“Not poison!” she hissed indignantly. “You are surely quick to condemn me! I suggest that you put hazelwort in the water. It is a strong purgative. It will kill no one.”
Rolfe’s laughter began slowly and turned into loud guffaws. “It would have them fighting each other to get into the garderobes.”
“And those without relief, overcome by strong cramps and vomiting, will be a good deal less vigilant on the walls,” she added.
“Damn me! I would never have thought of such a wicked ploy.” Rolfe was astonished.
“Not wicked if it saves lives, my lord,” she said sharply.
“Agreed. Where can I get hazelwort?”
“I—I have some in my medicine basket, but not nearly enough.”
“You keep a medicine basket?” He seemed truly surprised. “You really are learned in the healing arts?”
His tone implied that he had heard as much, but hadn’t believed it. “There is much of me you do not know, my lord,” she answered honestly. He nodded, but did not want to stray from the subject.
“How is this done?”
“It takes the juice of five to seven leaves to mix in just one drink, but the result is not a gentle purgative, so less might do per portion. You will need many plants, at any rate, and we can surely find them in the woods. I have done so easily. Another way is to steep both leaves and roots in wine. This you should do as well, for if a man can reach the water supply, he can probably also get to the wine vats and contaminate them. It would be safer to dose both wine and water.”
“How long will the preparations take?”
“It is not an easy process.”
“You will have all of tomorrow, and you can make use of every servant here if need be. Will that do?”
His autocratic manner grated on her and she nodded without speaking.
He approached the bed and took hold of her hand. “If this works, Leonie, I will be much in your debt.” He smiled. “After all the trouble you caused me in the past, I am glad to have you on my side. You are not an easy enemy.”
Just when she had begun to warm to him, he had to bring up the past. Still, this was her chance to explain everything to him, and she knew she ought to take it. But his superior manner had caused her to retreat again, and she decided to leave well enough alone. There would be time to explain later, wouldn’t there?
Chapter 22
ROLFE woke Leonie with a long kiss, then inadvertently spoiled the moment by reminding her to begin the work of gathering hazelwort. He failed to note her stiffly set features as he left their room.
After spending such a lovely night, he was in a magnanimous mood. He doubted he could find fault with anything today, he was so happy. Leonie was no longer sulking, and had accepted his apology. The proof of her forgiveness was the offer of help, and he was delighted by her idea.
Help was far from what he’d expected from Leonie. Had their marriage made such a difference to her then? He regretted having married her for the reasons he’d had, because the truth was that if he’d met her before the wedding, he would have wanted her for the right reasons.
He sighed. Could Leonie be feeling the same happiness he felt?
On his way to the chapel, Rolfe stopped and took a good look at the hall. The whole look of the place surprised him, but there was even more.
“Damn me, this room actually smells…pleasant,” he muttered.
“Summer flowers, my lord.” He whirled around. “If only they bloomed in winter, so we could be graced by their fragrance all year round.”
Had Amelia been lying in wait for him? She had, and she spoke without really knowing what Leonie had ordered strewn on the new rushes. But she wanted him to believe the changes had something to do with the seasons, for then he couldn’t blame Amelia for not having done what Leonie had done.
Rolfe smiled. “You have been busy while I was away, Amelia. I heartily approve.”
Amelia lowered her eyes to hide her amazement. Hadn’t Leonie taken proper credit? Had she meant it when she told Amelia the credit would go to her?
“I did little, my lord,” Amelia said sweetly.
“You are too modest,” Rolfe replied. “If only my wife had the same ambition you have. What did she do while I was away?”
“She has spent much time in the garden,” Amelia said evasively, in not quite the same sweet voice.
Rolfe grunted. “I think me she loves gardens too much.” He looked around. “Where are the hounds?”
“They—have been penned.”
He considered that. “An unusual idea, but I can see the merit in it.”
Amelia was gaining courage under Rolfe’s continuing praise. As long as he thought she was responsible for all the improvements, she would not deny it.
