Wolfe swung for his brother’s jaw, his fist glancing off Thomas’ cheek with a reverberating smack. William shouted in pleasure. Thomas fought back. He rolled Wolfe amidst flying fists that quickly found their mark. Wolfe grunted as Thomas clapped the side of his head and Thomas protested loudly when Wolfe tried to bite his finger off. The digit had strayed too close to his younger brother’s opened mouth.
The battle ended as fast as it begun. Wolfe grunted in protest as he was lifted off of Thomas. His feet kicked in the air only to land with a heavy thud on the stone floor. Neither boy was badly bruised, only disheveled from the fray. Guiltily, Wolfe wiped his bloodied mouth and looked at his father, his eyes pleading for parental mercy. It was not to be.
“Attend your duties, son.” The earl pointed to the head table where the adults waited patiently. Wolfe kicked the ground in anger, as he was made to kiss his future bride. Thomas and William laughed in delight as he was made to walk up to the platform. The earl ignored his snickering sons and followed closely behind Wolfe.
As he stepped up to the head dining table, Wolfe ignored the rolled parchment next to the small wooden bassinet. The paper served only as a reminder of things he couldn’t control. Frowning, he glanced at his sister Helena. She had crawled off Robert’s lap and played on the floor near his feet. She looked up at him and giggled in childish amusement. His frown deepened into a scowl.
“Go on,” Robert encouraged in a whisper. His young green eyes shone with understanding, as Wolfe leaned over the cradle to see his sister. It was obvious he didn’t think much of kissing Ginevra either. “Hurry, afore she wakes up and starts to bawl.”
The boys’ mothers shared modest smiles. Wolfe gulped. Leaning over, he studied his future wife--a round baby clad in soft yellow. She was only as long as his arm, with pudgy, pink cheeks that puffed out from her tiny nose. Her lips puckered to suck in dreamlike abandon. Grimacing, he shook his head in denial and took a defiant step back.
“Why do I have to marry ‘er? Why can’t I give ‘er to Thomas? He’s the oldest. He’s the one who’s goin’ to need a wife.” Wolfe glanced dejectedly to his mother, who only smiled and nodded her head for him to follow his father’s order. Already he knew the answer. Thomas wouldn’t be bound by such an agreement because he was the oldest. The earl wanted to be sure they left Thomas’ option open in case there was a shift of politics. And Wolfe, being the second oldest, was the most logical of choices to unite the manors of Whetshire and Southaven. It would strengthen the ties of the land and help to build a secure future for all those involved.
Understanding didn’t make it easier.
With a sigh, he glanced back down. Ginevra’s eyes opened. The round green orbs looked at him curiously from underneath silky black lashes. Quickly, he puckered his lips as he leaned over to kiss the baby’s soft cheek. The baroness flushed and laid her hand proudly over her heart. The men nodded in satisfaction as they clasped hands.
Ginevra gurgled and her lips twitched into a softened, toothless smile. Drool spilled over her lips and chin. Wolfe felt himself melt a little as he looked at her. But, then, he hardened as he heard the snickering laughter of his two brothers behind him. His face turned into a disgusted scowl.
“She smells!” he exclaimed loudly with an offended wrinkle to his nose. Ginevra began to cry, her tiny fists pounding her displeasure into the air. Her shrill voice rang over the hall, as her mother rushed forward to lift her into the protective enclosure of her arms. Wolfe ignored his bride and stalked from the table to once again pummel his brother.
Chapter One
Southaven Castle, Southern Wessex, 1179 A.D.
Ginevra 8 years of age, Wolfe 16 years of age
The sprightly, young girl ran through the bailey courtyard, curving around the bodies of peasants and servants as they went about their chores. Her long, white-blonde hair flew about her shoulders as a beacon of warning to those who would get out of her way. Her legs were clad in a pair of old breeches and a large tunic shirt hung loosely on her thin frame. Her arms pumped faster as she raced forward through the clasped hands of young lovers and under a woman’s basket of turnips. And then, with a strong leap from bared feet, she flew over a pile of loose hay being pitched near the stables.
