by Hall, Diana
“Lord Roen.” The ewerer met him on the stairs.
“What?” How well he understood how Lenora must feel; his nerves were raw, also.
“The guests are waiting.”
“See they are fed and given wine. I’ve much to attend to now.” Roen brushed the disgruntled ewerer off. Probably another group of hungry pilgrims. “Let them sleep in the hall tonight, not upstairs.”
“But, my lord, they have come to see you.”
Roen gave the man his attention. “Do they have some message for me?”
“I do not know, Lord Roen. I believe they have just come to visit.”
“Who are they?” He expected no one. If they weren’t messengers, why did they need to see him? “See to it that a heavy guard is placed on them.”
“’Tis done, milord. Five knights do not ride into this keep unwatched. We’ve three men to their one.” His ewerer gave him a pinched look and sniffed. “Even if the man claims to be your cousin, we still know to watch our backs.”
Sounds grew muffled, his ears rang. Roen’s chest constricted and he fought to breathe. After years of ostracism, they ventured to reach out to him. Now that he owned a rich fief, the vultures intended to claim him as their own. Perhaps they thought to strip the lands from Lenora if he should die? He’d soon put them straight. They had not claimed him as a Galliard when a child, they’d not reap benefits from him as a man.
He leaned over the gallery and studied the five men below. The tallest, a fair-haired young man, had his back to him. A dark-complected older man with a sarcastic sneer across his lips brought back visions of Roen’s father. Even the stranger’s height, the shortest in the room, marked him as a Galliard.
The others were young but nondescript. Roen’s stomach churned with indignation.
His steps dragged down the stairs. Confrontation was not what he wanted now. Not today, when more important matters needed his attention. Yet, a morbid curiosity compelled him to see what this man wanted. The child inside him still craved to belong.
“Let’s be gone from here, Falke. This man is most rude to his guests,” the black-haired one complained to his compatriots. Lifting his full goblet of wine, he drank it down. A maid rushed forward and filled it again.
“’Tis not so bad.” The blond laughed and buried his face in the hair of a young servant girl. She giggled and whispered in the young man’s ear. He responded by patting her backside with his hand.
Roen called to the dark man, “So, you claim me as your cousin. I see the blood of my father’s people in your features.”
The black-haired man nearly choked on his wine. Snickers rippled across the room. Raising his head from the wench’s neck, the tall, fair-haired knight winked at Roen. “Nay, ‘tis not Ozbern that lays that claim, ‘tis I. Your mother and mine are sisters. And I see the blood of the Chevarases in your features.”
Icicles crystallized in Roen’s blood. His mother’s people. In all the long years in Normandy, his parents had never spoken of his mother’s family. Nor had any member ever visited or sent a letter that he knew of. “’Tis you who are wrong. My mother had dark hair and her eyes were not light.”
“Aye, the only dark-haired girl in a sea of fair-haired children. Her father called her Evening Star. A beauty that cast a shadow over her blond sisters. What was it the minstrel said of her? ‘An exotic flower that blossomed in the sunlight of her father’s pride and love.’”
A sympathetic pout on his lips, the man continued, “Sadly, we have not inherited that beauty. ‘Twould please my mother to know you look like the rest of us common Chevarases.”
Roen’s heart began to pound. He looked like his mother’s people. Why hadn’t she told him? Why had his father insisted he was a bastard? Surely he had met his mother’s family at some time.
Roen eyed his cousin again. From the hair to the color of his eyes, the man looked enough like Roen to be his brother. But this man, years younger than himself, smiled readily and seemed to be enjoying a private jest.
“I am Falke de Chretien.” His cousin made a courtly bow, his head swaggering with an irritating cockiness. He paused and looked at Roen with raised eyebrows. “One of the many younger sons of Bernard de Chretien.” The man straightened and waited, an expectant smile on his face.
“My name and parentage you know, or you would not be here,” Roen replied. He did not like the man’s attitude, too laissez faire. “What is it you want?”
