‘Very good, my lord.’
‘You’ll find parchment in the trunk behind the dais. My joints are on fire today, I’d be glad if you would fetch it. Once the letter is dispatched to Dubois, we shall give Sir Breon his new orders.’
* * *
Rowena had suffered from too much coddling all day, and by the time she guided Lily across the drawbridge and back into the Jutigny bailey she was at screaming point.
If she had thought the day had started badly with a phalanx of guards following her when she went down to break her fast, it had soon got worse. When she’d ridden out to the abbey to visit Novice Amélie, her entourage had bunched up around her, riding so close that it was nigh on impossible for poor Lily to break into a trot, never mind a canter. And now, even though she was once again safely within her father’s walls she couldn’t simply hand Lily over to the groom, no, she must wait for her guards to dismount. Sergeant Yder insisted on crossing the bailey with her and personally escorting her inside.
In the great hall, Sir Macaire was taking his ease on one of the benches on the top table.
Rowena caught his eye. ‘Excuse me, sir, is my husband about?’ At least when she was in Eric’s company, the guards gave her some peace.
‘Aye, my lady, he’s in conference with your father.’
She nodded. ‘Very well, I shall join them.’
A pained expression crossed Sir Macaire’s face. He cleared his throat. ‘My apologies, Lady Rowena, but Sir Eric gave particular instructions. They are not to be disturbed.’
Rowena felt herself frown. ‘Surely that does not apply in my case?’
‘I am afraid so, my lady. No one is to join them.’
‘Very well.’ Rowena spoke through clenched teeth, even as curiosity rose within her. What could be so secret that Eric didn’t want her in on the discussions? If it touched upon what had happened at the gatehouse then she was directly involved. She had a right to know what was happening and Eric should not be keeping her at bay.
She blew out a breath. Eric was turning out to be just as patronising as her father. Rowena had married Eric, hoping she had left all that behind her. Her father had never let her in on his plans for her, the first she had learned of her betrothal to Lord Gawain had been when she’d been presented to him as his fiancée. Lord Faramus hadn’t bothered to consult her until the ink was dry on the betrothal contract.
Eric, I thought you were different. Had she misjudged him? Rowena had remembered the boy he had been and thought the man would be cast in the same mould. Apparently not. Did prestige turn men’s heads? Did command of their men lead them to believe they could command their wives in like manner?
Rowena bit her tongue—it wouldn’t do to let Sir Macaire see how disappointed she was—and stalked towards the south-tower stairwell. Sergeant Yder kept as close as her shadow. When Eric deigned to speak to her, she would make it plain that she wasn’t going to be kept in the dark. Her memory rang with echoes of that husky voice as he had set about wooing her. He had said she was adorable. Adorable? Huh! She would show him adorable. The next time she saw him, he was going to have to learn that if he wanted an adorable wife, he was going to have to earn it.
He must stop patronising her, he must allow her into his mind as well as his bed. Clearly, her belief that carnal intercourse would bind him to her had been entirely wrong.
The time had come for different tactics. And, since she wanted privacy for what she had to say to him, she wasn’t going to wait for him here in the hall. She would meet him on her own terms.
She paused at the foot of the stairs. ‘Sergeant, I am retiring to my bedchamber for a while. If Sir Eric asks for me, would you tell him where to find me?’
‘Of course, ma dame.’
‘And if he is still in conference when the time comes for supper, would you be so good as to ask Berthe to bring my supper up on a tray?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Thank you.’ She hesitated. ‘If I give you my word I will not leave the tower, will you and your men be content to remain at your posts in the lower chamber?’
‘If that is your wish, my lady.’
Rowena climbed up the tower. Her keepers followed her and then, true to the sergeant’s word, they fell back after the first twist in the stairs. She continued up to the bedchamber on her own. The shutter was open wide enough for her to see the grey clouds outside.
