by Hall, Diana
Roen did not remove his arm from around her waist. “Lady Lenora has graciously extended the hospitality of her home to my men and me. Since we travel the same way, I will be glad to take the lady home.” Spurring his horse, he led the group of knights through the gates of Woodshadow and into the inner bailey of her home.
Damn Roen de Galliard! Lenora swore to herself. The man had caused her nothing but trouble and embarrassment since she met him. Gawking villagers lined the hard-packed road to the castle entrance. The sight of her aunt and cousin on forebuilding steps caused her to cringe with mortification. Roen swung her down and deposited her at Matilda’s feet. Dust, from the horses, stirred whirlwinds of dirt around her. She coughed as grime coated her hair, face and clothes.
Roen gave her aunt a polite smile. “Your niece was in need of help, Lady Matilda. I was more than happy to assist her.”
“Sir Roen!” her aunt gushed, as she brushed past Lenora, pulling her skirts close to avoid soiling them on her filthy niece. “I recognize you from the tourney. We are honored to have a knight of your reputation as our guest.”
A stableboy took hold of his horse. Destner tossed his mane and twisted his head to take a bite from the lad’s arm. One of Roen’s squires scrambled from his saddle and took a tentative hold of the animal. A one-word command from his master and the horse settled. Roen dismounted and Matilda latched onto his arm. She waved to her daughter and steered the knight in the direction of the steps. Eagerness and hope rushed through the older woman’s voice. “I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Lady Beatrice.”
“Galhard! I want a word with you.”
Roen turned casually toward Lenora. She stood covered in dust, her skirt partially tucked into her belt. Her hair formed a red gold mantle; her anger caused it to sizzle around her shoulders like tongues of flame.
“Lenora, you should not delay Sir Roen,” Matilda scolded, and tried to tug Roen up the forebuilding steps.
“I don’t mind. I am sure Lady Lenora wishes to give me her thanks in private. Pray, continue on with my men. We will follow shortly.”
Lenora held her tongue until her aunt and cousin disappeared into the keep. “Things have not changed. My cousin remains off limits to you.”
Roen shook his head in amazement. Regardless of how she looked, she sounded like the mistress of the keep. He had bested the girl in front of everyone and she still dared to oppose him. Her use of his family name needled him. She remembered Hamlin or Landrick’s title with no problem. His should not be any harder to recall.
“I am Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy. You may address me as Sir Roen or Sir Galliard.”
“The way that I address you is not what I wish to discuss.”
“’Tis what I wish to discuss.”
Lenora shook her dust-caked apron, a delighted look on her face when a light cloud of dirt hovered over Roen. Her full lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “I do not wish to keep you from your admirers, Galliard.” He heard the relish in her voice at the insult. She spun around and trudged up the step to the keep.
Left in another cloud of her dust, he started after her. “And I do not wish to keep you from your much needed bath, Nora.”
Lenora stopped, her mouth moving like a fish gasping on dry land. “My name is Lenora.”
Roen skipped up the stair past her, “I don’t wish to discuss that right now. My admirers await.” His laugh rang triumphant as he entered the great hall.
Lenora fumed. If today was Galliard’s payment for her loose tongue, then they were even.
“Lady Lenora.” Sir Hywel stood on the top step. “Your father wants to see you. Now!”
Her chin sank to her chest. The scales had just tipped. She owed Galliard now and she intended her payment to be a painful one to the arrogant lout.
Chapter Five
“Sir Roen, I’m so glad you came along when you did,” her aunt cooed. “Poor Lenora could have been killed trying such an outlandish stunt.” She took a sip from the wine goblet she shared with Roen. The rest of the meal participants listened with rapt attention to the knight’s exaggerated account of the rescue.
Lenora felt a needlelike jab in her head and tried to fix her concentration on her meal. Under the table, her foot tapped the floor in a staccato beat. She wished it was Galliard under her foot instead of the rushes.
“You were so brave to attempt such a rescue.” Matilda continued to heap praise on Roen. Every word of gratitude triggered another pain. Lenora’s head felt like a pincushion.
“Lady Lenora, you have a fine cook. The meal is…” Her dinner partner, Sir Alric, stopped his polite conversation at her icy look.
Alric retreated into a quelled silence. Lenora grabbed their shared wine goblet without asking for help from the knight seated next to her. She dared him to comment on her breach of proper etiquette, which demanded the knight hold the goblet. The last thing she wanted was help from any of Roen de Galliard’s men.
Just as she took a huge gulp of wine, she heard Roen say, “’Twas pure luck that she stayed on the beast’s back after the first jump. Then to see her barreling down toward a second! Well, dear lady, I knew I had to intervene or a terrible accident would occur.”