The stable lads looked up from their duties to smile after the castle nymph, as she raced beyond their tedious work. It was always so at the peaceable Southaven. As they turned back to scoop the horses’ morn meal into the stables, they could hear the merry tune of her laughter tinkling from afar.
The sun was just beginning to peak over the thick wall of the bailey. Ginevra let her lips curl in a triumphant smile as she looked over her shoulder to gloat at Robert. Then, unexpectedly, she crashed into a warm body, tumbling over. The young boy, whose chest rudely halted her progress, stepped aside and let her fall to the ground. Panting, she looked up to glare at whoever had gotten in her way. She heard Robert laugh as he flew past her to touch the gatehouse.
“Watch it, urchin!” the older boy said in amusement with his hands on his hips. Brown eyes laughed mischievously down at her as she huffed in fury.
Ginevra hiked up the sleeves of the undertunic she’d stolen from her brother and shot the obstacle her nastiest glare. His thin body was framed by sunlight, but she could see the fine cut of his expensive linen tunic and the proud tilt to his aristocratic head. Not stopping to think of who he might be, she pushed herself up from her backside onto her feet. Her chest rose and fell as she pushed her finger into his chest. The defiance only made him laugh harder. An easy smile came to his lips, but his charm was lost on her.
“I should thump you fer makin’ me lose!” She stiffened in anger and placed her hands on her hips, widening her stance. Her hair was wild about her shoulders, her face was smudged with dirt, and she was dressed as a lad in a wool tunic.
“Thump me? You’re just a babe.” The boy studied her for a moment with cool brown eyes that sparkled in his impishness. “From the tips of your toes to your rosy round cheeks.”
Ginevra gasped.
“Get to your cottage, peasant babe.” The boy laughed harder. “I think your wet nurse must be looking for you.”
Ginevra’s mouth dropped open at the insult. The boy didn’t wait for her to reply as he held his hand up in familiar greeting to her brother. Robert was fast approaching from the gate. She frowned as Robert clasped the boy on the shoulder in friendly gesture.
“Robert!” The boy gave an arrogant toss of his chin length hair. “I hoped you would be here! I brought a new palfrey my father bought me to breed with your father’s mare. It’s of the finest stock. I thought we could ride him later.”
“Ho, Wolfe,” Robert answered with a wave of greeting. Ginevra felt the color drain from her cheeks at Robert’s words. “Is he in the stables?”
“Yea!” Wolfe paid her no mind, not even to glance in her direction as he walked to the stables. Yelling over his shoulder, he cried so his friend could hear, “My father’s in there now! I think they are going to breed them. Want to watch?”
Robert nodded in boyish mirth at the prospect. Leaning over to her, he whispered, “Now you have to wear a tunic gown, Gin! And do your hair like a lady.”
“It would be you wearin’ the gown, Robert, if not for him knocking me over! I had you beat better than a fur rug set for cleanin’!” Ginevra stuck her tongue out at him as he swaggered toward the stables. Crossing her arms over her chest, she pushed her lower lip into a pout. Inside her heart pounded wildly. Her chest lifted in angered pants. In all the eight years since her father betrothed her to Wolfram of Whetshire, she had never seen him and rarely thought of him. And now that she met him, she was fighting mad.
* * * *
Ginevra glared in defiance, making a face at the back of her mother’s perfectly wound hair as the baroness led the way down the stairwell to the main hall. She nearly refused to move under the weight of the tunic gown. Her mother had ordered the gown sewn especially for the occasion, since Ginevr
a had cut up all her other dresses into shreds and used them as ropes. For that reason alone, she hadn’t been told about the gown until a moment before she was to put it on, and she hadn’t been told about her intended’s visit until it had been too late. But Ginevra didn’t care. She hoped she scared the horrible boy away.
The gown hung loose on her girlish frame with feminine embroidery at the simple rounded neck. It was made of the finest cream-colored linen with sleeves that fit down to her wrists. Her mother lent her an elongated fabric belt that hung to her ankles. She pushed the belt to swing with her knees as she walked. Her hair hung loose in whitish waves down her back. Ginevra had fought it, but in the end her mother had combed it free of tangles.
