The door opened again, admitting a flurry of snow. The candles guttered. Eric stared into his cup, vaguely hearing the complaints.
‘Mercy, what a gale.’
‘For pity’s sake, shut the door!’
He caught a softly murmured apology and the door clacked shut. The candles flickered and someone pushed past the table.
A hand touched his shoulder. ‘Eric, are you all right?’
Rowena? Here? Stomach lurching, he jumped to his feet. She was stripping off her gloves. Her cloak was covered in snow and her face was pinched with cold.
‘Jesu, Rowena, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’ She gave him one of her gentle smiles and, removing her cloak, allowed him to take it from her. He draped it over the end of the bench. ‘I am glad you’re here though, I wouldn’t have wanted to scour the town for you.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Eric noticed Sergeant Yder and some of the Jutigny men claiming a table on the other side of the fire. Nodding an acknowledgement at the sergeant—praise the Lord she had brought her escort—Eric turned back to Rowena. ‘Something must have happened at Jutigny. Lord Faramus?’
‘Father is fine. I was worried about you.’
Eric blinked, her words didn’t seem to make sense. ‘You worried about me?’ No one had worried about him in years.
He was met with another gentle smile. ‘I missed you, too.’ A shiver went through her. ‘It’s freezing out and I didn’t like to think of you out in the cold. Particularly so near Christmas.’
He stared blankly at her. ‘I was about to come home, we can ride back together.’ He gestured at the wine. ‘We ought to leave soon in case the snowstorm worsens. Would you care for some mulled wine first? It will warm you.’
‘I’d love some, thank you. I’ve been curious about this place, I’ve ridden past it a few times.’
‘You have?’
Nodding, Rowena settled on the bench and he sat next to her, drawing her snug against him while she looked about her.
Catching Marguerite’s eye, Eric handed her Rowena’s cloak to hang near the fire and ordered more wine. He drew in a breath. ‘Rowena, apart from the fact that it’s freezing out and you might catch your death, you know you shouldn’t be here. Your father wouldn’t approve.’
Her eyes danced. ‘Aye, Berthe did try to tell me. But since I brought Sergeant Yder with me, I felt sure you wouldn’t mind.’ She leaned her head against his shoulder in a way that was becoming achingly familiar and gave a small sigh. ‘It’s almost Christmas, you see. I didn’t want you to be on your own, I knew you’d be upset.’
Eric opened his mouth to tell her that he was nothing of the sort and that she ought to take more care of herself, when it occurred to him that she was right. He wasn’t feeling quite himself. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, of course, but he had been dwelling on the past. He’d been trying not to notice the inexplicable bursts of raw pain that cut across his thoughts every so often, he pushed them aside as he always did. Christmas often had a bad effect on him, particularly when it snowed. ‘I am not upset.’
‘Liar,’ she said, rubbing her cheek against his arm and linking her fingers with his. ‘It’s Christmas and it’s snowing. Tell me.’
He looked down at her. Her silver circlet winked in the candlelight, it was slightly crooked—she must have dislodged it when removing her cloak. He straightened it and as he did so blue eyes met his.
‘I didn’t think you knew about Christmas,’ he said, quietly. ‘You weren’t born the year your mother took me in.’
‘Eric, how many years have you been a friend? I knew.’
Marguerite set another cup of wine on the table and Rowena murmured her thanks. While she sipped, Eric watched her. He liked watching her. In the few months they’d been together Rowena’s features had become dear to his heart. He adored the elegant line of her hand holding the cup. He adored her slender wrist, the line of her nose and brow and the rosy tint to her cheek. He especially adored the slight bow in her top lip. He hid a smile. In truth, her mouth drove him wild. Whenever he looked at it, he felt bound to try and tease it into a smile. Her mouth lured him, it made him want to touch it, to press his mouth to hers and kiss her senseless. Rowena was the most desirable of women. He would want her until the end of time. She made him feel things he’d never thought to feel about any woman. Witness the way he worried about her. The idea that she had been concerned about him too had caught him entirely by surprise.