Her wine almost spewed across the table. She forced the liquid down her constricted throat and was seized by a fit of coughing. All eyes at the head table turned toward her.
“It seems the lady needs my assistance once again.” Roen smiled ruefully at Matilda. He started to rise from his seat of honor next to the saltcellar.
“Nay. Nay.” Lenora waved him back to his seat. “I am fine. The wine was sour.”
“Really!” He took a long swill from his cup. “Mine is deliciously sweet.” Roen gave her a crooked smile. Mischief brought out the blue in his eyes. “Perhaps, ‘tis not the wine that’s sour.”
He turned to Hamlin, seated next to Beatrice on his right. “I have heard, my friend, that the flavor of the meal is enhanced by one’s disposition. I myself feel extremely well satisfied, and my meal was extremely savory. Perhaps ‘tis the lady’s disposition that soured her meal.” The high table exploded with laughter.
Beatrice opened her mouth to defend her dear cousin. Hamlin lightly placed his callused hand over her delicate one. “Nay, Lady Beatrice, this battle is not for one as gentle as yourself. Besides,” he whispered, “I do not think the Lady Lenora is ready to admit defeat just yet.”
As if in response to Hamlin’s statement, Lenora, her eyes aflame, parried back. “Nay, Galliard. My disposition is wonderfully content after my refreshing bath. How could one help to be otherwise when the water was so soothingly warm and scented with mint. I trust yours was the same.”
Roen tapped his index finger on his wide, generous lips, forcing his smile to remain. When he had seen the scrawny, toothless old woman sent to assist him at his bath, he suspected Lenora had arranged it. His men relaxed in hot tubs while he nearly froze in a bucket of tepid water. Not to mention he had had to bear the tale of the hag’s many ailments. Roen nodded appreciatively toward his adversary. Lenora was not a woman to give up any battle easily.
“My bath was exactly as you would expect it to be.” Roen turned toward his dining partner. “Lady Matilda, your niece sent the…”
Matilda giggled like a young girl. “Lenora is too interested in her horses and plants to be concerned with taking proper care of her guests. I am afraid the stress of managing this keep falls on my shoulders and those of my daughter.”
“Then I have you to thank for my bath and the care I received?” Roen questioned.
He was surprised to see Matilda accept the statement as a compliment when he knew Lenora was responsible for his inhospitable treatment. He turned toward the young woman, her face radiant with triumph.
“Sir Roen, my lord will see you now,” the castle seneschal announced. Roen tore his gaze from Lenora. Sir Hywel continued, “Sir Edmund apologizes for the delay in addressing you, but his illness forces him to rest at midday. If you a
re finished with your meal, I will lead you to his chambers.”
Roen stood and turned to face Lenora, a mocking gnn unsuppressed on his lips. It vanished when he found her seat empty.
“Sir Hywel…” Roen was surprised to find Lenora at his side as she spoke to her father’s steward. “Since ‘twas I the knight assisted, I feel that I should present the man to my father.” Turning to her aunt, the vixen transformed her waspish tongue with a demure guise. “’Tis only the proper thing to do.”
Before her aunt could reply, Lenora grabbed his arm and led him across the room to the stairs. He lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl.
Roen’s battle senses noted with approval the construction of the stairs. As the stone steps reached the upper stories they narrowed and curved. Forced to climb single file, an invading army was blind to what lay ahead. A snatch of Lenora’s dress was all he could see of her as she disappeared around the curve of the step.
The creak of wood contrasted with the cold echo of the stone. Roen quickly identified the sound, wooden defense steps. The structures could be burned or demolished if invaders entered.
“Hold, Galliard!”
Roen pulled himself up short. Lenora blocked his passage. She stood on the upper step, her eyes level with his own. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle and she crossed her arms over her chest. The golden shade of her eyes signaled her state of mind. The docile lamb had reverted back into a bad-tempered lion.
Lenora held her ground. The narrow steps prevented Galliard from brushing past her and the curve of the stair hid them from people below, in the great hall, and above, in her father’s room.
“We will talk before you see my father,” Lenora commanded.
“Orders! You give far too many orders for a woman!” Roen sighed, exasperated.
Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “And would the words sound sweeter coming from the mouth of a man? Do you want me to look humbly at the ground and ask requests of you in my own home, in my own hall, after you have eaten my food and drunk my wine?
“This battle we have—” Lenora saw Roen’s startled expression. “Aye, ‘tis a battle, Galliard. But this is between you and me. You will not involve my father. The story I told him is the same we told his steward.” Lenora clenched her fists and fought to control the timbre of her voice. “My father is ill. He must not be unsettled.”