Falke’s smile wavered, his chin came in just a little and his eyebrows furrowed together. “My uncle intends to name me his heir. I and my friends—” his hands pointed to his group “—are traveling north to his fief. I heard your name mentioned at our last abode and knew it immediately as that branch of our family from Normandy. I thought that since we are kin, you might offer us the hospitality of your fine home.” The arrogant smile returned.
There was no time to entertain guests. Yet a yearning to have information about this mysterious side of his family gnawed at Roen’s soul. He wanted answers and he would have them. Lenora slept upstairs guarded by Crandall. As soon as she woke, he’d move her to the secure chamber and have the stonemason wall up the secret door. Besides, before he investigated further, he needed his private guardsmen to return.
“Aye, you may stay,” Roen relented.
Falke’s men clapped each other on the back and returned to their drinking. Falke’s gaze followed the swaying hips of a serving wench who went to fetch more wine.
The wench rounded the corner and his cousin’s attention returned to Roen. “Perhaps a walk in the orchard would be pleasant. We could talk of family and such.” He turned to the one called Ozbern who stood near his drinking comrades. “Stay here and watch those two. I don’t want them so far into their cups they can’t sit a horse tomorrow.”
Ozbern snorted. “What does it matter? They can’t sit a horse even when they’re sober.” Nevertheless, he pulled over a vacant chair, turned it around backward and straddled it. He rested his elbow on the back and propped his cheek against it.
A comfortable smile came to Falke’s face. “The man gripes continually. A real bore at times.” He laughed and waved for Roen to follow. “Come, let us take that walk.”
His cousin’s manner irked him more and more. The too quick smile, the casual ambience of the man rubbed him like salt in a wound. But he craved answers about his mother, answers this obnoxious man might be able to provide. The idea that this supposed cousin might also be involved in Lenora’s danger also entered his mind. Roen decided to talk and listen. Listen for anything that might show the group of men were more than they seemed.
A crisp breeze swirled the fallen autumn leaves into whirlwinds along the path. Roen took a deep breath of the cleansing air. He walked along the cobblestones and waited for the other man to speak.
They reached a wooden bench and Falke stopped. He placed his foot on the bench seat and leaned his elbow on his knee. The young knight rubbed his chin, then asked with a trace of wonderment, “Your mother, Maeve, she never spoke of my father, did she?”
Roen chose his words carefully. “Why do you say that?”
“Because if she had, I doubt you would have opened your doors to me so readily.”
“Your father treated my mother in a dishonorable way?”
The younger man gave him a small smile and shook his head. “Nay, my father is and has always acted with honor. His duties to his father, his lord and his king have priority in all matters.”
“As it should be with any knight,” Roen countered.
“Perhaps.” The crooked smile returned. He motioned for Roen to sit and warned, “Mind you, the story I tell does not paint your father in a favorable light, nor my father, for that matter.”
Roen sat, his body tense. “Go on, and I will judge for myself.” He prayed this cousin would at last reveal the truth of his parentage. Was Bernard de Chretien his father? Could Falke be his half brother?
“Very well.” The knight sat with his knees akimb
o and slapped his thighs. He leaned on the back of the bench and clasped his hands behind his head. “My father, Bernard, and your mother, Maeve, were betrothed to marry when both were but infants. The match, at first to seal two strong families together, soon turned into a union of love.” Falke scratched his cheek. “My mother said her sister’s beauty could overshadow the sun’s light. Minstrels compared Maeve’s skin to moonlight and her eyes to ebony. Her voice to that of bird song. Sir Chevaras doted on the dark-haired child and lavished her with attention. Through her union with the Chretiens, he hoped to forge great power and wealth.” He waved his hand at Roen. “Of course, all this you already know as you have seen and lived with the woman.”
