She smiled to herself, she knew better than to pose so serious a question. This was Sir Eric de Monfort, the strongest, most carefree champion-at-arms who had ever been born. He could seduce his way into the most reluctant of hearts and emerge entirely unscathed. He might tell her that she was precious to him, but he probably said similar things to all his women. Eric didn’t have a heart to give. Or did he? Could the flirtatious manner simply be his way of keeping women at arm’s length? Could it be one of the methods he used to avoid becoming truly involved? Well, things had changed. Eric was married, he wasn’t going to find it easy to keep her at arm’s length.
Squashing the impulse to hug him—she was afraid of revealing how much he was coming to mean to her—Rowena contented herself with stroking his hair, he seemed to like it and she was determined to use every means at hand to strengthen the bond between them. Down below, she could hear the tramp of soldiers’ boots on the stairs; the distant buzz of conversation. She sighed with pure pleasure. Eric’s hair was one of his best features, it was thick and shiny, soft as silk.
Rowena studied the gleaming auburn mixed in with the brown as she thought about the paradox that was her husband. She couldn’t be the first woman to have admired his hair. Did he grow it long deliberately? Did he use it as part of his armoury in the war to win everyone’s hearts? For that was what he tried to do. Eric wanted everyone to like him and, on a superficial level, everyone did. Women weren’t the only people to respond positively to men who were tall and handsome. Men did too. They liked strong, personable leaders. His strength was reassuring, his men knew Eric wouldn’t be afraid to lead in any charge.
I will guard you with my life. Her throat tightened. Did he know how seductive those words were?
Probably. Eric was very good at making people like him, and only now was Rowena realising why that was. The lost little boy had never felt as though he truly belonged. He had tried so long to make up for the charity he had received at her mother’s hands that it had become a habit. He must know that it was no longer necessary, he had proved himself a thousand times.
Her father—not an easy man to impress—respected him. Her mother loved him. As did she.
Rowena’s fingers stilled as the realisation sank in. She loved him, she loved Eric de Monfort. It wasn’t possible. Not in a couple of days.
Except that it wasn’t a couple of days. She had known him all her life. Had watched him at a distance for years.
Eric wanted people to like him. He wanted their love. It was just that he wasn’t so sure about loving them back.
‘Rowena, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ She loved him. Saints, she loved a man who could charm the birds from the trees. Doubtless he always would. Did he have a heart? She burned to know. Would it ever be hers?
The young boy had grown into a sensitive man, a man who had learned to guard his feelings from an early age in order to thrive in a castle where he felt he had no real place. Rowena forced herself to look deep into his eyes. Eric had feelings, she was sure of it. They were hidden deep beneath that carefree, flirtatious armour. His eyes had darkened, he was watching her with the confident sensuality of a man who knew he would not be refused. Her husband.
He nudged his head against her hand. ‘Why did you stop?’ His green eyes were almost closed. ‘I was enjoying that.’
Yes, Eric was the most sensual of men. Very well, she would use that knowledge. She would use his sensuality as a means of binding him to her. She would win his love.
Curling her fingers into his hair, she brought his head down for a brief kiss. His eyes closed completely, but not for long. As soon as she set her fingers to his belt they snapped open again. ‘Rowena?’
She tipped her head to one side and smiled as she worked at the buckle. ‘You are my husband, Eric.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Hmm?’ A large hand slid over her breast, gently kneading.
She edged him towards the bed. ‘You put the servants to the trouble of assembling a bed for us up in this eyrie. The least we could do is try it out.’
Chapter Nine
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms in the great bed. Rowena smiled to herself.
Eric shifted and kissed her shoulder. ‘Why the smile?’
Rowena tightened her hold about his waist and nuzzled his cheek. It felt slightly bristly and very male. She liked it. She especially liked the discovery that Eric’s sensuality extended beyond the act of love. Her husband took time to hold her, even now one hand was idly caressing her back, the other was toying with her hair. She might not have Eric de Monfort’s love, but he was behaving as if he held her in affection. At the least it was companionable.