Lord, it didn’t seem possible. He had long known that Rowena was a caring woman, yet the idea that she might worry about him enough to bring her out on a night like this was unbearably touching. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Wives and husbands looked out for each other. It was in their interests to do so.
In the deepest depths of his memory something shifted, something from so far back in his past he could barely grasp it. His father, Simon. Lord, they must have put something in the wine. Eric hadn’t been able to conjure his father’s face in years, yet all at once there he was. He could see him in his mind, clear as day.
Sadly, Eric wasn’t remembering his father in his prime, he was seeing him as he had last seen him, breathing his last on his deathbed. His father had held out his hand and his once-strong arm had been stick thin. His face had been so wasted by disease that he was barely recognisable, eyes stared out of sunken sockets. His father had looked exhausted, only his voice had been the same.
‘Listen, Eric,’ his father had whispered. ‘Listen well.’
Eric had clung to his father’s hand.
‘My son, I shall shortly be leaving and I won’t be coming back. I ask you one thing. One thing. Will you do it?’
Eric had been so small he had barely understood what his father had been asking, none the less he had nodded.
His father had given him a slight smile and, small though he had been, Eric had understood that the smile had used nearly all of his father’s reserves. ‘When I am gone, look after your mother. Love her and look after her. Understand?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
Eric stared blindly at his lovely, adorable wife and felt something crack inside. His father had loved his mother unreservedly, there had been no self-interest. He swallowed. ‘I failed my father,’ he said.
Large eyes intent on his, Rowena set her cup on the table. ‘In what way?’
Eric stared at a split in a wooden beam, he had never spoken of this to anyone and it was a battle to get the words out. ‘Father was ill. Before he died, he asked me to look after my mother. It was the one thing he asked me to do. The one thing, and I failed him.’
Under cover of the table, Rowena laid her hand on his thigh. ‘How old were you when he died?’
‘Three, I think, I cannot be certain.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘My memory plays tricks with time.’
She stared at him for the space of a few heartbeats and he felt her hand, gently rubbing up and down on his thigh. The gesture wasn’t sensual, it was soothing—she was offering him comfort. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Eric’s eyes prickled and for a moment he felt as he had done all those years ago, when his mother had left him at the castle gate. He felt as though he’d been stabbed in the guts.
Her veil shifted. ‘Eric, a child of three cannot be responsible for his mother’s welfare. It should be the other way around.’
‘Oddly, when your mother brought me into the hall, she said the very same thing.’
Rowena’s eyes glistened and she bit her lip, and Eric knew she understood what he wasn’t saying. That he had loved his mother, and had tried in his childish way to do his best for her, and she had still abandoned him. ‘Mother told me she guessed you were around six years of age when you came to Jutigny. By that reckoning your father would have been dead for some years.’
‘Aye.’
‘Eric, if you can remember that conversation with your father, you must remember what happened after his death.’
He looked at her, all twisted inside. Everything was a jumble, a painful jumble. ‘I hate Christmas.’
‘Eric, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to.’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘But I think it would help you to talk about it to someone.’
His throat felt parched. Taking a sip of wine, he found more words. ‘I would rather talk to you than anyone, but this is hardly the place.’
‘Later then?’
‘Perhaps.’ Eric lifted her hand to his lips. ‘If I talk to anyone, my love, it would be to you.’
She leaned into him and gave a soft murmur and he could see by the light in her eyes that something he said had pleased her. He squeezed her fingers.
She flinched and drew her hand from his.
‘Rowena?’
‘It’s nothing, my fingers are sore. Too much sewing, I’m afraid.’
Recapturing her hand, he turned it over and examined her fingers. The tips of her fingers looked raw. ‘No thimble?’
‘I used a thimble.’
‘What the devil were you sewing, chain mail?’
Her smile peeped out and her eyes danced. ‘A gift for my husband.’