Saints, she hated being hemmed in like this. Eric didn’t know her very well if he thought she could stand it for long. To her mind, however, what was far, far worse, was that Eric had barred her from taking part in his conference with her father.
Outside, a pigeon fluttered past, it probably had a roost on the watch point on the tower roof.
Her head throbbed, it felt as though it was banded in iron. Rubbing her forehead, Rowena slowly unpinned her veil. She needed to get out, yet here she was, a prisoner in her father’s castle.
She dropped her veil on to the bed as another pigeon’s shadow briefly darkened the chamber. It too was heading for the freedom of the roof. Freedom. Rowena stared at the narrow strip of sky visible through the window. In the past, she had enjoyed going up to the watch point. Were there guards up there now?
Moving to the door, she lifted the latch and stepped on to the landing. When she reached the door at the top, she slid back the heavy iron bolt, pushed the door wide and stepped on to the battlements. Behind her, the door shut with a clang, briefly startling the pigeons from their perches. There were no guards. She let out a relieved sigh.
Up here, the wind was fresh. A flurry of rain had left its mark, the walkway was dotted with puddles. Above, the clouds shifted slowly to the south. The pigeons settled. Rowena leaned against a merlon and peered through the crenel. Her father was down by the stables, talking earnestly to Sir Breon. Sir Breon’s squire was there too, heaving a saddlebag on to Sir Breon’s chestnut gelding. They were too far away for Rowena to read their expressions, however she did see Sir Breon clasp her father’s arm as though in farewell.
Sir Breon was leaving? His squire ducked into the stable, brought out his own horse and started loading that with even more baggage. Judging by the amount, they would be gone some time.
How strange. No one had mentioned anything about Sir Breon leaving.
Behind her, the door clanged and she almost leaped out of her skin.
Chapter Eleven
‘Eric! You startled me.’
Eric’s fists were clenched and his brow furrowed—as he looked her up and down, his brow cleared. ‘My apologies. I was concerned when you weren’t in the bedchamber.’ His mouth twitched into a charming smile and Rowena steeled herself to resist it. ‘Thought you’d given me the slip.’
She narrowed her eyes on him. ‘As if I could. Eric, it’s intolerable, they watch me all the time.’
Reaching for her, he pulled her up against him. Before she could object, he had dropped a kiss on her nose.
‘Eric, I don’t like it. It makes me feel like a felon.’
‘It’s for your safety.’
‘I’ve had enough. Furthermore, I want you to tell me—’ A clatter of hoofbeats cut off her words, Sir Breon and his squire were riding across the drawbridge. She gripped Eric’s arm. ‘Sir Breon’s leaving?’
Eric’s eyes were hooded. ‘I believe he is. Sir Gareth Dubois needs his assistance.’
‘Oh?’
‘Dubois has taken ill.’
‘And Sir Breon is to take over?’
‘For a time.’
Thoughtfully, Rowena watched the retreating horses trot into the street and out of sight behind the castle wall. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Sir Breon had the patience necessary to make a steward. There’s something you’re not telling me.’
Strong fingers covered hers. ‘Far from it. Dubois i
s ill and Sir Breon has been despatched to lend a hand.’
Eric’s green eyes were wide, his expression far too bland. ‘Eric, I’m not a child. You’ve learned something about Sir Breon and you’ve had him sent away.’
Eric said nothing, his face was so shielded, what he was thinking was anyone’s guess.
Rowena stepped back, forcing him to release her. She made her voice hard. ‘Eric, I agreed to marry you because I have always liked you. However, I have to tell you that I have no wish for a husband who keeps things from me. Furthermore, you wilfully undermine my authority.’
His eyebrows snapped together. ‘How so?’
‘You gave orders not to let me in on your conference with Father. I know you have discovered something, something concerning Sir Breon. Tell me what it is.’
‘Rowena, you will have to trust me.’ He offered her his hand and she simply looked at it.