Roen nodded, but his mind tried to relate the visions of the cold, pale woman he knew with the portrait his cousin painted. Perhaps, if he allowed his imagination to run, he could picture his mother as a maiden, but he could put no life into the shell. To him, his mother had always been a breathing ghost, her spirit lost and forgotten.
“When she reached the age of fourteen, the marriage ceremony was arranged. Hundreds came for the gala. They traveled from all over England to feast with such a powerful group of people. A message came from one of my father’s vassals. The man was under siege and requested help. I suppose one of Stephen’s robber barons decided that with so many men away, ‘twould be a good time to attack. My father, ever bound by honor, left his beloved and went to assist his vassal.”
“As he should. The woman could wait, not the promise of feudality.” Roen did not care for the way the man ridiculed the importance of honor. Chivalry demanded nothing less from its knights.
“Of course.” Falke dropped his hands from behind his head. His eyes narrowed, then he continued, “And so, Bernard left with a promise he would return shortly and marry his bride. At the festivities, Galliard became enamored with the bride’s beauty. He followed her and tried in his own crude way to woo her. Maeve would have none of him and she laughed at his attempts at poetry and song. She humiliated him in front of the guests by mocking his ill-chosen phrases and uncouth lyrics.”
His cousin paused again. Roen sensed that he hesitated to go on with the story. “Rest assured,” Roen informed his guest, “that whatever you may say of my father, your berth is set for the night. I’ll not throw you out for an insult to the man’s character.”
Falke’s smile widened. “Very well, I’ll continue. Galliard was so incensed by Maeve’s public rebuff that he waited for the girl. Waited till he could find her alone.” He paused and the smile disappeared from his face. “When he had her alone, he gagged and raped her.”
Roen shot from his chair and gripped the hilt of his dagger. “By the saints, not even my father would be so base as to take a woman against her will on the day of her wedding!”
“I’m afraid ‘tis so. Maeve was able to point out her rapist. Her father wanted to kill Galliard on the spot but Maeve’s mother stayed his hand.”
“Why?” Roen cried. “I’d torture the fiend until he begged to die, then I’d deny him even that mercy.” The blood in Roen’s veins screamed for revenge against the monster. Then the scream strangled itself on his own crime. Hadn’t he done the same thing to Lenora? Hadn’t he taken from her that which was hers to give?
For her own protection, his conscience answered, yet deep in his loins he feared he stood with his father. Lord Champlain’s taunts on his wedding day came back. Roen had thought the insults referred to his parentage. Now he understood; Champlain had compared him with Galliard.
“Her mother feared Maeve might be with child from the rape. What would the family do with such a bastard? What if Bernard would not have her now that she was no longer unspoiled? A message was sent to Bernard on the battlefield. The explanation of the affair was brief. The families awaited his answer. If he did not want Maeve, another Chevaras daughter would fulfill the betrothal. After all, much negotiation and power were at stake.”
“Your father rejected her.” Roen supplied the ending.
“Nay, not exactly. Bernard thought over the proposal. What would honor dictate he do? Meanwhile, while he contemplated the most honorable decision, the Chevarases panicked. They took no answer as a rejection. Since Maeve had now become an embarrassment instead of a profitable commodity, they must get rid of her. In respectable fashion, of course.”
Falke spread his hands wide. “And so a wedding took place, Galliard and Maeve’s. I mean, after all, they did have the cleric and guests and all that food prepared. Your mother and father were married and sent on their way with the express wishes of everyone concerned that if either decided to once again visit England, they’d never live to touch its shores.”
The puzzle pieces of Roen’s life fell into place. No wonder his parents hated him. His fair coloring only haunted them both. He personified the family that had kept Galliard from important contacts in England and had abandoned his mother.
“And so,” Falke continued, “my father returned and the next sister was offered, Niccolete, my mother. And, as ever honor-bound, he married her, though he cared nothing for her, scarcely knew her name. And as honor dictates, he sired her many children. Thus did I see the light of birth as the seventh son, born in the seventh month and on the seventh day.” Falke stood and stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles.
