by Hall, Diana
After several hours, her basket could hold no more. She wandered home not eager to rekindle her battle with Roen. The watchman in the marshal’s tower waved to her and she returned the greeting.
She spotted her nemesis after she crossed the fortified bridge to the inner yard. Roen and his second were deep in conversation, watching Destrier running free in the pasture. A herd of Woodshadow’s best mares followed behind. Galliard must be calculating the price he could call for his foal. Not willing to confront the man and lose her newfound peace, Lenora headed in the opposite direction of the two men.
The scaffolding along the east wall caught her attention. Several sturdy poles reinforced the crumbling stone wall. Heavy boulders, removed from the upper section, rested on planks suspended on the support poles.
“That man makes me want to scream,” she complained to the thick support pole. “He’s as dense as the tree you came from.” A rain of stone and dust cascaded down the scaffold and peppered Lenora’s hair. She dropped the basket of herbs and brushed the rubble from her hair.
Like a dancer around the Maypole, she moved in a sinuous path between the supports of the scaffold. A wrist-thick scrap of wood rested on the ground. A way to vent her frustration materialized.
“Roen de Galliard, you are a despicable, lack-witted, ill-bred tyrant.” Hefting the scrap like a club, she pulled back and whacked the support pole with all her might. The pole shuddered. Her hands vibrated from the force. She dropped the pole and dusted her hands off. A prayer of thanks on her lips, she looked heavenward. Then she screamed.
Roen and Hamlin walked among the crofters’ cottages inside the inner bailey walls. Roen’s nerves tingled, a sense of forboding haunted him. If he were in battle, he would be guarding his back. He looked over his shoulder. No unseen foe appeared.
The bailey showed no reason for his uneasiness. The crofters tended their small private plots of land. Chickens pecked the ground for insects. A swaybacked pony drowsily plodded along the worn path to his lean-to manger. His master, a young boy, directed the pony and cart around Roen, giving the two knights a wide berth.
“Roen?” Hamlin nudged his friend with his shoulder. “You keep looking over your shoulder. Do you think we’re being followed?”
“Nay, I’m restless. ‘Tis this place. This situation. That woman.” At the small fish pond he halted and picked up a round smooth pebble. He tossed it into the middle of the pond and watched the concentric circles ripple across the water.
“I have never seen you so agitated, my friend. Especially over a woman,” Hamlin teased.
“Ha,” Roen continued. “The wench is undeniably the most stubborn woman I have ever met. She has one discourse, my nonmarriage to her cousin.”
Hamlin picked up a stone and skipped it across the pond. His ripples spread across the water, erasing the previous ones. “And what of that? Do you intend to marry Lady Beatrice?” Hamlin’s usually jovial eyes grew somber. His lithe body stiffened.
“I haven’t really given it much thought,” Roen admitted. He tried to picture the girl in his mind but the blond hair and blue eyes melted into fiery auburn hair and earth-colored eyes.
Hamlin opened his mouth to speak when a scream pierced the air.
“Nora!” Roen shouted, and raced toward the sound. His long legs outdistanced Hamlin. His heart hammered as he sped across the bailey to the east wall. A crowd gathered near the scaffolding and he pushed his way through. The villeins shuffled aside for him.
Roen entered the core of the crowd and gasped. Lenora lay crumpled on her side. A weighty block of stone pinned her against the poles. Dirt and gravel whitewashed her hair and kirtle.
He rushed to her side. Terror circulated through his body. With trembling fingers, he placed his hand on her chest for signs of life. The shallow lift of her chest calmed his rampaging heart.
“Lady Lenora!” Hamlin broke through the circle.
“Quick, Hamlin, help me move this boulder. She’s trapped against the scaffold.” The two men strained. The stone begrudged each small advance. With a final, heroic push, the stone rolled away.
Roen scooped Lenora up in his arms. He cradled her against his chest. Joy and relief engulfed his senses when he saw her dark, thick fringe of lashes flutter. Her eyelids strained to open.
She took a ragged breath. “Put me down.”
Stunned, Roen dropped his hold on her legs. Lenora seized his tunic for support as her feet thudded to the ground. A groan of pain shot from her and she rubbed her left ankle.
