by Maura Seger
"Since you have so speedily solved this problem for me, my lady," Curran said quietly, gesturing toward the new gear already being moved into position, "we will go and talk now. It seems there is even more for us to discuss than I thought." Taking her arm, he guided her outside, not releasing her as they started back up the path to the keep. Sir Lyle, Verony noted distantly, did not accompany them.
They walked in silence for some little way until, approaching the bailey wall, they spotted a large crowd gathering outside. Verony glanced at Curran in surprise, her bewilderment increasing when he muttered: "I have been expecting this."
Drawing closer, Verony was at first puzzled and then horrified to see that the crowd was made up of serfs from the demesne. They milled about silently, mostly men but with a few women and children, surveying the approach of their new lord with blank faces and watchful eyes.
"They must be here to greet you," Verony said swiftly, praying that it was so.
"Hardly that," Curran snorted, slowing his pace so that she could walk more easily. "They are here because of you."
"No!" Verony insisted, even as she feared he might be right. The peasants had neither the endurance nor the training to assert themselves for their own sakes; the struggle merely to stay alive demanded all their strength. But they could be fiercely loyal to those they thought deserving. Through her efforts to improve their lot, and the courage she had shown
over the last year, she had unwittingly earned their devotion. They would not stand by and see her slain, not while they could at least impress upon the earl their unhappiness with such an act.
Little details about the crowd, which she doubted Curran would notice, struck Verony forcibly. Great pains had been taken to scrub away at least some portion of the ubiquitous dirt and to don clothes which, rough though they appeared, were the best these people possessed. The women wore long, simply cut gowns of unbleached or russet wool girded at the waist and falling to their ankles. The men had put on the knee-length tunics normally reserved for church wear. Even the children, dressed like their elders, looked unusually neat and clean.
A lump rose in Verony's throat as she recognized the desperate pride that compelled her people to put the best possible face on a dangerous, even potentially deadly confrontation. More determined than ever to protect them, she took a step forward, only to be stopped by Curran's gentle but firm hand on her arm.
"I would hear what they have to say, my lady," he told her quietly, his tone making it clear he would brook no interference.
As Verony watched apprehensively, he addressed the crowd. "Is there one among you who will speak for the rest?"
A murmur ran through the little group, dying away quickly as an old man stepped forward. Verony bit back her instinctive protest. Not Father Dermond! Not the kindly, stalwart priest who struggled so hard to help his flock through the long years when England lay under papal interdict. She had known him all her life and esteemed him above any other holy man, most of whom seemed interested in nothing more than filling their bellies and taking their ease. Father Dermond's religious vocation was genuine, and his capacity for self-sacrifice seemed endless. Even now, with his stooped and bent body precariously supported by a gnarled cane, his eyes burned brightly and his voice was strong.
"These good people, my lord," he said firmly, "come out of love for one who has many times in the past put herself in danger for them." He looked at Verony gently, his own love and admiration written clear on his weathered face. "There is great concern that you may blame the Lady Verony for a crime she did not commit, and that she may therefore be unjustly punished when she is in fact deserving only of protection and care."
The crowd murmured its agreement, but Verony could no longer restrain her concern. "You are wrong to proclaim my innocence, Father. Lord Curran knows I am responsible for the poaching."
The priest shook his head sadly. "My child, you have already carried far more than your share of this life's burdens. We cannot stand by and see you assume more."
Verony opened her mouth to argue further, but Curran forestalled her. His compelling gaze swept the crowd, drawing respectful silence. "Despite the change that has occurred here, Lady Verony still regards you as her people. That being the case, it is her right to assume responsibility for your actions.
Should you truly wish to protect her, you will return now to your homes and in future you will not violate the forest laws."
"And the lady?" someone found the courage to demand. "What happens to her?"
"Aye, we can't just go off and leave her."
"She's done no harm, lord. Isn't right to blame her."
The men-at-arms, who surrounded the crowd as soon as it appeared, pressed forward. Fear ran through the helpless people, only to be eased as Curran raised his hand. "Enough. You have made your case, and I have heard it. The matter rests with me. Go home."
"Do as he says," Verony added quickly. "If you truly care for me, go now." Her voice dropped, but still rang clear. "There has already been so much suffering on this land. Do not add to it."
The crowd hesitated, but quickly accepted that there was nothing more to be done. Even on such short acquaintance, it was clear the new lord was very different from the old. Any attempt to challenge him would be at best futile and at worst disastrous. Realizing that their resistance would not serve the Lady Verony, they dispersed slowly.
Curran and his men-at-arms, whose ranks were swelled by knights drawn by word of what was happening, watched them go. Not until the last one vanished into the forest did they ease their guard. Back inside the bailey, Curran shook his head in amazement. "Extraordinary! I've never seen serfs behave like that."
"They are good people," Verony hastened to assure him, "hard working and obedient. They will give you no trouble."
Curran grinned at her ruefully. "They gather themselves together to confront me, leaving no doubt that they hold you dear indeed, and you assure me they will be no trouble. I hope you are right, my lady." Thoughtfully he added: "I have no wish to keep the peace on my land harshly. But neither can I allow the peasants to think they have any say in my actions. . . ."