“I think you will enjoy your meals more, too, my lord,” she said smoothly. “The cook has been dismissed, and the new one is considerably talented.”
Rolfe and Amelia moved away together, and as they did, they passed Wilda, whose face was livid. She had heard all she needed to. Walking as fast as she could, she found Leonie in a storage pantry near the kitchen, looking over baskets and jars.
“She did it!” Wilda hissed at her mistress. “That terrible woman is taking credit for all you have done. The gall! My lord has only to ask anyone here if he desires to learn the truth.”
Leonie was rigidly still for a moment, and then she shrugged as comprehension dawned.
“Surely you will tell him the truth, my lady?” Wilda urged.
“And let him think I seek praise? No. And he didn’t want me making changes here. He may like what I have done, but if he realizes I went against his wishes, he may not be so pleased.”
“I cannot—”
“We will not argue over this.” Leonie cut her off firmly. “You must help me, Wilda, for there is a task he has asked me to do and it will require much work.”
As the day wore on, Leonie gave a good deal of thought to Amelia and Rolfe. Since their night of love, she had begun seeing her husband in a new light, and come close to forgiving him for their terrible start.
Yet certain truths remained to trouble her, things that went beyond his keeping a mistress in residence. Alain Montigny’s assessment of Rolfe seemed exaggerated now. Hadn’t Rolfe shown consideration for her last night? Wasn’t he trying to win a battle with the least possible bloodshed? Rolfe didn’t seem like a man who would want to hunt down poor Alain and kill him, as Alain claimed. But despite the good things she knew about Rolfe, it wasn’t right that Alain had lost Kempston when he was innocent of any crimes.
Oh, it was all so unreasonable—and the king had forced all of it on her. She had a good mind to write him and tell him what she thought of this interference. But no one questioned the king’s will, certainly not a woman.
Leonie was busy gathering and steeping herbs all day, and when Rolfe came in that evening he was pleased to know that all was ready. He told her that everything was arranged at Wroth, and that he had a volunteer ready to be secreted inside Wroth Keep that night with her concoctions.
What Rolfe didn’t tell her was the initial reaction of his men to her idea. Not a single man had trusted her, and Thorpe was especially vocal about it, sure the plan would bring them disaster, not success. Rolfe remained steadfast, however, and eventually one of the soldiers spoke up, telling the others that he knew from experience that hazelwort would do exactly as Leonie claimed. Once he told his story, Rolfe had trouble telling them the details of the plan because of all the laughter.
But he told Leonie none of this, and she saw only her husband’s grin. His good humor made hers worse. Why was everything so much easier for him?
“You are unhappy, my lady?”
Leonie turned to Mildred, working beside her, extracting juice from the hazelwort. Four tables had been set up in the bailey for the steeping of leaves, while the kitchen staff worked on the wine mixture.
She hadn’t spoken to Mildred in the week she had been at Crewel, though she
knew Wilda had made friends with her. Leonie remembered Mildred from her visits to Crewel when the Montignys held the keep. She had even ministered once to Mildred’s mother. It was a minor thing that Sir Edmond’s stupid leech had been baffled over. But their prior acquaintance didn’t give Mildred the right to pry. How dared the woman ask such a personal question?
“Do you have so little to do, Mildred, that—”
“My lady, please, I mean no disrespect,” Mildred said hastily. “It is my greatest wish that you not be unhappy here at Crewel—for I fear it is my fault that you are wed.”
The declaration was so ludicrous that Leonie’s anger fled. “Your fault? How is that possible, Mildred?”
The older woman’s gaze fell away as she whispered, “I—I was the one who told my lord that you lived at Pershwick.” She faltered, then confessed, “It was then he decided to marry you so he could have Pershwick under his control. I am so sorry, my lady. I would never have caused you grief on purpose.”
The poor woman looked so miserable. “You blame yourself for no reason, Mildred. My husband would have learned what he wanted to know from someone else, if you hadn’t told him. I am the one who caused his attention to be drawn to Pershwick in the first place.”