‘I like lying with you like this,’ she murmured.
‘And I with you.’ He sighed, and went on ruffling her hair. ‘However, I can’t stay long, your father is expecting me in the armoury.’ He grimaced and released her. ‘I should go.’
Rowena propped her head on her arm and watched him as he dressed. The play of light on his back muscles was endlessly fascinating; she loved studying the long lean length of his thigh, the curve of his buttock. When he had buckled his sword on over his tunic, he came to stand by the bed and his perfect male form—the wide shoulders, the narrow waist—was clearly silhouetted in the light streaming through the lancet.
‘I will see you in the hall for supper,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, when you leave this chamber the guards are to accompany you. At all times.’
‘Eric, I won’t forget.’
‘Good.’ Picking up her hand, he bowed over it. ‘I shall send Berthe up to attend you.’
* * *
Rowena sat on a three-legged stool, wincing as Berthe dragged a comb through her hair. Berthe had been tutting and fussing ever since she had walked into the bedchamber.
‘Dear Lord, what has that man done with your hair? So many knots. Doesn’t he realise how long it takes to comb them out?’
Rowena hid a smile and wondered what Berthe would say if she told her that Eric said she was adorable when she was a little dishevelled.
Berthe pulled at her hair and the tutting went on. ‘Your hair was beautiful before Eric de Monfort got his hands on you. He has no notion of how to treat a lady. Men are all the same, they only care about bedding a woman.’
Rowena shrugged. She wasn’t going to confess that Eric liked to lie in bed, simply holding her. That was private. She stared thoughtfully at a candlestick on a shelf in front of her. She had listened to enough gossip to know that whilst men rushed to enjoy the carnal aspects of marriage, it was a rare husband who simply enjoyed his wife’s company as Eric seemed to enjoy hers. Eric had confessed he took pleasure in more than the actual bedding, he spent time cuddling her which must mean that the bond between them was strengthening. Eric was a loving man, she was sure of it. It was up to her to convince him of it.
She smiled to herself. Their shared delight in the physical joys of their union was a great boon, it would surely help her in her quest to win his heart.
Berthe’s chest heaved. ‘I suppose we should be grateful you still have your hair, it would have been chopped off if you’d been clothed as a novice. Are you happy with Sir Eric, my lady?’
The question was unexpected and, coming from her maid, verging on the impertinent. Picking up her hand mirror, Rowena angled it so she could see Berthe’s face. ‘Berthe?’
‘I agree Sir Eric has great charm, but he’s not exactly the match you might have expected.’
Rowena sat very still. ‘What do you mean?’
‘No one knows anything about his family. He’s not noble, he might even come from peasant stock.’ Slowly Berthe worked the comb through Rowena’s hair. ‘I know he has become a landed knight and has won himself a manor, but he’s hardly Lord Gawain, is he?’
Rowena swung round
so quickly her hair caught on the comb. Snatching it free, she took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself and put up her chin. ‘Enough! Berthe, you are impertinent.’
Berthe’s jaw sagged. ‘My lady?’
‘Count Faramus chose Sir Eric for me. It is not your place to question your lord’s choice.’
Berthe looked at the floor. ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’
‘So you should be. Sir Eric is my husband and I for one am glad.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Berthe lifted her gaze. ‘I meant no disrespect, my lady. There’s not a body in Jutigny who doesn’t like and respect Sir Eric, it was just—’
‘Berthe, you must appreciate that Father judges men by their character rather than their birth. The fact that Sir Eric’s parentage is unknown is entirely irrelevant. His service as one of our household knights has always been exemplary.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Berthe bit her lip. ‘My lady, I am truly sorry to have offended you. I hope this doesn’t mean you will put me to work in the laundry.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Berthe, of course I won’t.’