When she felt steady, she released her hold on Roen and tried to step away. He pulled her back with his arm around her waist.
“I’m fine. Really. Pray let me go.” A hoarse whisper was all she could manage.
“What happened? Did you see who did this?” Roen demanded.
“A stone fell. ‘Twas an accident.” She twisted in his arms and refused to meet his gaze.
“Are you sure? Hamlin, search the top,” he directed.
“There is no need.” She pushed the hair from her face. “I did it.”
Roen’s face mirrored puzzlement.
“I hit the pole with a big piece of wood. Hard.” Lenora squirmed out of his grasp. “It must have toppled the stone over.”
“Why would you attack a scaffold?” He stared at her. Was the wench daft?
“Because I wanted to. It reminded me of someone,” Lenora admitted through clenched teeth. The cluster of villeins began to disperse. The excitement over, they returned to the daily chores. Whatever else transpired was between the nobles.
Roen gazed at the thick pole. “Who could it remind you of? It looks exactly what it is, a piece of wood.”
“It wasn’t its looks that reminded me of someone. ‘Twas its intelligence,” Lenora snapped. She limped from him, holding her left side.
Roen watched her go and tried to understand her statement. A gentle smile creased his lips as he remembered Lenora’s comparison between him and the tree. He started after her.
“Roen!” Hamlin’s call from atop the scaffold stopped him. “Come up here. I have something to show you.”
He clambered up the platform to his friend. Hamlin held a bit of cloth in his hand. He gave it to Roen and pointed to the footprints in the dust.
Roen felt the soft wool between his fingers. Worn but well made, the material was an expensive weave. Not the type of material a workman would wear. He knelt on one knee and considered the boot prints in the dirt.
“Why would a nobleman be up here?” Roen queried. “See, the prints of his hard soles obliterate all the workmen’s.”
“Aye,” Hamlin added. “I remember seeing workers here till right before the evening meal. Whoever it was came after they left.”
Roen traced the outline of the boot print with his finger. Smaller than his own, but too large to be a woman’s. He estimated the man was of average height. Nothing that would distinguish him from any of the many nobles at Woodshadow. Roen followed the prints to the edge of the scaffold.
“Where did you find this bit of cloth?”
“Here.” Hamlin pointed to the heavy stones. “’Twas lodged between the two. He must have tried to move one and trapped his cloak.”
“Perhaps. Or his victim moved. Look.” Roen pointed below. Lenora’s basket of herbs lay on the ground directly below them. The two men followed the boot prints to the opposite side of the platform. The prints stopped. Directly below, the boulder and rubble that had almost ended Lenora’s life lay on the ground.
Roen watched Lenora’s retreating shape as she limped toward the inner sanctuary of her home. Her hips swayed to and fro, the long material of her kirtle moved in harmony.
“The men have done as I asked? They have spread the word to the neighboring keeps that I plan to claim a bride at Woodshadow?” He kept his eyes on Lenora.
Hamlin nodded. “Aye, people for miles around should know the news. It seems as though your plan to draw out the phantom assassin worked. Sir Edmund is right—Wood
shadow is in danger.”
Roen clenched the woolen material in his hand. He stared at the crushed cloth and whispered, “And because of me, so is Lenora.”
Chapter Seven
“‘Tis done.” Roen blew faintly on the wet ink. A wrinkled hand snatched the contract from the table and carried it to the pale man in the bed.
“Let me see.” Sir Edmund’s hand trembled as he took the paper from his servant. Satisfied that all was as it should be, the ill man closed his eyes. His lips moving in silent prayer, Sir Edmund held the paper to his chest, his hand over his heart. His voice slow and ragged, he asked, “When will you tell her?”
Roen reached across the table and took a fold of papers in his hand. He placed it safely inside the rucks of his embroidered overtunic. With the palm of his hand, he patted the hiding place.
“I’ll show her the false contract today. The sooner this business is concluded, the happier I will be.” Roen grimaced. ‘Twould not be a pleasant encounter.
“How will you get her to agree?” A father’s affection for his only child showed in Sir Edmund’s voice.
“‘Twill be done. She’ll not naysay me,” Roen guaranteed, then pointed to the contract on the older man’s chest. “What of that? Where will the real contract be?”
