‘Not that I know of. It’s known to be a mite rough. And dirty, or so I’ve heard. You shouldn’t be thinking of going there.’ Berthe touched her arm. ‘I shouldn’t have told you about the place, Sir Eric will be most displeased if he knew. Please, my lady, don’t tell him it was I who mentioned it.’
‘Relax, Berthe, I won’t breathe a word.’ Crossing to the ewer, Rowena washed her hands. ‘Whilst I am breaking my fast, would you please tell Sergeant Yder that we will be riding into town and that I shall require the usual escort.’ Seeing that Berthe’s expression was one of intense disapproval, she inched her chin up. ‘I’m only riding past it.’
‘I should certainly hope so, my lady.’
* * *
December arrived in a whirl of wind and rain. Rowena was ready to tear her hair out, she didn’t seem to be any further forward in her quest to win her husband’s love.
Her investigations into The Sun had led nowhere, save to confirm that her husband had become one of the tavern’s most regular customers. The inn was, as Berthe had said, not very reputable, but it could have been worse, it wasn’t a brothel. Rowena had also learned that Eric spent hours at the garrison in Provins Castle, closeted with Count Henry’s captain.
When Eric joined her in their bedchamber at night he was in the habit of parrying most of her questions. It was a habit she was determined to break, he was keeping things from her, she was sure. Luckily, Eric wasn’t as close as her father. Rowena was coming to see that if she pressed him, she could usually get some sort of a response from him. It was hard work though.
Rowena would sit up in bed, fluff the pillows and lean back, arms folded across her chest as Eric disrobed. ‘Did you go the castle garrison today?’
‘Aye.’ Tossing her one of his charming smiles, Eric hung his cloak on a wall peg.
‘You spoke to Count Henry’s captain?’
‘Mmm.’ He added a few coals to the brazier and rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s freezing out, I wouldn’t be surprised to see snow soon.’
‘Eric, what exactly do you do all day?’
He shot her a startled look. ‘I told you. Rowena, I am working to protect your interests.’
‘And that means days spent in that tavern, does it?’ Whatever Eric was doing in Provins seemed to have become an obsession. It occurred to her that a change of scene might break the cycle. ‘I would like to return to Monfort.’
His mouth firmed. ‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘We could see Helvise and baby James. And I am sure Sir Guy has matters to discuss with you.’
Peeling off his clothes, he shrugged. ‘Guy sends regular reports. All is well at Monfort.’
‘Eric—’
‘I am sorry, my love, we must stay here for the time being.’
Rowena forgot to breathe. Love. Eric had just called her his love.
Oblivious of how he had stunned her, Eric lifted the bedcovers and slid into bed. A muscled arm encircled her waist. He picked up a strand of her hair and wound it round his fingers.
Rowena’s throat felt tight. She wasn’t sure he realised what he had said—he had used an endearment for the first time. He had called her my love. Telling herself not to read too much into it, it was a few moments before she noticed that he was letting her in on his thoughts too.
‘Beloved, what I am doing in Provins isn’t easy. Your father is relying on me to prove your cousin’s involvement in a plot to deprive you of your inheritance. We can’t simply charge in spewing accusations every which way. Without proof we would lose credibility. Sir Armand is clever and Sir Breon’s departure from Jutigny, however carefully managed, will have told him that our suspicions have been raised. He will be alert to danger and we must be circumspect. This business requires patience and diligence. I have made friends in that tavern and that cannot be done overnight. It takes time to build trust.’ Brushing her hair aside, he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. ‘Sir Armand will reveal his true colours eventually, of that I am sure.’
‘And then we may go to Monfort?’
‘If that is your wish.’ His gaze fell on her mouth and his expression softened in a way that told her he was about to kiss her. ‘Meanwhile, my love, I want us to stay together. However, you may visit Monfort whenever you like. Sergeant Yder will be happy to escort you there and back.’
There it was again. My love. Finally, after all these months, she had hope.
Sliding her hand into his dark hair, happier than she had been in an age, Rowena guided his mouth to hers.