Roen felt the breath knocked out of him. The fog that surrounded his mother lifted and revealed the bareness of her life. Through him, his mother exacted retribution for the crime committed against her. And that heinous act must have been a raw wound on Galliard’s soul. Far easier for his father to accuse Maeve of adultery than to see in his son the family he had wronged. The parallel between his own marriage and his parents became clear. He did not bear the scorn of a bastard, for Galliard was truly his father. Crime for crime he matched the man. Brutality for brutality, he superseded his sire. Rape to win what he wanted, torment to punish the woman for his own crimes. Did he really believe Lenora carried another man’s child?
Nay, ‘twas but a pretext to keep a wedge between them because he feared his wife. Feared the way his heart sang when she smiled. Feared the deep feelings she awakened with her soft touch. Feared the power she had over him. He loved his wife without barriers, and no emotional wall would separate him from her again. Nor from their child. The reality of it caused him to smile. Falke’s image blurred through the tears in Roen’s eyes.
“I know what you say is true.” Roen swallowed and took a deep breath. “Now, tell me, why are you here?”
His cousin lost his arrogant composure. “What do you mean? I just thought to visit a kinsman.”
“Nay.” Roen shook his head. “No man would enter a keep dragging such a history with him.”
A crooked smile crossed Falke’s lips. “A mutual friend sent me. As I said, at my last abode, ‘twas suggested that I come. My host thought that perhaps with your time in battle and your lack of ties in England, you may not know the circumstances of your parents’ marriage.”
“And who is this friend we share?”
“King Henry. A man who does what he can for those he considers a friend.” Falke spoke the words with pride.
Gratitude overwhelmed Roen. The king had offered Roen a wife in payment for years in battle. In reality, his liege had given him a priceless gift, a woman who could teach Roen to love.
“I must speak with my wife. ‘Tis most urgent.” Rising from the bench, Roen gave his cousin a grateful nod and turned back toward the castle.
“Pray, do not let me keep you.” Falke started to walk into the garden then turned. “Do not think me rude, but after the story I just told, I would think you would have questions, or accusations at the least. What must you discuss with your wife that is so urgent?”
“A name.” Roen’s steps lengthened with each stride he took. “I have to choose a name for my child.” The walk broke to a jog, then a run. He rushed up the stairs just as the midday meal horn sounded. Crandall remained on guard outside the open door of Roen�
��s chamber.
Beatrice no longer hovered nearby, nor did Goliath jump at him in greeting. He approached the bed and sensed something amiss. Even before he stripped the blankets from the bed he knew what he would find. “Nora!” His bellow rang down the hall and ricocheted off the walls. A confusion of voices and bodies rushed into the room.
He stared at the empty bed and the pillows that impersonated his wife’s form. Too late. He sank to his knees, unable to stop the flow of tears down his face and heedless of who saw them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Tell me where she’s gone to!” Roen roared at Beatrice.
The woman sat on a stool in the middle of the great hall. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes rained tears but she refused to speak.
“You’ll get no information from her by shouting,” Hamlin chided. He knelt at her side and made his voice gentle. “The dog led us to her empty trunk downstairs, you must have helped her to steal away. Lenora’s in grave danger, Beatrice, pray tell us where she’s gone.”
Her eyes narrowed and tears spiked her lashes, but her voice gained strength as she spoke. “Aye, there’s danger and we know from whence it comes.” She pointed a trembling finger at Roen. “From her husband. We found the true marriage contract and know of your deception.”
Apprehension slashed through Roen’s anger. “Who else did you tell?”
“A friend.” Beatrice rose and faced her interrogators. “One who is helping Lenora to reach safety.”
Roen fought the impulse to shake the name from her. His voice deceptively calm, he asked, “Who is this friend?” From a burlap bag on the floor, Roen pulled out the dark mantle with the serpent clasp. “Do you recognize this cloak? Does it belong to your friend?” Goliath leapt at it and sank teeth into the garment.
