Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Good. That’s settled.’ Henry rubbed his hands together. ‘Come, then.’ He slid his hand companionably through Fitz Osbern’s arm, beckoned to Hugh. ‘Meanwhile I’ll sample your ale. What do your spies tell you about the west country, Hugh? And you can tell me about Anjou, Ger. I think you were there recently. I expect to sail next month, but would value your thoughts on the state of the peace…’ Off they went, all three of them, in a typical masculine discussion of fighting and castle-building, leaving Rosamund to follow them with despairing gaze. What hope that the King would judge in her favour, when he was arm in arm like a common drinking companion with her enemy? And how was it that the marauding brigand who had stolen her castle was on such intimate terms with the King of England?

  ‘Just look at that!’ she muttered as a loud shout of laughter united the three in unholy collusion.

  ‘I see it.’ Lady Petronilla looked equally stunned, not entirely pleased. ‘Hugh de Mortimer too. Perhaps, Rose, we have underestimated our border lords.’

  ‘I think we have.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ A soft voice spoke in Rosamund’s ear, making her jump. Sitting quietly on her mount throughout the initial greetings, watching the discussion with as much attention as Rosamund, Queen Eleanor had unobtrusively dismounted and moved unobserved to stand beside her. Rosamund hastily turned to face her, uncomfortably aware of her ill manners before this remarkable woman of whom she had heard so much. She curtsied with less than her usual grace, then looked up to see a smile of sheer delight on the proud face and was instantly captivated.

  Although Rosamund had never met the Queen, the tales of her beauty and her scandalous past were legendary. And here she was at Clifford, reaching out to take Rosamund’s hand. Tall, statuesque in figure, supremely graceful, breathtakingly beautiful, Eleanor carried herself with all the regal dignity apparently lacking in her energetic husband. She also carried her years well. No one would believe she was well past her thirtieth year.

  ‘Henry will give you justice, you know.’ Eleanor’s voice was softly persuasive, well-modulated, intimate.

  ‘I doubt it, your Grace,’ Rosamund found herself snapping back, encouraged by the knowing smile. ‘I didn’t know they were such close friends!’

  ‘Not so close, but it’s true they have a long association. Shared battles bring men together. But, I assure you, despite the friendship of soldiers in arms, my lord will not be swayed.’

  ‘Fitz Osbern can be persuasive.’

  ‘But he has not persuaded you, I see.’ Queen Eleanor’s perfect teeth glinted. ‘Are you quite sure you wish to drive him out?’

  ‘I must if I wish to live here myself.’

  The Queen tilted her elegant chin. ‘An attractive man. And unwed, I think.’

  ‘Yes. He has offered me marriage.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I refused him.’

  ‘Truly?’

  The amused interest in the Queen’s face brought colour to Rosamund’s cheeks, but she held her own. ‘Truly. I could not wed a man with a hasty temper and a bad case of arrogance.’

  The perfect lips twitched. ‘Nor I. But come, Rose…May I call you Rose? Excellent!’ Without waiting for permission, she turned her steps in the direction of the keep. ‘Have you somewhere comfortable out of this wind? You can tell me all before my lord sits in judgement. You should know that I am a connoisseur of forceful men. They can be very difficult to handle, but not impossible for a clever woman, as I take you to be. Tell me what can have possessed you to reject a man of Fitz Osbern’s presence.’

  So Rosamund found herself accompanying the Queen to her solar, much pleased and at one with the lady over the subject of dominant and difficult men.

  ‘That man is uncultured and uncivilised. He dresses and behaves no better than one of his soldiers, drinking and carousing with them long into the night. He goes to his bed drunk on ale every night, for all I know.’ Not that she knew the truth of this but it sounded damning enough. ‘The infernal din of their raucous singing deafens me in my own chamber. As does the racket of rebuilding that goes on hour after hour. The dust and the filth, the hammering every hour of daylight continues until my head aches.’ It would not do to admit that the rebuilding and improvements would eventually be to her benefit in strengthening the castle. ‘My commander—in de Longspey employ, would you believe—will answer only to Fitz Osbern and he will not take the man to task over it. And you ask why I refuse his offer of marriage? He’s aggressive, he swaggers around the place as if he owns it, threatens and disturbs me with his shouted orders. He abandoned me and my mother to sit in the rain for a whole day, cold enough to give us both the ague. And Hugh de Mortimer is no better…’

  Eleanor had been settled comfortably in the solar, eased by soft cushions, apologising for her unusual lack of energy. She was well into a pregnancy, as the ladies could now see from the pronounced swell of her belly beneath her loose robes, carrying her fifth child to Henry, but rejected any admiration that she should choose to accompany her husband on his progress. Her constitution was excellent. She had never had a day’s illness in her life. Now she made an appreciative noise as she sipped a cup of Bordeaux. And Rosamund proceeded to make the most of having a sympathetic female ear other than her mother’s, who was not always guaranteed to see her complaints from her point of view.