“But he did not know you lived there until I mentioned it. He was terribly angry to learn that a woman was responsible for his troubles.”
“No doubt,” Leonie said dryly. “But I was responsible, so I have only myself to blame for being here now. Think no more about it, Mildred, you are not to blame.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Mildred replied reluctantly. “But I will pray for you that my lord Rolfe’s temper does not rise again, as it did on your wedding night.”
Leonie blushed, assuming Mildred was referring to her stabbing Rolfe. “I hope you told no one what you saw that night, Mildred.”
“I would never carry tales, my lady, nor would Edlyn. But everyone knows what he did to you. I did not think my lord was a cruel man—hot-tempered, but not cruel. Why, any man who would beat his wife only a few hours after their wedding—”
“What?”
Mildred looked around quickly, hoping no one was listening, but the others only glanced up, then looked away again.
“My lady, please, I did not mean to upset you,” Mildred whispered.
“Who told you my husband beat me?” Leonie hissed.
“Lady Roese saw you the next morning, and she told Lady Bertha, and—”
“Enough! Sweet Mary, does he know what is being said about him?”
“I do not think so, my lady. You see, only the women insist my lord Rolfe did it, though none are brave enough to speak to him about it. The men swear beating a woman is not in his nature, and the disagreement has caused many arguments. John blackened the eye of his wife, and Jugge flung a bowl of stew at her husband. Lady Bertha is not speaking to her husband after the tongue-lashing he gave her, so now he brings her gifts to try and sweeten her temper.”
Stunned and embarrassed, Leonie said, “Sir Rolfe did not beat me, Mildred. If you recall, I wore a heavy veil when I came here. Do you know why?”
“A rash.”
“There was no rash, Mildred. That was a lie, made up…never mind why. My father had me beaten because I refused to marry.”
“Then—”
“My husband is being blamed for something he did not do! I won’t have it. Hear me well, Mildred. I want you to see to it that the truth is known. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lady,” Mildred assured her, considerably surprised by the revelation.
Leonie left her then, too mortified to stay in Mildred’s company. She needed a little time alone.
What, she was wondering, would Rolfe say if he knew what was being gossiped about him? Would he find a way to blame his wife for the unfair talk making its rounds among his people?
Chapter 23
AT dawn, the camp outside the walls of Wroth Keep was quiet. Dreams of victory had followed the men into sleep. The watch reported hourly to Thorpe de la Mare, but the news he was expecting had still not been sent. The camp stirred and came to life just after dawn, but there was little to do. Most of the preparations had been made the night before, so the men waited for word, talking among themselves and getting restless.
At midmorning, Thorpe approached Rolfe inside his large tent.
“It appears the plan has worked. There is so little activity on the walls that they seem deserted.”
Thorpe said it so grudgingly that Rolfe laughed. “You were hoping for different news?”
“I still do not believe your wife would help you.”
“I told you, she wants to spare lives, both ours and those inside Wroth.”
“More likely only those inside Wroth.” Thorpe grunted.
“You will not stir up my anger this morning, my friend. I’m in good spirits. Leonie’s concoctions have worked! Let us go and take Wroth now.”
“You will be careful?”
Rolfe chuckled at the large man’s concern. “You are acting like an old woman, Thorpe. I am not here to take tea. I’m here to secure this keep. But I promise not to sheathe my sword until you tell me it is safe to do so. Does that satisfy you?”
The taking of Wroth was ridiculously easy. As the ladders were scaled, moans were heard. The foulest stench greeted them when they reached the top of the walls. Everywhere men were bent over with cramps or puking up their food. Some of the men tried to fight Rolfe’s men, but they had no strength and resistance was quickly quelled.
In short order, the keep was emptied and the prisoners taken to an area Rolfe had set up away from his main camp. The knight, John Fitzurse, would be held for ransom. The rebellious vassal might have been killed, but Rolfe was feeling a little guilty over the easy conquest, and so was inclined to be lenient.