“’Ere with me.” Tom took the contract from his lord’s chest and folded it carefully into a leather pouch. He challenged Roen with a baleful one-eyed look then placed the contract inside his rough leather jerkin, mimicking Roen’s stance and gesture.
“I assume ‘twill be guarded well. If ‘tis discovered, our plan will unravel.” Roen addressed his remark to Sir Edmund but he kept his granite stare on the servant.
“Tom can be trusted.” Sir Edmund drew himself up. “If the need arises, Henry will receive it.” Roen did not miss the man’s thinly veiled threat.
“Rest easy, man. ‘Tis but a deception on my part. No marriage will take place.” Roen took his leave of Lenora’s father. Hamlin waited outside the door.
“Have you seen the wench?” Roen asked while they descended the stairs.
“Not since last eventide. The lady has made herself scarce in the keep. From what I understand from Bea—Lady Beatrice, ‘tis her norm to wander outdoors during the day,” Hamlin informed his comrade.
“I’ve seen that, also. The aunt is the power here.” Roen and Hamlin entered the great hall. Servants brushed by with platters of roasted meat. “Thank the saints I don’t really have to marry her.”
Roen heard the distinct ring of a familiar voice. Lenora stood just to his left, her back to him, deep in conversation with a stout kitchen woman. He let his eyes linger lazily down Lenora’s backside, his imagination filling in the image underneath her simple blue woolen gown. It was hemmed too short, or had been worn for too many years, he noticed. The edge of her ecru chemise showed at her feet. Lenora’s soft leather slippers were dark from the morning dew.
She wore no jewelry, she needed none. No gem could outshine Lenora’s hair. Tendrils danced around her face and down her long, graceful neck. The bulk of her hair was pulled back into a loose braid.
The servant woman tilted her head in his direction. Lenora did not turn to look his way. She walked off, disdaining to acknowledge him. Roen’s watchful eyes kept her in sight. He noticed an improvement in her limp.
“I think you are in for a long siege, Roen,” Hamlin observed.
“Aye, and the first skirmish lies just ahead.” Roen nodded his head toward the great hall. The room resounded with noise from knights, ladies, dogs and attendants.
“Nay, Roen, I was but jesting.” Hamlin did not like the battle look in Roen’s eye. “You needs must woo the girl. Have her agog with your charm and gallantry.”
“I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for such foolishness. I need the girl’s obedience. She must have a weakness. I will fish it out and use it to my advantage.” Roen pursed his lips as battle plans formed in his head.
“God’s blood, man!” Hamlin pulled his liege lord up short. “She’s a woman, not a fortress.” He paused before he accused, “You are enjoying this.”
“’Tis a service I do for my king,” Roen replied, defending himself against Hamlin’s outrageous charge. But if he could pull the arrogant wench down a peg, ‘twould make the job more acceptable.
Knights milled about the side tables, conversing in small cliques. Several young girls, fostered at Woodshadow, giggled as Roen and Hamlin passed. Hamlin gave a flirtatious wink. The girls scurried off, blushing and laughing.
“See, ‘tis easy,” Hamlin instructed.
“Sir Roen,” Matilda greeted, and went to Roen’s side. Her daughter followed quietly behind. “Would you be kind enough to escort us to dinner?”
Roen hated the pomp that Matilda demanded with each meal. Since his first night at Woodshadow, the woman had ordered every status ceremony performed. He might as well be at court. ‘Twas just one more reason to finish his business here as quickly as possible.
He scowled, his distaste for the charade showing plainly on his face. He muttered, “Very well. Let’s get on with it.”
A glance at Beatrice’s face stopped him. Her white blond hair accentuated the ashen color of her face. Two terror-filled blue eyes gazed intently at the embroidered neck of his tunic. The girl could not meet his direct stare.
She looked like a frightened animal. Her mother’s fanatical expression reminded Roen of a pagan priestess offering a live sacrifice to a bloodthirsty deity.
It pricked his conscience to have to admit Lenora was right. Beatrice was terrified of him. Any thoughts concerning a marriage to the frightened girl fled. Too many innocents like her, terrified of what goes on between a man and woman, ended up killing themselves on their wedding night. He did not wish Beatrice’s death on his conscience.
