Dragon's Dower

by Catherine Archer

  For a moment, watching him, she could almost feel sympathy toward her newly wedded husband. That emotion was quickly dismissed as her gaze went to Warleigh’s face. There was no mistaking the pride and arrogance she saw there, the confidence. Again she was reminded that her hope of eventually gaining the ear of a pliant husband would never come to pass. The man was nothing more than her father’s prisoner and yet he retained this prideful stance.

  She could not help wondering from whence his self-confidence came. She had always admired strength.

  It was a quality she knew her father lacked, for all his ability to control others. If he had not wrought such misery and pain by his actions she would have felt pity for him. She felt her lips twist wryly. God help her, she did pity him still. Yet she could not allow herself to display it in any way for he would simply use it against her. As he had always used the weakness of others against them.

  That she was his own daughter had no bearing on his behavior. He had no loyalty greater than that toward his own power and greed.

  Isabelle found her gaze going back to her husband. He seemed to have no fear of facing her father. Yet that was no good to her, for he clearly felt nothing but resentment toward her for her part in his imprisonment.

  Then the sound of pounding hooves drew her gaze back to the gate as two more riders came galloping into the bailey. One was quite young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age, with a thatch of unruly blond hair and strong features that were too large for his face. The other was an older man, wide shouldered, gray haired and steady of regard, his bearing and accoutrements marking him a knight. They rode directly to Simon Warleigh and halted.

  The knight spoke to Simon Warleigh, “My lord, we are at your disposal.”

  Warleigh scowled, his wide brow creasing. “I appreciate your sense of duty, Sir Edmund, but I do not require your service at the moment, else I would not have informed you that you were to return to Avington.”

  The knight raised his head high as he held his overlord’s gaze. “Aye, my lord. But there were others who agreed that it would be best if we were to accompany you.”

  Isabelle watched as her husband took a deep breath before replying. “I say again, I do not require your attendance.” His gaze flicked to the young rider, who, from the look of him must be a squire. “You must take Wylie home to Avington.”

  The older man frowned, “But, my lord—”

  Her father’s voice interrupted. “This will not serve.” He made a sweeping motion. “You may not accompany us.”

  They ignored him, continuing to look to their overlord with genuine concern, even love. Isabelle was amazed by loyalty that seemed to have no basis in fear.

  The boy, whom Warleigh had called Wylie, cried, “My lord, we can not go off and leave you to…” His angry gaze raked the assembled company.

  His patience obviously at an end, Isabelle’s father motioned to his men. “Remove them from the bailey.” Two of them moved forward to take hold of the reins of the man and boy who voiced such concern for their master.

  The lad resisted, making his horse dance away from the reaching hands.

  Simon Warleigh again told his men, “Go in peace. Have no concern for me. I will be well.”

  Her father laughed coldly. “Nicely said, Warleigh, but you really have no say in this. Take them.”

  Seeing the way her father was enjoying this display of power Isabelle felt an unexpected sense of rebellion. She had no connection to Simon Warleigh, no reason to set aside her accustomed mask of disregard. Yet it was her own voice that said, “Pray let them come, Father. You are most equal to the task of keeping them at heel.”

  Her father seemed surprised that she would concern herself with such a matter. But he nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, you advise me well, daughter.” His superior gaze then swept the men. “I would not wish for them to think I fear their ability to free their master from my guardianship.”

  Simon Warleigh, her husband, cast her a glance that was at first surprised and then puzzled. But his puzzlement was quickly masked behind an unreadable expression.

  Again she noted that Warleigh’s men had made no visible reaction to her and her father’s conversation. Their attention was all for Simon, who said, “You may accompany me but you—” he looked to the boy “—will remember yourself and do nothing but what you are instructed to do, lest I send you home.”

  The boy nodded.

  Her father said, “You must first consult me before giving any order, even that of sending your men away from Dragonwick. I must answer to the king for your actions.”