Taking a grudging step down, Ginevra spied the banner hanging on the edge of the great hall where everyone would later gather to dine. The banner was of her family’s crest--the bright golden cross over a slash of blue on a sea of orange.
Her mother led her forward insistently, past the opening of the stairwell to the dining platform where the Earl of Whetshire and his family gathered. Ginevra grunted, digging her finger inside her ear to poke at an itch.
“Ginevra!” the baroness scolded softly in aggravation. She jerked her daughter’s hand down. “Stop that at once. Act like a young lady!”
“No one saw,” Ginevra grumbled, rolling her eyes.
She turned her attention to the head table. Spotting Robert, she braced herself as she watched her brother’s face. As soon as he saw her in a dress, he grabbed onto his sides and laughed dramatically. The baron shot him a look of warning before cuffing him soundly over his head. Robert only laughed harder, all but tumbling to the hard stone floor in his exaggerated merriment.
Ginevra stuck her tongue out at her brother and narrowed her eyes. Her mother pushed down on her arm to get her to stop. Scornful, Ginevra lifted her chin as she turned to the three boys and one girl sitting near Robert. Already, she knew Wolfe from their earlier encounter. She ignored him and the bemused expression he had on his face when he recognized her.
“Ah, Ginevra!” the countess exclaimed with a smile. Her easy manner was warm and her pleasant green eyes shone with approval. She stood from her seat and moved down the platform. Touching Ginevra under the chin lightly, she smiled as she dusted a smudge of dirt from her cheek.
Lady Jayne made a small sound of displeasure. Ginevra glanced up as her mother pushed down on her shoulder, reminding her to curtsey. The baroness shot an apologetic look at her guest with a dignified nod of her head. Ginevra curtsied dutifully, feeling awkward in the gown.
“My how you have grown child! I haven’t seen you since you were a wee babe.” Lady Isabella grinned, as she let go of her chin. Then, turning to face her own children, she beckoned them forward for quick introduction.
Thomas was heir to the earl’s title and lands, and was a year older than Robert. His green eyes shown with disinterest as he expertly bowed over her hand. Except for his eyes, which he received from his mother, he looked like his father’s son.
Next was William, the youngest. He had flaming red hair and an easy smile. He looked like his mother, except for his father’s eyes. He was a strange opposite to Thomas. He carried himself well, but shot her an inoffensive smirk as he bowed over her hand. Ginevra smiled back, instantly liking the boy.
Then came Helena, the youngest of all the children, with the same coloring as William. She curtsied politely. Her tunic gown was impeccably smoothed and her hair curled over her shoulders with girlish perfection. She stepped back without comment. Ginevra decided she didn’t care much for the snotty Whetshire girl.
And finally, Wolfe was called forward. He frowned at her, not bothering to take her hand as she curtsied before him. Her dirty bare feet poked out from underneath the dress as she did so. As he witnessed her bare feet, he stated loudly, “I can see your dirty toes.”
Ginevra shivered, struck speechless by the unexpected jibe. Lady Jayne gasped, instantly looking at her daughter’s offending feet. The boys, along with Lady Isabella, giggled. Helena pressed her hand to her chest in feminine amusement and unconcealed disdain. The earl sternly frowned and the baron covered his smile as he studied his little hoyden.
Ginevra pressed her trembling lips together, staring down the calm look of her future husband. His eyebrow arched in silent challenge and a smile slid to the side of his mouth. Then, as tears silently welled in her rounded eyes, she ran from the hall.
* * * *
A gentle spring breeze flitted over the courtyard while sprinklings of sunlight danced through the thick blanket of clouds stretching majestically across a pale sky. The warm earthen floor of the courtyard was alive with activity as servants scurried about their business. Some women hauled baskets of laundry and others carried vegetables from the garden to the kitchen. One kitchen servant carried live chickens, two pairs of legs gripped in each of her weathered hands. The fowl jerked and squawked resentfully against her hold as they fluttered about to be free.