Gently, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her fingers. ‘No shirt would have done that.’
‘No, indeed. This was quite a challenge. Would you care to see it?’
He lifted his brows. ‘You brought it with you?’
‘Yes, I was going to give it to you on Christmas Day but, given the weather, I thought you needed it sooner rather than later.’
Rowena raised her hand, which must have been a signal she’d arranged earlier, for Sergeant Yder immediately rose and came across. Placing a bundle in her hands, he nodded at Eric and withdrew.
‘Here you are,’ she said and handed it to him.
It was heavy. A green worsted bundle that had been tied with silver ribbon to keep it together. Conscious of blue eyes watching his every move, Eric kept a smile on his face and untied the ribbon. A cloak unrolled, a fur-lined cloak with a silver fastening.
He shook it out and looked at it. It was a fine English wool, the weave tight and strong. Warm. The fur was soft as silk, he’d never be cold again. For the second time that evening, his eyes stung. ‘Mon Dieu, Rowena, it’s fit for a prince.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It must have taken you hours.’
She laughed. ‘Weeks, actually. You’d better make the most of it, I doubt I shall make another like it.’
‘It must have been such a penance sewing through fur.’ Reaching for her, he pulled her against him and kissed her cheek. ‘Merci mille fois—a thousand thanks. I never had anything half so fine.’
Blue eyes smiled up at him. ‘I hoped you’d like it.’
‘Indeed I do.’
Her mouth curved. It was so tempting, Eric didn’t bother to resist. Lowering his head, he kissed her again. Properly. The cloying smell of spices—of Christmas, of pain—faded and he was surrounded by the fresh scent of summer. Rowena. Just Rowena. He drew the kiss out until a choking laugh from Alard recalled him to his senses.
Across the inn, the Jutigny guards looked highly amused.
A man on a nearby table snorted and made a crude gesture with his fingers. ‘There’s a mattress upstairs.’
A girl tittered.
Eric sighed. His emotions might be all in a tangle, but his desires certainly weren’t. He was aching for her. Again. Always. Sliding his hand round her neck, he leaned in again and froze. Some words were hovering on the tip of his tongue. Words he’d never thought to say to any woman. Words that couldn’t be true. I love you. He closed his mouth. No, he didn’t. He couldn’t love her. He was fond of her. He felt affection. He adored every inch of her body.
I do not love her. There wasn’t room in his life for love. Love was a trap, once caught in its toils it would unman you. He would never love anyone.
Love turned to hate. Eric had seen for himself, many times. Holy Virgin, he’d experienced it. His parents had taught him that love was the most cruel of masters. Fathers died. Mothers ran off when offered the chance of a better life. Love let you down. Eric would never love anyone, especially not Rowena, he was far too fond of her to love her.
‘Eric?’ Her eyes, soft and dark and welcoming, searched his.
Pressing a quick kiss to a prettily flushed cheek, he straightened and gave her a crooked smile. ‘We should leave soon, my lady. You are at risk of being gravely disordered if you look at me like that. And tempted though I am to continue in this vein, this tavern is not the place for what I have in mind.’
* * *
Outside, it was dark and bitingly cold. Snow stung Rowena’s face the instant she crossed the threshold, she caught her breath with the chill of it.
Eric grimaced as he swung on to Captain’s back. His silver cloak pin glinted and Rowena’s heart warmed. He was wearing the fur-lined cloak and he looked well in it, in truth, he was as handsome as a prince.
‘I don’t want you riding to Jutigny in this, my love,’ Eric said. ‘You’ll freeze to death.’
Behind them, Rowena’s guard was mounting up. The tavern’s shutters must be cracked, for light flickered through them, striping the snow with yellow. ‘Perhaps we might stay at the inn, after all.’
‘I am not having my wife sleeping at The Sun. There’s only a common chamber and there won’t be proper beds. Bed bugs. Fleas and Lord knows what else.’ He heeled Captain into a walk. ‘I’ll be glad to see the back of the place, I shan’t be returning.’