* * *
It grew colder, it was almost Christmas and at Jutigny the castle kitchens were preparing for the Christmas feast.
Geese were plucked, hams smoked and costly spices—cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg—were ordered from the merchants and stowed under lock and key. Parties of squires were sent out to find likely patches of ivy to hang in the great hall. Bets were laid as to which page would win the prize for finding the holly bush with the most red berries. It was too soon to actually cut the greenery, that wouldn’t happen until just before Christmas. The scent of mulled wine filled the air.
Winter set in. It was unseasonably cold. In the garden, a patch of teasels was covered in hoar frost. Puddles were crisp with frost and cracked underfoot. Fingers and noses went red, then blue. Teeth ached, and clouds of breath wreathed the heads of the guards on the wall walk. It was so cold, Rowena stuck her head out of the bed covers one morning and found herself thinking twice about going out for a ride. Her head felt as though it was shrinking. Eric, naturally, was long gone, his half of the bed was empty and his cloak was no longer on its peg.
She sighed. Doubtless he was in Provins again. Well, she couldn’t fault him for his diligence, although it would have been nice to wake up with him for once, instead of to an empty and cheerless bed. She stared at the empty peg and, smiling, got out of bed and went to open her coffer to find her sewing. She knew exactly how she was going to spend her morning and it didn’t involve going out into the bitter cold.
She was making Eric a gift of a cloak for Christmas and, apart from sewing on the fastening, it was almost finished. If she missed her ride, it could be done by this afternoon. Shivering, she pulled it out. The fabric was a deep green, an English weave that matched the colour of his eyes, and she’d lined it with fur which hadn’t been easy. Her fingers were pricked to bits. He had better like it, she thought, as she fished about in the bottom of her coffer for the silver fastening. A swirl of silver, cunningly wrought so it would split in two, she’d found it in a silversmith’s in town. The clasp was Celtic in design. It was reminiscent of the illuminated letters in her mother’s gospel. As children learning to read, she and Eric had pored over that Bible together, more fascinated by the illustrations than by the words. Would he remember? When she had finished the hem, she would sew on the fastening. The cloak was finished by noon with the fastening securely in place. Rowena returned the cloak to her coffer and went down to the hall to see if her mother needed help in the storeroom. When the supper bell sounded, the hall soon filled. There was no sign of Eric.
Ordinarily, Rowena wouldn’t worry, Eric could look after himself. But in a few days it would be Christmas Eve and something was niggling away at the back of her mind. A worry she couldn’t quite place.
Christmas Eve. Eric.
Frowning, Rowena found herself looking at Mary, one of the maidservants whose name had in the past been linked with that of her husband. She thought about Eric’s reputation as a young man, about the way he flirted with everyone. Mercifully, she’d seen no sign of that since their marriage.
Soon it would be Christmas Eve. There it was again, that unpleasant little niggle. Something was wrong, she was sure of it.
Rowena waited until they were clearing the boards just in case he should appear. Then, seeing no sign of him, she went over to Mary.
>
‘Mary, do you have a moment?’
Mary dipped into a curtsy. ‘Ma dame?’
Rowena drew Mary to one side, she felt slightly embarrassed—this could be awkward. She didn’t want Mary to be offended, she must hope Mary understood her concern. She kept her voice low. ‘Mary, I understand you knew my husband before our marriage. Before he won his manor.’
Colour tinged Mary’s cheeks. ‘We were good friends, my lady.’
Nodding, Rowena schooled her face into neutrality. ‘Mary, I have a faint recollection that one year around Christmastide, Eric disappeared. I was very young and don’t remember much about it. Do you know what happened?’
‘No, my lady. Save to say that it was generally known that Eric—sorry, my lady—Sir Eric often took himself off around Christmas.’ Mary jerked her head towards the main entrance. ‘Particularly if it was snowing.’
‘So it didn’t happen just the once?’
‘No, my lady.’ Mary came closer. ‘I did wonder if he was remembering his past. The time Lady Barbara fetched him in from the cold.’
