir Champlain.”
“’Tis with sorrow I heard of my hunting companion’s malaise. He will improve, I’m sure,” Henry stated good-naturedly. “We’ve planned a hunting adventure this spring. I want to try out my new falcon against your father’s Swiftkill.” Henry’s bright eyes shone with warmth.
He opened the letter and browsed its contents. The king’s brows knit together. “When did your father give you this?”
“Shortly after your invitation reached us.”
“Did anyone else see this message or know you were to deliver it to me?”
“Nay, Your Majesty. We, uh, Father felt ‘twould be less of a commotion if my aunt knew nothing of it. Is something wrong?” Lenora queried.
“Your father has given me something to ponder. Don’t worry, dear, nothing to concern yourself with. Go, enjoy the entertainment.” He brushed her off and retreated from the room, the letter still in his beefy hands.
Step three, accomplished.
Now for Galliard. She surveyed the crowd for the knight. Young girls in brilliant gowns glided about, casting flirtatious glances at wealthy lords. Laughter boomed from a group of war-hardened knights as they recounted old battles. Lenora took a deep breath and began her search for Roen de Galliard, not quite certain of her battle plan but determined to protect her cousin’s happiness.
Chapter Three
“Hamlin, take your pick. They are all the same to me.” Roen turned his back on the assembly of possible bri
des. “Only make sure you choose one with a prosperous demesne and a proper attitude.”
“How am I to know that? ‘Tis battle we’ve spent our time in, not tallying up what riches belong to what lord,” Hamlin replied, irritated. “I’m afraid this is going to be more difficult than I thought.” He stroked his chin while Roen gave him a cynical smile.
The great hall of Tintagel blossomed with the beauty of English ladies. Overadorned children, displayed like trinkets by their mothers, danced by him. The sight nauseated him. Roen would rather have his fee paid in gold, but the chance to own land compelled him. A lord with no other feudal obligation except to the king was a prize few obtained. However distasteful, marriage enabled him to become landed.
“I suppose we could ask someone,” Hamlin ventured.
“If a decent heiress is in the room, a man with good sense would not proclaim it to us but use the information to better his own lot,” Roen said, rebuffing his friend. The two men simultaneously dropped down onto a half-log bench.
“I’m better prepared for battle than I am to search for you a wife. I say let’s just look for a pretty one,” Hamlin suggested with a shrug.
“Perhaps I can help you with this dilemma.” A feminine voice intruded on their conversation.
Roen did not stand but turned his head to view the speaker. His tone sarcastic, he asked, “In what way could you be of any help to me?” He purposely conveyed his contempt and gave the wench a look meant to dissolve her audacity.
She almost turned away, but didn’t. Her eyes changed to a shade of brown that tantalized him. They reminded him of something familiar, yet it eluded him. His inability to stamp a name on their color needled him. It did nothing to improve his impression of her.
The woman did not lower her eyes from his scrutiny. He saw her back pull up straighter. The pointed chin tilted up like a defiant child. Her eyes blazed, her voice strained to rein in her anger. “I know most, if not all, of the women present and the worth of their landholdings. I’ll give you information on any women you choose.”
Roen snorted with indignation. “I should trust you? How do I know you won’t lie to further your own cause?”
“How would being untruthful aid me in acquiring your warhorse?” The woman scrunched her brows together, perplexed.
“You want Destrier!” Roen felt an almost uncontrollable urge to shake the wench senseless. “No woman is worth that horse.”
“Destrier? You named that magnificent animal Destrier? I suppose your dog is called Dog.” The woman’s voice held back none of her scorn.
Roen opened his mouth to speak, but the truth of her words muted him. What did it matter what he called his hound?
“I don’t want to keep the animal, just use him for stud service on some of my father’s mares at Woodshadow.”
At the mention of the keep, Roen’s interest peaked. “Woodshadow, you say. Does not the king have a palfrey from your stable?”
“Aye, that he does, a gift from my father.” Pride marked her words. “A steed from Woodshadow is much desired. Your mount, Destrier—” the woman rolled her eyes “—would be no worse from the wear.”
“Perhaps she could help us at that,” Hamlin noted.
Not willing to concede yet, Roen sneered. “An idiot could tell that Destrier is an unsurpassable mount. That she recognizes the fact hardly merits us trusting her judgment. How do we know she doesn’t wish to marry me herself?”
The words were no sooner uttered than Roen knew exactly what her eyes reminded him of—molten gold. He had seen a man in the Holy Lands melt down the precious metal to form items for the church. The woman’s eyes reminded him of hot gold, rich in color, scalding in temperature. Her eyes seared his with their intensity.
“I can think of no greater purgatory than to be your wife. For a number of reasons, most of them dealing with you.” She blasted out her words in a fiery voice. Nearby, heads turned toward them. The woman lowered her voice and gritted her teeth. She turned from him to face Hamlin, who looked both shocked and amused.
“Pray, knight, you seem to have a sensible nature,” she began placatingly. “Kindly tell your friend that not all women seek the confinement of marriage. Some wish time to study and learn. I am one such woman. Marriage is not what I seek for myself.” She smiled, and the embers of anger in her eyes began to fade. “Besides, I’ll be honest.” Her smile twisted into a mischievous grin. “I am cursed with three faults which make marriage not an option for me.”