  Simon eyed him closely. “As you will, my lord. I will certainly consult you before giving such orders. My instructing my squire against foolhardy behavior should certainly come under close scrutiny.”

  Isabelle had to restrain a smile at the look of shocked displeasure in her father’s face. Once more she was surprised at her reaction to the man’s open defiance of her father. It was admirable, but completely mad. Gerard Kelsey always succeeded in getting what he wanted.

  Had he not succeeded in seeing Simon Warleigh placed beneath his very thumb? Not that she doubted her husband deserved it. From what she had heard in the king’s chamber it appeared he had been caught plotting against the crown.

  Whatever madness had prodded her to interfere between him and her father was now overcome. She had no interest in Warleigh. Her hope of attaining some influence with her husband was dead. Her hope to have a son whom she could love was not.

  She chose not to dwell on accomplishing that deed. Somehow she would find the courage when the time came. Any hardship could be faced in order to see her goal of having a son realized.

  But when would it happen? When would she and…

  No one had even so much as alluded to the coming night.

  Almost of its own accord her gaze went to her husband’s undeniably handsome face. What would it be like—to be taken into his arms, to feel his body against hers? She felt a strange rush of warmth that shocked her.

  As if he sensed her attention, Simon Warleigh’s gaze met hers. His was assessing, raking the sheer silver veil, which was pinned atop her carefully arranged hair, and her face. It then passed over the length of her blue gown, which was visible through the opening of the scarlet cloak she wore. Isabelle knew the gown was overfine for a journey, but she had been so eager to leave that she had refused when her maid Helwys had suggested changing it.

  His gaze did not in any way lead her to believe that he was interested in…

  In point of fact, nothing he had done or said during that painfully tense marriage ceremony or afterward had made her think he had even considered the wedding night, let alone wished for it to happen. Isabelle tore her gaze away from his coolly assessing one as her father called out again, “My horse.”

  At last his squire, Karl, came leading the wildly straining black stallion from the stable. The lad was disheveled as he tried to hold the horse steady and his uncertain gaze fixed itself on her father’s face.

  Isabelle felt her whole body tense at the cold anger she saw there. He strode to the lad, reaching out for the reins with one hand, while back of the other snaked out to connect with Karl’s cheek.

  The squire sprawled in the dust of the courtyard, his hand going to his cheek. There was utter stillness as her father mounted without a glance in the lad’s direction. Into the achingly heavy silence Simon cried, “Are you mad?”

  Her father swung to face him. “You dare not question me concerning my treatment of my own folk, Warleigh. Lest you care to go back and tell King John that his will for you is not to your liking?”

  Seeing the familiar icy fire in her father’s gaze, Isabelle knew how near they were to being taught one of his lessons. Not even Simon could stop him no matter how confident he might be. Desperately Isabelle cried out in a hoarse tone as her eyes met her husband’s, “You have no power here. Pray leave be.” She knew he would see the pleading in her gaze, but cared not. She would spare Karl,
nay all of them, the harsh reality of her father’s enmity.

  Her face flaming with emotions that she could not quite identify, Isabelle was filled with relief as her father flicked her an approving glance and gave the order to ride out. Guiding her horse out onto the road that would take them south to Dragonwick gave her something to do besides think about what would come next between her and Simon Warleigh.

  Chapter Three

  Kelsey ordered the men to stop and make camp before dark had fallen.

  Simon did not question this. He was too occupied in considering the motivations of the woman he had married. And perhaps his own motives as well. For a brief moment, when she had faced him after her despicable father had knocked his squire to the ground for the crime of having difficulty with the horse, he had thought he’d seen fear and pleading in her gaze. It had been that which made him subside, that and his certainty that King John would only uphold the knave’s right to mistreat his folk if he so desired.

  Yet as he had ridden on ahead of his captor, Simon had thought about the actual words she had spoken. Though he’d thought he sensed a hint of contempt along with those other more gentle emotions, Isabelle had surely meant nothing but to remind him her father held power here.