Rowena reached for Mary’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Mary. I too had that thought. You’ve been most helpful.’
Turning to go, Mary hesitated. ‘Lady Rowena?’ Her face was crimson. ‘Sir Eric and I—we were only ever friends. Truly, my lady, we were never lovers.’
‘Thank you, Mary.’ Rowena smiled. Mary’s tone was so earnest, she could not help but believe her. Lightly, she touched her hand again. ‘Thank you, indeed.’
Rowena stood unmoving while about her the boards were taken up and stacked by the hall walls. She thought about her husband and his habit of quietly taking himself off around Christmas.
Biting her lip, she looked towards the door. It was snowing tonight, just as it had been when he’d been a boy. Eric was surely remembering. Was he mourning his lost past? Mourning the loss of his parents?
Eric was such a vibrant, confident man, it was hard to imagine him dwelling on his past, yet that must be what he was doing. Her chest ached. She found herself staring at a pair of hounds curled together in front of the fire. Those particular hounds had come from the same litter and they were inseparable, one of them rested its head on the other’s belly, never questioning for a moment the other dog’s acceptance of it.
Realisation slammed into her. Eric didn’t expect to be loved. In his youth, her mother and father had shown him as much favour as they could, given he was not their child. They’d been obliged to treat him no better, nor worse, than the noblemen’s boys they had fostered. If anything, her father had been sterner with Eric than with the other pages and squires, as though his unknown parentage meant that his right to bear arms had to be tested more severely.
Eric wanted to be loved. It was one of the reasons that he teased and flirted; it was why he strove to be an honourable knight. He wanted people to like him, but not for one moment did he take it for granted. He couldn’t. Those early years had scarred him and nothing that had followed—not her mother’s acceptance, nor him winning knighthood, nor marrying her—nothing had healed him.
Eric carried invisible scars. Scars from wounds that were buried so deep inside, it was possible that even he did not realise they had not yet healed.
The hall door opened and an icy blast cut through the air. A sentry strode in, stamping snow from his boots. Eric was out there somewhere, hurting and alone, because the abandoned little boy that he had once been had never truly healed.
Whisking round, Rowena hurried to the tower stairwell. She needed to find him. However confident Eric might appear, she wanted him to know how much he meant to her. If he understood that, perhaps he might bring himself to love her. She didn’t know if it would work, but she had to try. As she picked up her skirts and hurried past the guardroom, she poked her head through the door and caught the attention of one of the men.
‘Alain, would you please find Sergeant Yder?’
‘My lady?’
‘Ask him to saddle Lily, will you?’
The guard’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re going out? At this hour? My lady, night is drawing on. It’s snowing.’
Rowena put steel in her voice. ‘Find Sergeant Yder.’
Then she continued up to the bedchamber to find her cloak and boots and the cloak she had made for Eric. He might have need of it tonight.
Chapter Twelve
Waving for Marguerite, Eric lifted an eyebrow at Alard. The boy was slumped on the rickety bench beside him, head thrown back against grimy plaster, snoring gently. Bored to death, Eric thought, and no wonder. All week there had been whispers that de Velay’s sergeant had been seen in town. As a result, Eric and Alard had been haunting The Sun, hoping that even if they weren’t lucky enough to see de Velay’s man for themselves, they might hear something. Anything. Eric was desperate for Rowena to have the comfort of knowing that Mathieu de Lyon’s killers would be brought to justice. Sadly, that didn’t look as though it was going to happen any time soon.
Eric had written to Gareth Dubois asking him if he knew of any communication between Sir Breon and Sir Armand. Sir Gareth swore there’d been nothing. Sir Gareth might have been fooled. Eric wasn’t. Something was going on. Without telling Dubois, Eric had sent men to pose as grooms and inveigle their way into Gareth’s manor. Other than one or two rumours, the men hadn’t learned much.
Armand de Velay was said to be in Paris, visiting a shrine built to house a fragment of the True Cross. That fitted with the man’s supposed piety, but Eric would swear de Velay’s little pilgrimage was a cover for something far more sinister. De Velay wasn’t going to allow Sainte-Colombe to slip through his fingers.