‘Oh?’
He shrugged. ‘My enquiries weren’t leading anywhere, but I had been trying for some discretion. Your arrival this evening with half the Jutigny guard has put paid to all that. I’ll try another tack.’
Rowena felt her jaw drop. ‘Oh, Eric, I am sorry, I didn’t realise.’ She fiddled with her gloves. ‘I had to know you were all right.’
‘It is of no moment, I appreciate your concern and I have other ideas.’ Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. ‘Put The Sun out of your mind. Count Henry’s palace is only up the hill, we’ll seek shelter there. The palace steward owes me a favour, he’ll be happy to give us houseroom.’
Shivering, Rowena nodded her agreement and shrank into her hood. ‘It’s certainly bitter.’ She was nothing but goosebumps.
It was only a short ride from the market square to Count Henry’s palace, yet it seemed to take for ever. Snow crunched beneath the horses’ hoofs. Above them the wind howled, hurling snow out of a black sky. As they neared the palace gates, Rowena knew that staying in Provins was the right decision. The gatehouse torches lit up drifts of wind-sculpted snow, the approach road was a dazzling sea of white. Everything was frozen and even breathing was a painful business, Rowena’s chest ached.
Not that she regretted coming out on such a bitter night. On the contrary, she felt as though she was on the point of making a breakthrough. Much as he had tried to hide it, Eric had been miserable when she’d arrived. He’d been dwelling on his past. As she suspected, he remembered more about his early life than he’d ever admitted. Tonight she was determined to get him to open up to her.
They drew rein at the gatehouse and, while they waited for the guards to admit them, Rowena made a vow to herself. By tomorrow morning, Eric’s childhood would no longer be festering inside him.
Eric touched her arm. ‘Rowena?’
‘Aye?’
‘Lady Barbara will be concerned when you don’t return home. Yet the weather’s so filthy I am reluctant to send a man back with a message.’
‘I didn’t tell Mama where I was going, she thinks I retired to our bedchamber, so I don’t think a message is necessary. Berthe knew where I was going, of course. She a
lso knows Sergeant Yder escorted me. If Mama speaks to Berthe she will be able to tell her that by now I am with you.’
The tramp of booted feet announced the arrival of Sir Perceval de Logres, Count Henry’s palace steward, and in no time at all Rowena and Eric were ushered into the warm splendour of the great hall. Shortly after that they were shown into a candlelit bedchamber at the end of a long gallery overlooking the hall. The candlelight revealed a bedchamber smaller than the tower chamber at Jutigny. Their breath misted in the air. Most importantly, embers were glowing in a fireplace set in the outer wall.
Rowena headed straight for the fire, dropped a couple of logs on to the glow and stirred it back to life. Eric bolted the door.
Though small, the room was richly appointed. The terracotta hearth tiles were patterned with yellow birds and the bedchamber walls were panelled with brightly painted wood.
Eric was studying the bed, a slight frown in his brow. It wasn’t large for a man of his height, but it was a relief to see a pile of fleecy-looking blankets. Rowena went over to him, wrapped her arms about his waist and smiled. ‘The cold goes deep. I am blessed to have you to help warm the bed.’
He kissed the top of her head and they undressed quickly, laying their cloaks on top of the covers for extra warmth. Then they slipped beneath the sheets and into each other’s arms.
Rowena waited until they had settled before framing Eric’s face with her hands. She looked deep into his eyes. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Will you tell me what happened after your father died?’
Eric’s gaze focused on something behind her and Rowena held in a sigh.
‘Eric, I would feel honoured if you could tell me.’ She smoothed back his hair and kept her voice calm. Much as she burned for him to trust her enough to open up to her, she wasn’t going to push him. ‘But if you can’t tell me yet, I can wait.’
His arms tightened about her. ‘No, it’s all right, it probably is time you learned the truth.’ His lips twisted. ‘Or as much of it as I know. I don’t know it all. After my father died, Mother—’
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