  She had paid him not even cursory attention since leaving Windsor. She rode at the center of the entourage, looking neither right nor left, speaking to no one, obviously completely lost in her own concerns.

  Her father’s acceptance of her words as confidence in his power seemed somewhat dull-witted and self-serving at the same time. Simon had sensed a sarcasm in her he would never have expected. Why would she address her father with contempt, however carefully veiled, on Simon’s account when she seemed disinterested in anything but herself?

  Though Simon wished he could deny it he had been quite preoccupied with her. Each time he glanced up ahead of him he was reminded anew of her beauty. She was enough to take a man’s breath away with the sunlight glinting on hair that, though black, held a hint of dark flame in those glossy tresses. It framed a profile so delicately lovely that it drew his gaze again and again.

  Only once had she glanced back for the briefest of moments. Those amazing lavender eyes had slid over him, her expression seeming strangely uncertain for a moment before her lids cast downward. But when he had watched her even more intently to attempt to understand this, he had realized he must have been mistaken. There was no hint of any emotion in those eyes as they skimmed over whatever passed before them.

  Aye, lovely she was, breathtakingly so, but there was indeed a coldness to that beauty. He would not forget who and what Isabelle was. Even as he felt drawn to her, he suspected that any man who allowed himself to fall victim to her loveliness might have cause to rue such a weakness.

  Deliberately Simon averted his gaze from both Isabelle and her patronizing father as they dismounted and began the evening’s preparations. He fixed his attention on several of Kelsey’s men as they erected two tents.

  He looked away only as Isabelle and her woman entered the smaller of the two tents. Gerard Kelsey beckoned one of his men to his side and motioned to Simon with a sharply voiced command to prevent him from leaving. He then disappeared into the other tent with the watchful knight who never left his side, leaving Simon both relieved and irritated.

  Neither his wife, nor her father had said so much as a word to him. What, then were his sleeping arrangements to be on his wedding night?

  Simon shrugged even as he tried to deny that there was a certain stirring deep in his body at the very thought. In spite of all that he had told himself of her, he was less than certain as to his reactions should she be waiting for him.

  Simon drew himself up. Better to bed down around the fire with the men than to go into the darkness of that tent with Isabelle. He was not concerned about sleeping out under the stars. He had done so many times, under countless skies from here to the Holy Land and back.

  Yet what could he say, if he might be expected to share that tent with her?

  How could he refuse? Simon did not wish to arouse suspicion as to his true intentions concerning the marriage. King John had made his feelings clear. He would not take any defiance lightly. There was no doubt in Simon’s mind that Kelsey would be more than pleased to inform the king that he was not being obeyed.

  Frustrated with his thoughts, Simon turned to his own men, who stood nearby. “Wylie, groom our horses and ready our bedrolls for night.”

  Wylie scowled and looked about at the other men, who were occupied with their own duties. It was clear that he felt uneasy at the notion of mixing with Kelsey’s men, but Simon was confident that no harm would come to the squire with Sir Edmund nearby. He cast the knight a meaningful glance over the squire’s head.

  Sir Edmund nodded almost imperceptibly. “Come along lad, we’ve work to do.”

  Wylie moved to obey. Simon knew it would do well for him to see to his accustomed duties. They must all attempt to find some ease with the situation. But having given over these tasks to his men, he had naught to occupy himself.

  Simon swung around and strode to the edge of camp. He was surprised to feel a restraining hand upon his arm.

  He swung around to meet the determined gaze of the same man whom Kelsey had ordered to watch him. “My lord has bid me keep you here.”

  Simon shook off that hand. He could hear the strain in his own voice, the barely leashed anger. “I tire of proclaiming my honor at every turn. I will not try to escape, but neither will I beg permission to leave this camp for a few moments, no matter what your lord orders.”

  The man frowned, looking toward Kelsey’s tent.