"They don't think that!" Verony exclaimed, unconsciously placing a small hand on his arm in a pleading gesture that did not go unnoticed by Curran. "Believe me, they are loyal and diligent. It is completely out of character for them to act like this. I still cannot quite believe they did it."
"I can believe it," he murmured, looking down at her gently. "They love you, to such a degree that they were willing to put themselves in danger to protect you." Leading her up the steps to the keep, he asked: "Tell me, how did you inspire such devotion? The priest suggested you had done much for them."
"I did very little," Verony murmured, blinking in the dimness of the Center Hall. "There was hardly any way to ease my father's cruelty, but when I did see a chance, I took it." Her chin lifted, showing much of the same defiance he had witnessed twice in her before. "I suppose you think it's wrong to care whether the peasants are hungry or ill, whether their work is excessive or they live in constant terror of capricious brutality. I know many fine lords insist those people out there aren't even human, but I know better. They are just like us, except that we have been raised differently. They laugh, cry, bleed, love . . . just like us. And they possess a spirit of generosity far beyond anything I ever saw at court or in the great homes. They shared everything with me, even to the extent of endangering themselves."
"I can't say I regard the peasants as you do," Curran admitted, gesturing Verony to sit down. Pouring two goblets of wine, he went on: "But I take no pleasure in hurting them." His eyes raked her intensely as he turned back to the table. "I am not like your father."
"Thank God for that," Verony breathed, accepting one of the goblets. She sipped the wine slowly, grateful for the chance to gather her thoughts. Nothing was going as she had expected. The mere fact that she was still alive and relatively unharmed was surprising enough. When she also considered her lack of co
nfinement and Curran's remarkable courtesy, she could only wonder in bewilderment why he was acting this way. To one accustomed to gratuitous harshness at every turn, his behavior was inexplicable.
Curran watched her carefully, understanding much of her thoughts from the emotions mirrored by her lovely face. The sheer beauty of the girl distracted him somewhat, but he managed to concentrate well enough to at least guess most of what she was feeling. When he thought she had recovered enough from her worry over the peasants, he said gently: "Tell me how you came to be in the forest."
Verony looked at him in surprise. They sat close together on facing benches set around the main table. The hall was empty, although sounds filtered up from the kitchens indicating preparations for the evening meal were under way. So well ordered was the household that she sensed they would not be disturbed. The servants would contrive to avoid the hall until Lord Curran's business was concluded.
"Where else would I have gone?" she asked faintly. "When my father died without a male heir and our lands were ceded to the crown, I could not stay here. I knew King John would sell the estate— and me with it—to the highest bidder. Rather than submit to one of his brutish friends, I fled."
This much Curran could understand. The royal custom of selling orphaned girls and widows in marriage was a great bone of contention among the nobility. More often than not, estates went to the king's foreign cohorts, who then bled the land and its people dry. Growing opposition to such cavalier mismanagement lay behind the year-long delay in disposing of de Langford's estate. Verony was right in thinking King John had intended to sell both her and the manor to a grasping interloper who would undoubtedly have abused both. But the same men who were objecting to other royal excesses had put a stop to that, and insisted one of their own be named to the fiefdom.
"By why the forest?" Curran persisted. "Surely there were alternatives?"
"Like what? A convent? None would take me without the dowry price to buy my entrance. Or are you thinking I have some loving relatives who would have sheltered me? There are none." Verony shrugged, a gesture that revealed both bitterness and resignation. "The forest offered my only protection, and the people there gave me the only love and care I have received from anyone other than my old nurse. They took me in, shared what little they had and taught me the skills I needed to survive." A short laugh bubbled up in her throat. "I thought I knew so much, but running a manor and staying alive in the forest are two far different tasks. I was so clumsy at first, and they were so patient." Her eyes fell, settling on small hands that had once been soft and white but were now red and careworn. "I will never forget their kindness, and while there is breath in me I will do all I can to help them."
"A sentiment they apparently share," Curran said gruffly. For several minutes he concentrated on his wine, until he was certain the surge of fierce protectiveness set off by the girl's story was back under control. It would not do for her to see how deeply she affected him, at least not yet.
"So what's to be done with you?" he murmured at last, almost to himself.
Verony stiffened. This was the moment she dreaded. Her grip on the cup tightened as she dared all in a final, desperate effort to survive. "You could let me go . . ."
She spoke so softly that several moments passed before her words penetrated Curran's own thoughts. When they did, his head shot up. "You mean back to the forest? Don't be silly. That's out of the question."
The wine she had just sipped rose to burn the back of Verony's throat. He was right, of course. No man, however even-tempered and reasonable he seemed, would free a self-confessed poacher who had stabbed him. Grimly Verony blocked out of her mind the more brutal details of her father's favorite punishments. She had paced the floor of her room too many nights, helpless to aid the tormented prisoners who screamed their voices away in the dungeons below, not to be fully aware of how much a human being could be made to suffer. But she understood instinctively that Lord Curran did not go in for that sort of thing. When he killed, as he undoubtedly had many times, it would be done cleanly. Telling herself she had that much to be grateful for, Verony silently awaited his verdict.