‘Eric, I did trust you.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I believed you were different. I thought we could have a true marriage.’ Her eyes misted and she blinked rapidly, she refused to let him see her weakness—she wanted him to be different.
He stepped up to her, the wind was ruffling his hair. ‘Rowena, we will have a true marriage.’
‘Will we? You refuse to love me. You hedge me about with guards. You ban me from attending discussions with my father. You tell me nothing. What next, Eric? What next?’
Taking her by the wrist, he hauled her against him. Refusing to meet his gaze, she stared at his tunic and heard him swallow. His chest heaved in a great sigh.
‘Very well. Rowena, I didn’t want to worry you, but today I learned something which led me to conclude that Sir Breon may have been involved in the accident with the hoist. There is no proof, so until I can discover more there is little we can do. In the meantime, your father agrees there is reason for concern. He has removed Sir Breon from play here by posting him elsewhere.’
‘Sir Breon knows you suspect him?’
‘No.’ Eric shoved his hair out of his eyes. ‘Your father believes you will be safer if Sir Breon is kept ignorant of our suspicions. The main point is that Sir Breon has gone, which leaves me free to continue investigations in Provins unhindered.’ His mouth went up at one corner. ‘You will be doubtless glad to hear that as a result of this your escort has been reduced. Henceforth, Sergeant Yder and a guard and groom will accompany you if you leave Jutigny.’
Resting her head briefly on Eric’s tunic, Rowena let out a breath. ‘Thank you. I confess having a pack of watchdogs at my heels was driving me mad.’
Gentle fingers tipped her face up. He gave her a brief kiss and a wry smile. ‘I never would have guessed. Come, I have something for you.’
Back in the bedchamber, Rowena ran her fingers over the blue samite spread across the foot of the bed. It was sumptuous, gorgeous stuff, fit for a queen. ‘It’s lovely, Eric, thank you.’ She met his gaze. ‘And a whole length, it must have cost a fortune.’
‘I wanted to thank you for the shirt.’ His cheeks darkened and he shrugged. ‘In any case, we married too soon. I hadn’t finished courting you.’
‘Eric, I am your wife, you don’t have to woo me.’
He held her gaze, eyes steady. ‘I promised you that cloth after we wed and it was my pleasure to get it for you.’ He stepped closer and reached out to cup her cheek with his palm. ‘Just as it is my pleasure to court you.’
Then his arms came round her and Rowena forgot everything save the warmth of being held by Eric.
* * *
Days slipped by and nothing seemed to change. Rowena and Eric had not lost their compatibility in the bedchamber, yet they were no closer. Rowena began to lose hope, sometimes she caught herself thinking that perhaps Eric had been right, perhaps he didn’t have a heart to give. Apart from their time in bed, she saw him less and less. Under the guise of making enquiries, he rode into Provins almost every day.
One evening in the early summer, Eric returned with a message from Monfort. As they climbed the stairs to their tower room, he looked back at her. ‘Sir Guy tells me that Helvise has been delivered of a baby boy.’
‘The child is well?’
‘He’s thriving, apparently.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘James.’
Eric held open their chamber door for her and Rowena was no sooner inside than he set about removing her circlet and veil. His eagerness for her body hadn’t diminished. Nor, she thought wryly, had her eagerness for his. Resting her hands pensively on his chest, Rowena watched his mouth as he set about removing her belt. In a moment he would kiss her and she would kiss him back and their blood would heat and she would, for a time, forget that the distance between them remained.
‘A healthy baby,’ she heard herself murmur. ‘What a joy.’ If she and Eric had a baby, would it bring them closer? If she gave him a child, would she win his love?
Rowena had taken Eric’s warning concerning Sir Breon seriously. She heeded his advice concerning the guards and never went anywhere on her own. However, as the weeks slipped by and nothing untoward happened, she began to hope that the danger must be over.
Removing Sir Breon from Jutigny seemed to have done the trick. Summer came and went and there were no unfortunate accidents. The days passed in a blur.
