by York, Ashley
Opening one eye, he did his best to shoot daggers at his friend. "Why are you still here?"
"I want to know what happened when you spoke with the lovely Rowena."
Picking up the thick rope that lay discarded across the bale, John flicked the darkened ends aimlessly, contemplating his answer. "Nothing happened."
"Did you try to make anything happen?"
Irritated, John looked up at Peter. "Just to cover what is none of your concern, I felt since I had called her both a liar and an adulteress within a very short amount of time, I probably should not be forcing myself on her."
Peter's jaw dropped, adding to John's misery. "Tell me you did not."
"Oh, yes, I did."
"So you changed your mind about wanting to bed her? About consummating the marriage?"
The rope end disintegrated between his fingers as he rubbed the twines apart. "No, Peter, I did not change my mind. I am just failing miserably at the task at hand."
He pulled the remainder of the long rope loose from behind the hay and held the end closer to his nose. He sniffed.
"What is that?" Peter asked.
"I'd say this rope has been tampered with and yet…" holding it stretched so his friend could see that the rope had been knotted into a horse's lead…"it was made to look as if it was sound. Tell me what happened earlier with the horses."
"I did not arrive until the beasts had been settled. Apparently, Mark's horse had broken loose and was causing havoc. A young boy had been trampled but he is expected to live."
The silence in the stall was interrupted by cows munching and the occasional braying of the donkey. John rubbed the blackened ash from the rope between his fingers.
"It was deliberate," Peter finally said.
"So it would appear, but why?" John's body was exhausted but his mind raced.
"To increase the resentment toward us?"
"At the very least to make us appear shallow and uncaring. Where is the boy who was injured?"
"He is one of the stable hands here. His father is the village cooper."
"Did anyone visit the lad?"
Peter nodded, searching his memory. "Mark went to see the boy. He brought him food."
"I will see him myself on the morrow. If our horse has injured him, we will make amends. If, however, someone intentionally caused the incident, we will find the guilty party."
King William had given John until the spring to win over the loyalty of the villagers. Incidents like these only made his task that much more difficult. He needed to show that he had the Saxon's best interest at heart, and that the Normans and Saxons could live in peace together. Convincing Rowena of this would be a step in the right direction. How could he win her? Admittedly, he wanted her to be his wife in truth.
"Have you the names of the local men?" John asked.
"Word has been sent, and they are expecting your arrival."
"Perhaps it would be worth my time to see to my work before my pleasure."
"Would we be leaving tomorrow then?"
"It would probably be best if we did."
Peter stood a little straighter, all duty. "I will see that the men are ready, my lord."
Alone in the barn, John realized what a mess he had made of everything. Raised by a cruel peasant couple, he never did anything right according to them. A smack upside the head was his reward for even trying. In his sixth year, he was shipped off to the monastery at Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy where he studied with the monks. Who would have thought a skinny little good for nothing would take to his lessons so well?
The one man did. Duke William. John liked the big man who smelled of horses and leather with the kind blue eyes.
"You speak Latin very well, son. What is your name?"
"I am called John."
"Well, John, I am called William."
John pretended William was his father. He was a bastard, too, but he knew who his father was. What had the king been about? Why did he find any interest in a scrawny little boy? How did he know what John could become?
Now of all the knights under his command, King William weds the Saxon princess to John. Yet another test and he falls short again. Damn. Rowena was correct to scoff at his interest. He was nothing but a nameless bastard.
John pushed himself off the bale, brushed at his seat. The close confines of an unknown castle were not what he needed right now. He headed toward the only lit building visible from where he stood. The sign of "Owl and Thistle" swung noiselessly above the door of the two-story tavern. John did not doubt he would be welcomed as Lord of the manor. Perhaps he would find a soft place to lie after all.
Chapter Seven
When John arrived at the Owl and Thistle, the taverners could barely contain their enthusiasm at having the new Lord himself stay with them. They ran around seeing about improving his accommodations. His presence caused quite a bit of commotion.
With much on his mind, he sat in the quiet hall on the long wooden bench.
The tinkle of a bell sounded nearby. John turned toward the front entrance, unsure if he'd heard anything. He listened. It stopped. Crossing his legs at the ankles, he began to get comfortable and heard it again.
John stood abruptly and went back the way he'd come in. A strangely dressed man bent at the waist, peered out the door.
"Do you look for something in particular?" John asked.
The man jumped and turned. His face was inscrutable until he smiled broadly. "Ah, my lord." He opened his arms as if in welcome to a close friend. "How wonderful that you grace my presence again."
John pressed his lips together. It was the man he'd met earlier at the feast. The strange declaration made him think twice about this being a coincidence. "And what say you, Mort of Bedgrove near Aylesbury was it?"
Mort nodded and closed the distance. He wrapped a beefy arm around John's shoulder to steer him back to the bench he'd vacated. "Ah, my lord, I have many duties that take me to strange places."
The man stopped and motioned to the bench. John remained standing.
Mort raised his brows in a questioning way, his hand at his chest. "May I?"