Afraid to show her tears, she lowered her head. A hand on her chin forced her face upward. She searched his face through blurry eyes for a sign that he understood her pain. His eyes, no longer the color of cold granite, warmed to mist gray. They reminded her of a stubborn fog that lingered in the morning sun. Could he really have a heart after all?
He cupped her upturned face in his large rough hand. His fingers massaged the knotted muscles at her scalp. A solitary tear escaped one eye and meandered down her cheek. Roen tenderly wiped it away with his thumb.
“Ah, Nora, if only Henry had a dozen warriors like yourself, he would have England back to rights in no time.” Roen dropped his hand from her face. He stared at it and the evaporating remains of Lenora’s tear.
“I do what I must to protect my father,” she explained hesitantly.
“I see that now,” Roen whispered. “Which is the crux of the problem.” He fought the desire to wrap Lenora in his arms, to reassure her with brave words.
The tender feelings he felt toward her must be killed. Love was an emotion for bards and women, not warriors. He stepped away and jeered at the tender emotions he accidentally felt. To push away the sentiments, he gave a brisk wave with his arm. “Come, Nora, I see your point. I’ll do nothing to upset Sir Edmund.”
Confused and surprised that the battle had been won so easily, she led him to her father’s chambers. She knocked on the heavy oak door and whispered, “One more thing.”
Her father’s reply to her knock corresponded with Roen’s disgruntled, “What else?”
“Don’t call me Nora!”
Lenora opened the door and flounced across the chamber to stand next to her bedridden father. Tall and proud, she placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “Father, this is the knight that assisted me today, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy.”
Roen’s attention moved from her to the gaunt man lying on the massive bed. Sir Edmund lay atop the ermine-trimmed coverlet, propped up by several overstuffed pillows. His long legs filled the length of the bed. His feet were bare, his torso covered by a calf-length robe of rich blue, trimmed in dark sable fur. The shadows from the one window accentuated the darkness beneath his still-lively eyes.
“Sir Roen, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your rescue today. Pray, avail yourself of my hospitality for as long as you wish.” Sir Edmund’s voice barely carried across the room. “Draw up the chair so that we may talk.”
Lenora ran to snatch the heavy oak chair from the table on the far side of the room. She struggled to drag it to her father’s side. Roen lifted the chair from her easily and placed it near the bed. She scurried to return to her father’s side.
Seated, Roen saw two sets of earth brown eyes assessing him intently. There’s no doubt she’s a Marchavel. She has the look of the old man, only softened, he thought bitterly. The strong family resemblance between father and daughter rekindled old childhood scars. Roen’s heart retreated into the emotional armor he had devised in childhood. He concentrated on the muted colors of the floral depictions on the whitewashed castle walls.
“Lenora, you may leave us now. I wish to hear news from London and swap battle tales.” Sir Edmund patted his child’s arm. “You have already heard the news and my old stories. ‘Twould only bore you.”
“Father, I don’t mind staying.” Lenora moved closer to her father, as though to shield him from Roen.
Edmund laughed and gave Roen a leering wink. “But, my dear, a father tells his daughter a story one way, and tells another warrior the same story in an entirely different manner. Certain details that he neglected to tell his wife or daughter are sometimes remembered with a fellow knight.”
Lenora pushed back a lock of her hair and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. She had hoped to remain and see that Roen kept his word. Her father’s dismissal left her no choice. To tarry longer would only make him suspicious.
She shot Roen a murderous glance, then moved to the exit. His back to the door, he heard the loud slam echo in the room and down the hall.
Edmund licked his lips and pointed toward a wardrobe near the window. “Those women seek to keep me on weak tea and watered-down wine. A man can’t regain his strength from such as that. Friend, look on the upper shelf of that closet and see if a bottle of ale can’t be found.”
Roen’s smile and mood brightened. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open the doors of the huge oak wardrobe. The piece held little, a fur-lined cloak, a green embroidered tunic and a leather jerkin. Several boots lay on the bottom. The wardrobe was so huge, Roen had to climb into it to reach the top shelf. He pushed aside the soft woolen braes and shirts folded neatly on the shelf. His hand found the smooth handle of a clay jug. Roen turned and displayed his prize.
“Well-done, man!” Sir Edmund smiled gleefully. “Grab that bowl and tea mug and we will toast each other’s good fortune.”
Relaxed, Roen retrieved the articles and returned to Sir Edmund. He drew his chair closer as he poured the strong ale into the mug and offered it to the ill man. After pouring his drink into the soup bowl, he placed the jug of ale on the floor between them. Edmund tilted his mug in salute. Forced to hold the bowl with two hands, Roen brought the drink to his lips.
“I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”
Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.
The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know
for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”
“I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.
“‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.
Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”
His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.
“Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.
Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.
“Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.
“You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.
“Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”
“And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.
“Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”