Berthe gave her a strained smile. ‘Thank you. I really am sorry, my lady. I didn’t understand how it was between you.’
Rowena’s parents had tried to instil a sense of fairness into her, her father in particular was fond of saying she must judge a man by his deeds and not by his trappings. Yet, shocking though Berthe’s remarks were, they gave her new insight.
Were there others here in Jutigny who harboured similar doubts about Eric because of his humble birth? If so, it seemed likely that Eric had been running the gauntlet of prejudice for years. Did he perhaps come to expect it? From everyone? A man who expected to be treated poorly on account of his ancestry, or rather his lack of it, might find it hard to believe he was worthy of love. A lump formed in her throat.
Rowena had never heard so much as a whisper about Eric’s family. Given his age when her mother had taken him under her wing, he must remember them. Yet he never spoke of his mother and father. Who were they? Did he never mention them because he feared that he might be judged, and all that he had worked for might be snatched away?
Does he think that poorly of us? Of me?
Realising that Berthe was looking expectantly at her, Rowena gestured at the blue-and-white coffer by the wall. ‘I assume my old clothes are in that.’
‘Aye, my lady, no one’s touched them since you went to the abbey.’
‘I’ve missed them.’
‘I am not surprised.’ With an air of relief, Berthe turned for the coffer. ‘It will be good to see you in something brighter than those rags the sisters made you wear.’
‘See if you can find the close-fitting rose brocade with the fur edging. I’ll wear my silver girdle with the matching circlet.’
‘The cream veil, my lady?’
‘Please.’ The rose gown was Rowena’s favourite and she was curious to see Eric’s reaction when she wore it. These past few days, he had only seen her in the drabbest of gowns. Rowena had never thought of herself as particularly vain, but she wanted Eric to see her in something a little more alluring. The rose gown had intricate lacings at the wrists and sides. The thought of Eric struggling to unlace her was oddly stimulating.
Berthe shot her the strangest of glances and Rowena felt herself blush. For a wild moment, she fancied her maid could read her mind.
* * *
The bailey was full of shadow when the supper bell summoned Eric and Count Faramus from the gatehouse. As they crossed the yard, they were not alone—several knights had returned from patrol and they were emerging from the stables, bellowing orders over their shoulders as they headed to the fountain to wash.
‘Check the shoe on that hind leg, Pierre.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘And rub him down well.’
‘Right away, sir.’
A maidservant flew out of the storehouse with a basket of eggs. She glanced at Lord Faramus and dipped into a curtsy.
‘Good evening, my lord.’
‘Good evening, Mary.’
Mary caught Eric’s eyes and blushed. ‘It is good to see you again, Sir Eric.’
Eric gave the girl a preoccupied nod. ‘Good to see you too, Mary.’
As Mary hurried away in the direction of the cookhouse, Lord Faramus gave Eric a searching glance. ‘Pretty girl, Mary,’ he said.
Eric focused on Mary’s retreating back. ‘Oh, aye, she is that.’
‘Something of a flirt, would you say?’
Eric was not so busy with his thoughts that he failed to notice the measuring look Lord Faramus was giving him. He stiffened. ‘Mon seigneur, Mary is, as you say, pretty. But if you are suggesting that I have eyes for her, you are very much mistaken.’
Lord Faramus lilted an eyebrow. ‘Mary was known to have a tendre for you some years back.’
‘That is in the past. In any case, it was quite innocent.’
Lord Faramus let out a bark of laughter and Eric felt his face heat. ‘Innocent? The spring before you left Jutigny, you were seen lying with Mary in the meadows by the river.’
‘Things are not always as they seem, my lord.’ Eric remembered that spring when he and Mary had gone down to the meadows together to talk. It was oddly disturbing to realise that someone had been watching them and had reported back to Lord Faramus. There had been not much to see, in any event. Eric’s friendship with Mary had been dictated mainly by fondness and liking, they had exchanged a mere handful of kisses. Mary made no demands on Eric and he had valued her for that.