Eric gave a weary sigh and closed his ears on a gale of laughter that rose from a bench by the farthest wall, where some early Christmas celebrations were getting a little out of hand. All he had were loose ends. It was very frustrating. The lack of progress had doomed him and his squire to sit at this greasy table for hour upon wearisome hour while about them the townsfolk got merrier and merrier. In truth, Eric and Alard had been here so long they were doubtless seen as part of the furniture. He’d had enough. He would have a last warming drink and head back to Jutigny.
Marguerite came up. ‘Sir?’
‘A mug of that mulled wine, if you please.’
Another roar went up from the table at the end and Marguerite glanced at Alard, sleeping through the noise with the blithe innocence of youth. ‘And for your squire, sir?’
‘Please. It might help him wake and we’ll be leaving shortly. I assume it’s still snowing out?’
‘Aye, sir. It’s turned into a real blizzard.’
Wonderful.
While Marguerite went for the wine, Eric listened to Alard’s snoring and allowed his thoughts free rein. He was certain that Mathieu de Lyon had been murdered on the orders of Armand de Velay and he’d thought that by now he’d have proof. Mon Dieu, he had hoped to solve this riddle months ago.
The uncertainty and, more importantly, the worry about Rowena was driving him insane. Was their life together to be marred for ever by fear that de Velay could strike at any moment? It was intolerable. Eric wanted—needed—to know that she was safe.
If it wasn’t for Rowena and the warmth they shared in bed, Eric’s mood would have been dark indeed. He felt closer to Rowena than he had to any woman, and that too brought its difficulties. He felt guilty about the way they had married; he felt conflicted. On the face of it, Rowena seemed content, so why on earth did he feel so uncomfortable? Why?
She had needed his help and, with her father’s blessing, he’d given it. She brought him great joy, equally she brought him worry. That was the curse of it. The stress. He’d had no idea that being married would make a man worry so.
She was kind and sweet, like her mother. His lips twitched. She had spirit too, at times she
could be a real termagant, just like her father. Eric liked all those traits, he always had. He’d just never thought to marry her.
The door opened and two men stamped in, the hoods of their cloaks capped with snow. Making a beeline for the serving hatch, they squeezed past Eric’s table.
‘It’s bitter enough to freeze your eyeballs,’ one of the men muttered, sleeving snow from his eyelashes. The other man grunted agreement.
Indeed, the cold was coming off them in waves and as Eric tracked their progress towards the wine kegs his mind did a strange thing. It whisked him back to that Christmas Eve when his mother had towed him through the dark and the snow towards the light of the Jutigny gatehouse. His fingers curled into a fist. Hell burn it, did this have to happen every year? Why couldn’t he forget?
‘Attract the guards, Eric,’ his mother had said, nodding towards the flare of the torches. ‘They’ll take you in.’
‘Mama, I’m cold. I want to go home.’
His mother had bent down to give him a tight hug before nudging him on to the drawbridge. ‘The guards will help you. Ask for Lady Barbara.’ Then she had turned and walked away. She hadn’t looked back.
That night, the cold had bitten through to Eric’s bones. Tears had frozen as soon as he had shed them. He’d turned to ice. The sky had wept snow.
‘Mama? Mama!’
A shadow fell over him and Eric was dragged back to the present, the mulled wine had arrived. He stared blankly at the steaming cups and drew in a shuddering breath.
‘My thanks, Marguerite.’ His voice was so hoarse he didn’t recognise it, he must be thirstier than he thought. He picked up the cup and inhaled the rich scents of Christmas. Cinnamon. Cloves. Bay. His stomach cramped. Holy Mother, he loathed Christmas.
A howl went up from the far table.
Eric dug Alard in the ribs. ‘Drink up, lad, we’re leaving.’ Lifting his cup, he drank deep. He would learn nothing more tonight, not with half the town lost in a fog of ale and spiced wine.
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