Cursed! Her smile kindled a twinge of arousal but he quickly doused it. She seemed too intelligent to believe in superstition. Roen started to terminate the conversation with her but her eyes held him. They no longer burned, but had mellowed to the shade of warm cider. A half-hidden smile twitched at her full lips. She dared to tease him!
“Only three? You do yourself service, woman.” Roen arched his brow cynically.
The smile became more animated. “Aye, only three, but as far as men are concerned, major ones. The first is plain to see, I am no beauty.”
His gaze raked down the length of her body. She stood almost to his shoulder, and he savored the length of time it took to explore her body. With caged patience, she waited while he noted her generous mouth and elflike chin. He let his gaze linger on the mature breasts. The unpretentious gown hugged at the gentle swell of her hips. Dark braids hung between the valley of her breasts. Wisps of curls escaped the confines of the butter-colored ribbons of her plaits.
Roen studied the wavy mass of hair. At first it appeared dark brown, but as the sunlight filtered through the window, it highlighted the copper tresses. He smiled despite himself when, once more, the maverick lock of hair escaped from behind her ear and she replaced it yet again.
Aye, no English beauty: she was too dark and her features too irregular. Yet, she intrigued him, especially her eyes. Never had he seen eyes the color of gold, or ones that expressed so much of the person’s inner self. Now those eyes stayed on him. Surprised, Roen realized she was evaluating him.
Humph! Roen admitted to himself. The chit has backbone. A mere look does not send her off in tears. Finally, when he saw she would stand her ground, he answered, “I concede, and the other faults?”
The wench relaxed: he could see the tension leave her body. A grudging look of admiration tinted her eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve already had a taste of the other two. I’m exceptionally intelligent, and not afraid to let others know it. Lastly, I have a bit of a temper.” She held her fingers apart slightly to demonstrate how small a “bit.”
Hamlin bubbled with laughter, while Roen quirked his mouth into a reluctant smile. “I can readily see how those three particular faults might make it hard to find a husband, Lady…” Hamlin paused. “You know our names but yours remains a mystery.”
“I am Lenora de Marchavel of Woodshadow. My father is Sir Edmund. Now, do we have a bargain?”
Roen racked his memory for information on Sir Edmund. The king spoke of him often and considered the man a loyal friend. From what he had heard, the girl’s father was a man of honor and integrity. Would the same hold true for the daughter? Still reluctant to enter an agreement with a woman, Roen assessed his alternatives.
“You drive a hard bargain.” Lenora’s eyes gleamed. “I will give you the choice of one foal your animal sires. The foal will be worth a hefty bag of gold, not to mention the prestige of owning a Woodshadow mount.”
“Agreed. You will tell me truthfully of any woman I choose. In return, Destrier is yours for a month.” Roen knew he had the better deal, yet Lenora’s eyes troubled him. Instead of defeat, her warm spice-colored eyes shone with victory. Roen nodded toward the ladies milling about in the great chamber. “Pick one and tell me what you can.”
“Roen, there is no use wasting Lady Lenora’s time on all of these women.” Hamlin gave Lenora a crooked smile and pointed toward the crowd. “How about that one in the yellow gown? The one seated at the feet of the rather large dowager.”
“La
dy Daphne. She is two years my junior. Her father is Sir George Champlain. He lays claim to much land, though ‘tis spread widely and difficult to oversee.”
“The condition of her inheritance?” Roen asked impatiently. He barely registered the presence of the flaxen-haired young girl.
“Well, she stands to inherit a sizable fief on the birth of her first child. In fact, that property is the major income for Sir Champlain.” Lenora bit her upper lip, the edges of her mouth upturned in an engaging grin.
Roen eyed his informant carefully. A faint light danced through her eyes. She held something back. “The rest,” he demanded.
An impish smile slid across her lips. “The only thing I could add is the fact that she is thrice widowed.”
“Three husbands!” Hamlin jumped up and peered at the innocent-looking beauty across the room. Daphne, her eyes downcast, continued to listen to the never-ending complaints of the older woman. “What happened to them?” Hamlin asked in a hushed voice.
“The usual—hunting accident, illness, thrown from a horse—things like that,” Lenora replied matter-of-factly.
“Why so many husbands lost to accidents?” Roen queried. He noted the intelligent sparkle in Lenora’s eyes. A ripple of admiration intrigued him, but he brushed the emotion aside.
“’Tis no secret, Daphne’s father does not wish to part with her dowry land. By allowing his daughter to marry but not to conceive, he keeps control of his best property and gains from Daphne’s inheritance as a widow.”
Roen slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. “He should be hanged. Why have you not taken this matter before King Henry?”
“Because I have no evidence. Though I nursed the poor girl through two miscarriages, I’ve no proof her father caused them or the demise of her husbands. A village woman who came to me to speak of the tea Sir Champlain forced upon his daughter prior to her miscarriages died on her return home. Daphne knows what her father and brothers are capable of, as do I. She would never live to testify against them.”