When it came, such as it was, she stared at him in astonishment. "I'll have to think about it," Curran said tiredly. A smile softened his features as he gazed at her. "You pose quite a problem, my lady. But don't worry, I'll come up with something. In the meantime, may I suggest you take supper in your room and retire early?" His gaze narrowed. "You could do with some extra rest."
He was serious, Verony realized in hopeless frustration. Curran meant to leave her dangling at least another day while he decided her fate. She gazed at him in bewilderment, wondering if she had been wrong about his character. Was this cruelty deliberate, or did he honestly not understand that she would rather get her punishment over with?
No answer was forthcoming as Curran gravely escorted her to the foot of the stairs, bidding her a polite good night before going off to join his men.
CHAPTER 4
"Your father met with Stephen Langton again," Sir Lyle said, shifting himself more comfortably on the bench.
Curran raised an eyebrow. He was not surprised that the faithful old retainer would have this news before he himself received it. Sir Lyle had served the Earl Garrett d'Arcy so long and honorably, as both friend and vassal, that he was regarded almost as a brother. His loyalty was beyond doubt, as was his discretion.
"Where did they meet?" Curran inquired, refilling his wine cup.
"At London. In the same house where they met in August, although this time only the chief barons were present."
"And did the good Archbishop of Canterbury preach the same sermon?"
"Apparently," Sir Lyle said agreeably. "He wants a curtailing of the king's power and a return to the charter of Henry I guaranteeing the rights of Englishmen."
"Everyone knows that charter wasn't worth the paper it was written on," Curran complained. "In fact, there are damn few who will swear the thing is even genuine."
"That doesn't matter," Sir Lyle insisted, eyeing the greatly diminished level of the wine pitcher. "It's just a symbol, a goad if you will, to encourage us to stand up against the king."
"I have no argument with that," Curran grunted. "Was there ever a worse ruler?"
Sir Lyle laughed, knowing they were secure enough to speak frankly. "Not in my lifetime. Old Henry was a tyrant and reprobate, but he knew what was best for the country. Richard I never liked. Too fond of the boys, if you know what I mean. And he enjoyed killing just for the sake of it. Had no interest in the day-to-day running of the country. But compared to John he looks like a saint. God help us, the man grows worse each day."
"He can't fight, can't rule, can't give justice, can't even hold on to two pence at the same time," Curran argued, his speech just a bit slurred. "He wasn't content to bring the wrath of the Church down on us, putting England under interdict and getting himself excommunicated. Just when he's finally back in the Pope's good graces, he goes merrily on his way bedding the wives of his lords against their wills, taxing excessively, betraying every confidence and bond of faith ..."
"But," Sir Lyle interjected, "he provides us with a great opportunity. John will not live forever, but while we still have him, we would be fools not to make the best of it."
Squinting into his almost empty cup, Curran tried to make sense of this. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm saying," the old knight explained patiently, "that John has the barons so angry they will join together to force concessions from him. Concessions that will endure long after he is gone."
"That's true," Curran allowed magnanimously. "But I'd fight John just for his own sake. Even that idiot de Langford had the sense to oppose him. Although strictly for the wrong reasons."
Wondering what had suddenly brought the late baron into the conversation, Sir Lyle gazed at his young friend closely. What he saw did not please him, In the dim light of the shadowed hall, Curran looked rather the worse for wear. His eyes wer
e bloodshot and red-rimmed. His hair was tousled, and he seemed to be having trouble sitting up straight.
Sir Lyle had chosen this time for their talk because the rest of the household was asleep. Supper had been over for hours, the servants were all retired, and the knights and men-at-arms were snoring on their pallets well out of earshot. Even the embers in the great fireplace were burning down as the last torches flared and guttered. Soon the first faint rim of light would show above the eastern horizon and a new day would begin. But before that happened, he wanted to bring Curran up to date on his father's latest news, including the warning from the earl about what might be expected to happen in the next few months. It seemed, though, that such weighty discussion would have to wait.
Sir Lyle was well accustomed to seeing men less than sober; he was no stranger to that unfortunate state himself. But never could he remember seeing Curran, if not actually drunk, then perilously close to it. Cautiously he asked: "Just how much wine have you had?"
"Who knows?" Curran shrugged broadly. "Wha' dif rence does it make?"
"None," Sir Lyle admitted. "You are a grown man, on your own lands drinking your own wine. You can make yourself as ill as you like. I merely wondered what lay behind this."
"Since when," Curran demanded belligerently, "does a man need a reason t'get drunk?"
"Many men don't. But you have always been moderate in your habits. I can't help but think something has disturbed you."
Curran shook his head vehemently, only to stop quickly as if it threatened to roll off. "No such thing. Jus' enjoying myself."
"If you say so," the old knight muttered skeptically. He kept his silence for several moments while working on the problem of what might be troubling his lord. The answer was not long in coming. Although many hours had passed since the Lady Verony was last in the hall, her perfume seemed to linger on the air. Sir Lyle had no difficulty conjuring up the image of her youthful loveliness, unparalleled for beauty and grace despite the desperate trial she had passed through.