“Lady Beatrice.” Roen kept his voice calm and polite. The girl startled like a petrified fawn. He forced the gruffness from his words. “I would be honored to escort you, but I believe the true lady of Woodshadow should enter her hall first.” He glanced about the stone walls for his quarry. Lenora was nowhere in sight.
“Lenora is not here, as usual.” Matilda pushed the wooden body of her daughter closer. The crimson folds of Beatrice’s kirtle swirled against him. The frightened girl grabbed her dress, afraid even to let that much of her touch him.
“I was speaking of yourself, Lady Matilda.” Roen fought down a wave of revulsion for the older woman. He knew exactly what kind of woman she was, exactly the kind of mother. He had lived his childhood with a woman who could instruct even Lady Matilda on trickery.
Taking the woman’s arm, Roen led the procession toward the raised dais to the high table of the keep. Hamlin followed with Beatrice, her body still numb from fear of the man ahead of her. Woodshadow’s steward and cleric followed.
Sir Hywel abruptly hailed Roen. The seneschal cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Are you the rascal who stole my shoes?” The cleric hastily hushed the bewildered older man and positioned him back in line.
“This is a madhouse.” Roen gritted his teeth and entered the great hall.
The room grew silent as the entourage approached Each knight and lady stood at the side tables. The women curtsied, the men bowed. Roen sensed the reserve. Woodshadow’s nobles executed the correct decorum, but without a sense of loyalty. Matilda served as chatelaine, but no love existed between her and the people of the keep.
When the group reached the high table, Roen took Sir Edmund’s seat, directly behind the elaborate nef full of salt. Matilda sat regally to his left. Beatrice stopped when she realized she would sit next to Roen. Hamlin moved ahead, despite Matilda’s scowl, and took the seat on Roen’s right. Now that there was a buffer between her and Roen, Beatrice took her place next to Hamlin. She rewarded the gallant knight with a shy, grateful smile. Sir Hywel and the friar filled in the remaining seats. One chair remained vacant.
Lenora watched the procession from an alcove. With no regrets, she gave u
p her seat at the high table. Too many splendid meals had soured in her stomach due to Galliard’s snide remarks. She waited until the group was seated and the servants began to ladle out the food. When the hall resumed conversation, Lenora maneuvered to a side table, one with none of Galliard’s men.
From her vantage point, she studied the high table. Beatrice’s panic was evident. Lenora saw Hamlin offer her cousin a bite of roasted lamb. Beatrice shook her head, too alarmed to eat.
A surprising stab of jealousy hit her when she saw Matilda seated as the lady of the keep, where, by all rights, she should be. It had never bothered her before, but then her aunt had never so dramatized the role. Her black hair was parted in the center and wound into two plaits on either side. A translucent oblong veil covered her head and matched the cream-colored wimple that framed her face. A gold coronet, set with unfaceted diamonds and amethyst, held her veil like a crown. Her long purple silk overtunic shimmered in the candlelight of the great hall.
Lenora smoothed the long sleeves of her kirtle. Dismayed, she noticed where a long stretch of seam had come undone. Hastily, she pushed the sleeves back up to her elbow. She knew without looking that the hem of her gown was mud-spattered and stained from her morning inspection of the spring-planted fields.
The older woman clung to the knight’s every word. She leaned her dark head closer to Roen’s fair one. Refined laughter fell from Matilda’s lips and she placed her hand on Roen’s when the knight lifted his wine goblet. Lenora felt another meal begin to sour as her aunt artfully guided the silver cup to her thin lips.
Lenora caught her aunt’s eyes. They glittered, sharp and brittle. She sat back, stunned at the victorious look her aunt shot her way. Matilda spoke, her voice carrying across the boisterous hall. “Sir Roen, pray tell me if the rumors I have heard are true. Do you plan to marry a woman of Woodshadow?” The room quieted. All eyes were on the high table.
Roen raised his goblet to Matilda. “I am here to claim a bride.” He pulled the contract from his tunic. “I am to be the new lord of Woodshadow. The woman I wed will be the lady of this keep, in action as well as station.” His gaze sought out Lenora. He evaluated her reaction to the news. ‘Twas what he anticipated.