At night, there was Eric—his warmth next to hers in bed and the never-ending joy of his body joining with hers. Neither of them mentioned love. In the day, Rowena helped her mother review supplies in the cellar. She went to the solar and made inroads into the mountain of mending that seemed to be part of life in every castle. On her rides she heard skylarks singing as they soared over the fields and vines; she watched butterflies hovering over purple thistles.
Then, almost before she could blink, the thistles had turned to thistledown and were drifting across the road. It was September already. The hedgerow grasses were brown and dry. And still there had been no accidents.
By the time the swallows were flying south for the winter, Rowena felt relaxed enough to think she no longer needed a guard. Only the realisation that she would be going against Eric’s wishes prevented her from dismissing them. She ached to believe that his insistence on an escort was a sign of his deep and abiding affection. Practically, it seemed far more likely that he was protecting his interests.
It wouldn’t do for him to lose her before she had given him an heir. Eric needed an heir to secure his interests in her father’s county. If she proved barren, Sir Armand would doubtless be mightily relieved.
By the summer’s end, there was no sign of Rowena quickening with child. And it wasn’t for the lack of trying. When Eric was with her he was as attentive a husband as she could wish. They made love often. The walls of their eyrie echoed with moans and sighs almost every night. Eric was careful with her, he handled her gently and apparently with great affection. Despite all this, Rowena knew she was no closer to winning his heart, he guarded it too well.
* * *
One morning, Rowena woke to a definite chill in the air. As usual Eric was up before her and she was alone. The bed felt cold. Shivering, she huddled under the covers until Berthe came in.
‘Good morning, my lady. Shall I plait your hair?’
‘Please.’ Rowena grabbed her shawl. As she padded over to the stool, her breath made mist in the air. ‘Berthe, do you know if Sir Eric went into Provins this morning?’
‘I believe so, my lady.’
‘Again?’ Rowena scowled at a flower painted on to the plaster. She had painted the flower herself and it was slightly crooked, she would have to redo it.
Since Eric was adamant they had to live up in the tower, she had decided to make the most of it. To that end, the top of her coffer was littered with paint brushes, pots of pigment and rags. She was eager to get back to work. It wasn’t as easy as she had imagined, yet
despite the difficulties she enjoyed making up patterns to put on the walls. If she worked quickly, she hoped to complete a section of the frieze by the time Eric came back tonight.
Was it necessary that he spent so much time in Provins? All she had been able to get out of him was that he was pursuing enquiries for her father. Berthe might have heard something, it was possible that Alard had talked. Craning her neck, she looked Berthe in the eye. ‘Where does Sir Eric go when he rides into Provins, Berthe? Have you heard?’
Berthe gave her a sideways glance. ‘I hear he spends much of his time in one of the taverns, my lady.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Sun.’
‘Where is that, exactly?’
‘In Provins Lower Town, in the square in front of St Ayoul.’
‘I see.’ Berthe had finished her plait. Rising, Rowena went over to the pigments and selected a brush.
‘Aren’t you going down to break your fast, my lady?’
‘In a moment, I just want to try something.’ Rowena dipped her brush into the pigment—red ochre—and carefully placed five dots to represent petals on the walls. Squinting critically at it, she tried out another flower before setting the brush aside once more. Yes, that was better. She smiled. ‘Berthe?’
‘My lady?’
‘After breakfast, I shall finish that section of frieze and then I am riding into Provins.’
Berthe looked warily at her. ‘You’re not going to that inn, my lady?’
‘Why not? It’s just an inn, isn’t it?’
Berthe pulled a face. ‘It’s far too shabby for a lady. Sir Eric would not like to see you there, I am sure.’
A cold fist clenched in Rowena’s belly. Until that moment she’d never thought to question Eric’s repeated visits to Provins. Berthe’s reaction gave her pause. ‘It...it’s not a whorehouse, is it?’
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