  Simon rolled his eyes. “I am going for a swim. If you value your hand you will take it from me.”

  The man looked at him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I have simply been told to do my duty.”

  Simon nodded. “Aye, and you may say that you have done your best to do so.” With that he turned and stalked away. He had no wish to cause the man difficulty. He was, as he said, only doing as he had been instructed. But neither would Simon submit to Kelsey’s desire to see him completely subjugated. He had indeed been forced to proclaim his honor far too many times in the past two days.

  And all in aid of a man who would not know what honor was did it rear up and bite him on his bony backside.

  Isabelle chafed inside the small confines of her tent, ever conscious of the watchful and worried gaze of Helwys. She decided to occupy herself and the maid by rearranging her hair. But Helwys’s expression did not ease throughout this familiar activity and she finally broached the subject of the coming night. “Will he come to you, my lady?”

  Isabelle was forced to inform her maid of the dismal truth with as much self-possession as she could muster. “I have no idea what is to happen.” It was true that her father had called a halt to their journey rather early in the evening but he had given no indication of why.

  “Oh, my dear lady.”

  Though Isabelle did love the older woman it was sometimes difficult to deal with her worry and sympathy. It was oftimes displayed when Isabelle could least afford any sign of weakness, any hint of self-pity. Such was the case now. She must retain her equilibrium. “My father will inform me of what he wishes for me to do when he wishes it. And not a moment before, as you well know.”

  Helwys put her plump hands to her bosom. “’Tis unnatural, his treatment of you.”

  Isabelle hushed her with a raised hand. “Do not say so.” She looked about them. “These walls are very poor protection indeed to guard against my father’s many ears and eyes. Were he to think you against him he would send you away…or…” Her voice broke as she recalled the beating Helwys had once received at her father’s command, and all because she had dared question one of Isabelle’s lessons. He did not feel that forcing five-year-old Isabelle to sit at table each evening for a fortnight without eating as a punishment for spilling her cup was cruel. She took a deep breath. “We can not risk angering h
im.” Though that had not been the last beating Helwys had suffered by his order there had been none in recent years and Isabelle would keep it so.

  The older woman sent Isabelle a glance that told of just how much she understood. They two had been together since Isabelle was a child, but like everything else that had ever meant anything to her, Isabelle hid her love for the serving woman lest her father, who viewed such emotions as weakness, find some way to use it against her.

  Weakness was not tolerated.

  Even though Helwys desisted, the sadness and worry did not leave her brown gaze. Feeling as if she would surely explode with the tension of staying calm in the face of her maid’s anxiety Isabelle took up her scarlet cloak, saying, “I am going for a walk before it grows dark.”

  Helwys frowned. “But, my lady…”

  She took a quick breath through her nose, speaking with barely leashed strain. “If I do not do something, I shall go quite mad.”

  The wide-eyed maid said no more in the face of this unaccustomed outburst and Isabelle slipped from the tent. She was afforded a measure of privacy as she hurried into the cover of the tall green pine and yew, as well as the rapidly turning ash and willow that grew close to the nearby stream.

  Leaving the sounds of the camp behind, Isabelle took a deep breath, rubbing her hand over the base of her neck. Her cheeks felt hot and flushed. With a sigh she made her way to where the brush was thicker at the edge of the stream, moving forward carefully in order to make certain that the ground was firm beneath her.

  It seemed soft and dense with moss but not unsafe. Isabelle knelt down and reached out to dip her hand in the cool water, meaning to bring it up to her heated cheeks.

  In the very act of bending over, the sound of a splash came to her. Looking toward the noise, she stopped still. There, in the water just a bit farther downstream was a man. He was standing with his bare back to her in the shallows on the opposite bank as he splashed water over his upper body and over his thick, straight dark hair.

  Isabelle jerked back, her hand going to her mouth as she realized that the man was Simon Warleigh. Her husband. The man who had already caused her so much unrest this day.