The morning drew to a close as the sun pushed higher over the bailey wall. The raised stone surrounded the courtyard, looping about from one side of the main castle to the other in an oval shape. Built into the inner face of the stone ring were the living and service quarters. Some quarters were made of stone, like the main castle and hall itself, but mostly they were built of timber. Atop the wall that stood several feet wide was the walkway surrounded by battlements. Going up any of the corner spiral stairwells one could reach any of the various floors, go to the roof, or to the battlements to walk the entirety of the wall in a complete circle with it dipping under an arch as it passed by the main castle.
A small chapel built of dreary gray hosted a separate courtyard. This courtyard lay dormant with a floor of hard stone and housed a circular bench where Ginevra often came to sit. Sniffing, she hiked her skirt up to expose her dirty feet and the pair of breeches she wore underneath the gown. Setting her feet next to her on the bench, she lounged back and curled her toes against the rough texture of the stone.
“I told you she’d be here,” Ginevra heard her brother whisper. She pushed her chin further in the air, refusing to cry and pretended not to hear him.
Someone cleared his throat behind her. She swung around until her feet landed neatly on the ground. Seeing Wolfe, she scowled. “What do you want? I hope it’s to call off our betrothal.”
Wolfe looked uncomfortable as he held out a flower to her. At her words, a frown creased the sides of his mouth. Not sounding at all convincing, he said, “I’m sorry for looking at your feet.”
Ginevra nodded and took the flower with a trembling hand. Not even her own father had given her a flower before. Hating the blush that threatened her cheeks, she looked at the pretty token with its yellowish center and pretty pink petals. Sighing in forced disinterest, she tossed it over her shoulder and stood.
Wolfe stared at his rejected token in displeasure. He opened his mouth to speak, but she ignored him by whirling in the other direction. As she stormed off into the chapel, he followed her. His father’s order had been clear. Either he made up with the girl, or the new palfrey would be given to her as a gift.
“I said I was sorry,” Wolfe said as he followed her under the drab gray archway. Jogging, he caught up to her just in time to be scolded.
“Shhh!” Ginevra hissed with a wave of her hand. They were alone in the chapel. She looked up at the narrow window filled with thick colored glass in the shape of her family crest. A streak of blue light fell across her pale childish face. Whispering under her breath, she said, “We are in a chapel! You have to be quiet or God won’t hear you.”
“I don’t want God to hear me. I want you to.” Wolfe sighed in exasperation before crossing over to her. Taking her by the arm, he tugged her gently. Ginevra looked at his hand. Whispering in her ear, he said, “Come on, then. Let’s go to the yard.”
“Don’t you like chapels? Or do you worship the devil?” Ginevra asked with a toss of her white-blonde hair. The
tresses reached down her back to her hips. The taller frame of her intended dwarfed her slender body as she looked boldly up to him. Her emerald gaze showed no fear.
“Come on,” he grumbled as he pulled her back out into the sunlight. Shaking his head, he frowned at the young girl. When they were free from the solemn chamber, he said, “I don’t worship the devil. Someday I’ll go to the Holy Land to fight the devil. I’m going to reclaim Jerusalem from the heathens just like the first crusaders.”
“I didn’t know you were a knight yet,” she stated with a touch of awe. Quickly, her opinion of him changed. They had all grown up hearing tales of the Holy Crusades. It was whispered that Richard, son of King Henry, was going to someday finish what the other crusaders had started. “Will you teach me to use your sword? Can I be your squire and ride with you to the Holy Land? I should very much like to fight the heathen devils.”
“I’m not a knight, yet,” Wolfe answered, falling into stride next to her. “But I will be after the king comes. And then the whole lot of us will go--me, my brothers and even Robert!”
“Robert won’t go,” Ginevra returned with conviction. She didn’t like the idea of her brother leaving for so far away. Already he had been gone for a long time to the earl’s to train for knighthood. Even if the earl let him come home for the winter feast, it didn’t make up for the rest of the year. “I don’t want him to.”
Wolfe chucked at the certainty of her words but said nothing.
“So will you take me with you there?”
“War is no place for ladies,” he answered.
“I’m no lady.” Ginevra wrinkled her nose. Her tone dared him to disagree with her. “I’m your squire and I wish to go with you.”
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 41