John dipped his head and Mort settled himself upon the seat. "This inn is the one closest to the goings-on. As I said, I am at your service which requires my being nearby."
John drew his brows together in a thoughtful way. "And what was the service again?"
Mort's eyes locked with his. "Whatever is required of me."
John did not flinch but inside he fumed. What game was William playing at, sending one of his spies? To do what? Keep an eye on him?
"And you do this why?"
Mort finally looked down at his hands, the bells on his arms sounding with the movement. "Methinks you are not as in the dark as you would have me believe."
"So tell me why the king sent you here?"
Mort smiled at him. "I knew you were a wise one. The king always checks on what is his. He does not like to be uninformed."
"So there is nothing I need to know about?"
Mort searched his face. John wanted the man to share what he knew, regardless of his orders from the king. If there was trouble about, John needed to know so he could be prepared.
"I like you, Sir John. I believe you have a good heart. How you have stayed that way with all that is going on around you is a mystery to me." His fat hand patted John's arm as he stood before him. "If you need me, you know where I will be."
Mort glanced up and down the hall as if to get his bearings, then headed back out the door.
John closed his eyes and shook his head. William was so predictable. He gives John orders then sends his lackey to ensure those orders are followed. Trust was a word the king used only with his wife and family. Even though John would pretend William was his father, he never measured up.
The day William brought the sword to him at the monastery was such a day.
"Take it." William shoved the long sword at him, hilt first."See how it feels to hold it."
John shook his head despite how much he wanted to please the man. The monks did not abide violence.
William gave the sword back to the little blonde squire, Peter, and walked back into the monastery.
"What's wrong with you that you don't want to touch the Duke's sword?" Peter's face twisted in disapproval. "He brought it just for you."
And now Rowena.
John had much to think about and returned to his chamber. He settled down on the only stool in the room while it was swept, washed, and aired out. Sleep would help him decide what to do.
A raven-haired woman who wore her clothing tight and revealing came in to change the bed—housekeeping was plainly not her primary occupation. After making a clean bed for him, which involved overlong stretches with tantalizing glimpses of her well-rounded bottom, a little girl came in to remove the dirty sheets and handed him a rose.
John smiled at the little girl. "Thank you. And what is your name?"
"I am called Matilda, my lord. Very nice to make your acquaintance."
"Out." The woman hurried the small child out, closing the door behind the child. "And I am called Felicity," she said then stretched across the freshly made bed, giving him a more intimate view of her wares.
He had not come to the inn for carnal satisfaction but a place separate from Rowena, a place to get away from the turmoil she created in him. This woman's blatant attempts at seduction were very entertaining. He decided to play along.
"Interested, my lord?" She'd purred like a cat.
"What, specifically, would you be offering?"
Felicity frowned, clearly confused. He kept a straight face, as best as he could with her squishing her face up, clearly perplexed.
"A romp?" she finally answered him, posing it as a question.
He sat on the bed beside her. Immediately, she straddled his lap, her skirts hiked up around her. Her aim was particularly good and John felt an immediate rush of blood in response. She arched back, guiding his mouth toward her partially exposed breast.
He turned his head away. This needed to end.
"Umm."
She started grinding against him, guiding his hands between her thighs.
"I don't think…"
She knew her trade. She moaned with satisfaction—
His eyes flew open at the sound and he grabbed his hands away from her flesh and out of her reach.
"Cease this, woman. I am not interested."
She rubbed along his tight crotch and smiled. "I say you are."
"Enough." He shoved her off his lap and stood beside the bed. Sitting on her haunches, she watched him curiously. He scratched his scalp in irritation and saw her smile at his obvious interest, protruding as it was. "Well, I am not interested despite what it may look like."
She dropped to her knees on the floor in front of him and grabbed at the ties at his waist. "I will make you feel better."
"No," he said, twisting away from her.
The door burst open, and they both turned toward the sound.
"I came to see if you needed anything else, my lord." The woman's face burst into a toothless smile. The innkeeper's wife looked to be already counting the money she anticipated for this little "extra" service. "I see you are already being taken care of. Very good. Pardon me."
John looked down to find Felicity smiling up at him, her thick tongue slowly making its way around her lips.
"I am not interested," John stated again. Well, his body may be interested but not with this woman. Felicity's moan had yanked him back to reality. It had been wrong to his ears. It was not Rowena—his wife.
He groaned in frustration knowing all he had to do was go back to Rowena, walk into her room and take her. That was the release he needed. All this frustration building up inside, all this pent up desire. She was his wife. He had every right to do just that, and yet he didn't want it to be like that. He wanted her to be like she had been earlier, full of desire and passion for him.
Felicity plopped down on the stool beside the fire. "So you're pining after someone in particular?"
John laughed out loud at the absurdity of his answer. "Yes. My wife." Her shocked expression said it all. "It is a private matter."
"The Lady Rowena, is she sick then? She cannot see to your needs?"
"No. Not sick. We're just…not able to be together right now."