It was still morning when Rolfe entered his tent and tossed his helmet to Damian. Then he settled down at his improvised desk. It was on his mind to send a message to Leonie, but she might know there was no clerk there, and he didn’t want to write the note himself. He didn’t want her to know he could read and write with ease. That would give her an excuse to refuse to act as his clerk. The sooner she began doing wifely things, the sooner she would accept him.
Thorpe entered the tent, and Rolfe asked, “All is secure?”
Thorpe nodded. “Will you offer the soldiers here what you offered the others?”
“Are they mostly recruited serfs, or hired men?”
“Serfs I think, since most speak only English,” Thorpe replied.
“Then I will offer them what we offered the Axeford and Harwick soldiers. They can stay and fight for me or go. The hired men, too, because the fewer of our own men we have to leave here the better. Who do you suggest I put in charge?”
“Walter Wyclif. He has asked for Wroth, and since Richard and Piers and Reinald want to stay with the army—”
“But I would have given Sir Walter a larger keep, one of those we’ve yet to win.”
“He wants to be settled now. He’s tired of riding back and forth from Axeford Town where his wife is staying. He wants Lady Bertha with him, because he says she causes too much mischief when she’s left alone.”
Rolfe chuckled, but Thorpe frowned. “I would not laugh, my friend. You yourself have a wife who is prone to mischief-making.”
“She’s caused no trouble since she married me,” Rolfe said defensively.
“Not yet,” muttered his friend.
Rolfe was in the midst of defending his wife when they heard horses galloping into camp. As they left the tent, a rider dismounted, nearly bursting with news.
“My lord, Nant Keep has surrendered!”
“What terms?” Rolfe demanded.
“No terms. Their food supply ran out, and it seems they had rationed it so long, they were too weak to fight. The vassal simply begs mercy.”
“I believe my luck has turned, Thorpe,” Rolfe said, grinning.
But as the words left his mouth,
another rider skidded to a halt and shouted, “My lord, your mill at Crewel has been set afire!”
Rolfe glowered at Thorpe. “Have five men ready immediately, but you stay to lead the army to Warling Keep.”
“Sir Piers can lead the army—”
“I do not need a keeper! I will see to the fire myself. Do as I ask, Thorpe.”
Less than ten minutes later Rolfe was riding toward Crewel, five men-at-arms following in his wake. Fifteen miles separated the two properties, and they rode hard, the ancient road leading through forests and open fields.
Rolfe’s large destrier was not bred for speed, yet he reached the area of the Crewel mill well ahead of his men. Pausing beside the rapid stream that cut through the woods north of the village, Rolfe saw dozens of village men as well as several of his soldiers. They were moving slowly, so he guessed the fire had been put out.
He urged his horse ahead, but there was no longer any need to race the wind. He was barely within shouting distance when the arrow struck him. It tore through several chain-mail links and then it lodged in his hip. Rolfe caught a fleeting glimpse of forms slithering away into the shadows of the woods before a full measure of pain washed over him.
Chapter 24
LEONIE was accustomed to seeing blood, even as much blood as this. She had treated many wounds, but she became almost hysterical at the thought of treating Rolfe.
Their eyes met as he was carried, conscious now, into the hall. The look in his eyes froze her. There was fury in that look, furious accusation. Why?
“My lady?”
Wilda and Mildred were looking at her anxiously.
“Yes?”
Wilda said, “Sir Thorpe wants to move my lord Rolfe to his—your—room. Will you see to him?”
“Has he asked for me?”
Wilda could not meet her eyes. “He asked for the leech.”
That hurt more than his accusation. “Then that is that.”
“But, my lady,” Mildred whispered, “Odo is only a barber! I know many barbers have some knowledge of healing and serve as leech, but Odo is a fool. He would rather let a man die than admit he cannot help him. You remember Odo, my lady. He is the one you chastised when he nearly let my mother die.”
When Love Awaits Page 13