‘Meaning?’
‘Whoever saw us in the meadows, misinterpreted what they saw,’ Eric said firmly. ‘Mary is no wanton. And even if she were, I can assure you that I shall never give your daughter cause to question my fidelity.’
‘I am glad to hear it, de Monfort. Glad to hear it.’ Lord Faramus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And there’s no need to look daggers at me, a father likes to know he has made the right decision for his daughter.’
‘My lord, you have my word I shall do my utmost not to disappoint either you or Lady Rowena.’
As Eric approached the hall steps at Lord Faramus’s side, it came to him that his friendship with Mary must have been similar to Rowena’s with her Mathieu—puppy love. Innocent but open to misinterpretation.
Realisation slammed into him. ‘Mon Dieu, I’ve been blind.’
Lord Faramus looked back. ‘Eh?’
Thoughts flew through Eric’s head, thoughts that brought goosebumps to the back of his neck. He struggled to order them. Rowena and Mathieu. Rowena had sworn that no one knew of her dalliance with de Lyon. She had told him their friendship had been innocent and Eric believed her, after all, she had been a virgin on their wedding night. Rowena’s dalliance with the squire sounded very much like Eric’s with Mary—childish, innocent and completely without passion.
Yet Mathieu de Lyon was dead.
What if someone had seen them together? Could Mathieu’s death have been more than a random accident?
Eric stepped over the threshold and into the hall. ‘Mon seigneur.’ Conscious of the rest of the household filing into the hall for supper, he kept his voice low. ‘I hear that after I left your service, a young squire named Mathieu was fostered here.’
Lord Faramus didn’t reply until he had reached the sideboard where cloths and a basin were laid out for them. He dipped his hands in the water and grunted. ‘Bloody tragedy, what happened to him.’
‘My lord, what did happen?’
‘The boy was killed in a street brawl in Provins.’ Lord Faramus shook his head and picked up a drying cloth.
‘Oh?’
‘De Lyon was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like everyone here he had orders not to go alone after curfew. He had the ill fortune to
choose the day of the brawl to disobey them. His body was found in a side street in town.’
‘Did you discover what started the brawl?’
‘Drunks, most likely. It took place in the market square in the lower town, by The Sun Inn.’
‘The Sun?’
‘The tavern by St Ayoul.’ Lord Faramus tossed the cloth aside and gestured for Eric to take his turn at the basin. ‘Count Henry’s captain investigated the boy’s death and he found nothing.’
‘No one was brought to trial?’
‘Unfortunately, no. It was a damn shame. Whilst the boy didn’t have the build for a knight, he would have made a fine archer.’
A servant approached bearing wine on a tray. Lord Faramus reached for a cup. ‘Mathieu de Lyon simply picked the wrong day to break curfew.’
Eric stared pensively at his father-in-law. Lord Faramus could be right, Mathieu’s death might be a tragic case of the boy being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the prickling at the back of his neck told him otherwise.
Mathieu de Lyon might have been murdered.
Murdered because he had been seen with Rowena? It was certainly possible. Mathieu could have been killed because someone had seen them together, someone who feared that they were about to become lovers and felt threatened by the possibility of an alliance between de Lyon’s family and the Sainte-Colombe family.
Rowena seemed convinced that no one knew about her infatuation with Mathieu. She had to be wrong. Someone knew about their meetings. And that someone could have been desperate to ensure Rowena’s relationship with the young squire proceeded no further. If Rowena and Mathieu had married, there might soon have been heirs. And who stood to lose if that happened?
Sir Armand de Velay.
Had de Velay engineered de Lyon’s death? If so, he was clever as the devil. Understanding that Rowena’s infatuation with Mathieu de Lyon wasn’t generally known, de Velay would also have known there was little possibility of Mathieu’s death being uncovered as murder. Who would connect de Lyon’s death with Rowena?
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