"Is she big with child?" Felicity paused, scrunching her face as if trying to figure out whether the lady of the manor could be pregnant.
"No. Stop prying and cover yourself. I will not be tempted."
Felicity smiled and stood up then.
"You know where to find me," she said.
Her sashaying hips held his attention as she walked out of the room.
Chapter Eight
John arose early to the sound of rattling pots and pans from the kitchen and the shouts of a bossy woman. The innkeeper’s wife's voice was not the most pleasant to hear. He stretched in his bed before rising, fully clothed. Splashing cold water on his face from the pitcher beside the bed, he shivered and realized there was no towel for drying. A quiet knock on his door was answered with a grumpier response than he had intended.
"Excuse me, my lord," the plump redhead’s smile vanished when she saw him standing there fully clothed. Her jaw dropped. "You slept alone?"
"Of course. Have you a towel?"
"Oh." Sticking her head into the hall, she bellowed the order and quickly handed him a towel. Her smile was sickly sweet. "Were your accommodations lacking then?"
Sitting on the side of the bed, John began pulling on stockings and boots before he answered. "The accommodations were fine."
When he stood to attach his scabbard, she grew agitated, speaking too quickly to be immediately understood. "My lord, we are getting breakfast for you."
John responded when he was finally able to decipher her words. "I am fine," he insisted.
When he reached for the door, she turned a pouting smile at him. Her grip was tight on his arm, stopping him from leaving. "Will you be staying here again, my lord?"
The sparse furnishings were adequate; a bed, a washstand, a sizeable fire. The alternative arrangements would be awhile in working out. Rowena's smiling face had him grinning to himself. He scratched at his whiskers. Still, better to be prepared. "Yes. Keep the room for me."
The sun was just rising above the horizon and the day's concerns were closing in. In the Great Hall at the castle, John found his men breaking their fast. Mark sat next to Peter at the table.
"Mark." John straightened his sword as he stood beside them. "How is the boy who was trampled?"
The dark-haired man shoved the honey covered biscuit into his mouth before he answered. "He is mending." Crumbled bits of biscuit flew out with his words.
"Good. We will see him before we leave this morning." John glanced around the Hall, empty except for his own men. "Has anyone seen Arthur?"
Peter's attention was now fixed on John. "What do you need to see Arthur for?"
The man's suspicious tone couldn't be missed. John lifted one eyebrow in answer and pursed his lips. "The condition of the village, Peter."
"Mayhap we can meet him with you?" Peter patted Mark's back and nodded enthusiastically. Mark frowned. He obviously did not understand the strange suggestion.
John shook his head. "I told him we would speak today."
"That was before you wanted to cut his head off his shoulders." Peter glanced around as he spoke.
Mark shoved another biscuit into his mouth. Shaking his head as he chewed, he finally answered. "Is there fomefing amiff?" Taking a generous gulp of the cider, he burped loudly.
John snorted again. "No. Mayhap I can see him later."
"It hasn't concerned you overmuch to this point," Peter reprimanded him with his tone.
"You have made your point. Mark, have you adequately stuffed yourself?"
Standing only as high as John's chin, Mark nodded, patting his stomach. "I have, my lord. I will take you to the boy."
The lanes were still empty at this early hour, and John was glad to have a moment to consider how he should approach this attempted sabotage. Certainly the lad should not suffer because of it. He wasn't the culprit. John could make financial reparations and possibly give him a different job at the castle if he was maimed beyond hope. John preferred to have people working rather than living on handouts. The whole incident did not make a very good first impression of him or his soldiers. They needed to win the family over.
A man with long, scraggly hair was at the front door of a clean little cottage, dipping his wooden ladle into the rain barrel. Mark tipped his head toward the man and spoke in quiet tones. "That's the boy's father. Anton." John turned a questioning eye to Mark who shrugged his shoulder. It was an odd name.
"Hail, sir," John called out as they approached the man. He immediately bowed to his lord and master. "How fares your son this day?"
"My lord, he has slept through the night. I thank you for your concern. Your man here brought a generous helping from the castle to fill his stomach last night. Thank you again, Sir Mark."
Mark smiled. John appreciated Mark's gesture. Normans really were not monsters. He just needed to make sure these people realized that.
"Yes, we are all very sorry that your son was injured."
"Oh, my lord, it was an accident is all. The boy knows that."
Mark and Anton exchanged glances, and John could see that already a friendship, or at the very least mutual respect, was growing between these two. Good. One less thing for John to worry about.
"If you want for anything, please come to me."
Gesturing to the darkened doorway behind him, the man said, "Would you care to come see him?"
"Is he awake then?"
"Well, no, but he could be awakened for you, my lord."
John smiled warmly at the man's genuine gesture of hospitality. "No, let your son sleep for now. I will come again." He grasped the man's hand as he spoke. "Speedy recovery to him."
"Yes, my lord."
The burden seemed lighter on John's shoulders as he passed back along the lane, stopping just inside the barn. "Mayhap this will not be so bad."
Peter came out leading John's horse. "It went well then?"