  ‘A ruffian, in truth,’ the Queen agreed.

  ‘He is. He has threatened to beat me and lock me in my room,’ Rosamund added with relish and fire in her eye.

  ‘Rose…’ Petronilla broke in. ‘You make him sound like a monster.’

  ‘I swear he is. He ignores me at meals…’

  ‘He sounds remarkably like Henry when he is distracted,’ Eleanor agreed. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Probably not. I’m sure I can think of more.’

  ‘Has he no good points?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Rosamund…’ Her mother sighed.

  ‘Very well.’ Rosamund’s pretty lips showed a tendency to pout. ‘I have to give some credit. We had a problem with the water supply that he put to rights.’

  ‘And the Welsh raid?’ Petronilla suggested mildly, enjoying the moment. ‘I think we can put that to his credit.’

  Rosamund flushed. ‘Well, yes. He saved me from an attack by a Welsh raiding party when my mare was killed and I was almost captured,’ Rose informed a startled Eleanor. ‘There have been no attacks since. I know he sends soldiers out daily to patrol the river.’

  ‘That’s worth something, of course.’ Eleanor nodded and traced the pattern on her cup with a slender finger. ‘Does he treat you with respect?’

  ‘No. He ignores my wishes.’

  ‘Hmm. Can you defend this place without him? It’s a matter to consider.’

  ‘Well…’ Rose gave it a passing thought, afraid she would not like the answer if she dwelt on it.

  ‘Your brother said you were to wed Ralph de Morgan.’ Eleanor raised her brows.

  Rosamund sighed. The Queen was remarkably well informed. ‘Earl Gilbert says I must. But I won’t.’

  ‘Very sensible. Do you want my advice? Wed Gervase Fitz Osbern and you won’t have to consider Ralph.’ She held up her hand as Rosamund’s lips parted to deny any such possibility. ‘He has much to recommend him. I know you consider him to be little better than a rough mercenary, but I would rather a man of action, high tempered and virile, than any other.’ She paused, head tilted, then merely added, ‘I think Fitz Osbern could surprise you. Henry certainly surprised me.’ She laughed softly, as if at a tender memory. ‘Many consider Henry to be too blunt, too restless, too foul-tempered. He can be all of those. But all I would say is that appearances can be deceptive.’

  Rosamund studied the beautiful smiling face, the determined set of the Queen’s jaw. Here was a woman who had been wed to the King of France, rejected by him, forced through a scandalous divorce, and then had allowed her eye to fall on Henry Plantagenet, when he was merely Duke of Normandy. A woman who
might be ten years Henry’s senior, but could win his heart and his hand in marriage to make her Queen of England. Would her advice not be worth heeding?

  As if reading Rosamund’s mind, Eleanor lifted her jewelled hands, palms spread. ‘I would be happy to give you some advice, if you wish it. Based on my own extensive experiences, naturally.’

  Extensive experiences? Rosamund, astonished, flattered that the Queen would consider it, and well aware of the rumours surrounding the Queen’s reputation, could do no more than nod her head.

  ‘Sometimes it is necessary for a well-born lady to cast aside maidenly modesty and all the tenets of her upbringing if she is to seize happiness.’ The Queen smiled deprecatingly at Petronilla, who had worked tirelessly, if not always successfully, to instil those tenets of modesty and good manners in her daughter. ‘If she does not, if she fears the gossip and condemnation of society, it may be that the lady is destined to live a lonely and loveless life, until death creeps up and robs her of all her dreams.’

  Struck by the impropriety of this forthright advice, Rosamund was also conscious of the tightening of her mother’s hands in her lap. Of course, this would speak to her heart too. Eleanor continued, hands smoothing over her belly, eyes glinting in memory. ‘My first husband, King Louis of France, was capable of giving no woman happiness. In bed or out. I soon discovered, even as a young girl, that I had married a monk, not a man. And a monk not open to feminine wiles.’ She lifted one shoulder in disgust. ‘He would rather pray than pleasure me. Our marriage was annulled, at his wish and my absolute delight, because he could get nothing on me but two daughters. He needed a son, of course, an heir. He proved to be incapable with me. His excuse was that we were third cousins.’ She brushed his needs away with a sweep of an elegant hand, took a sip of wine, lost in the past. ‘I could tell him the reason for his impotence. How he bored me!’

  ‘And did you? Tell him, that is?’ The detail of Eleanor’s adventurous life fascinated Petronilla as much as it did Rosamund, both unable to imagine such intimate discussions with the King of France. Eleanor had no compunction.

  ‘I did. We did not part on the best of terms. But enough of him. What of me?’ Her graceful arrogance was stunning. ‘I was a great heiress. Twenty-nine years old and ripe for a potent husband. And also ripe for abduction by any European lord who thought he could get his hands on me! There were some who tried, but I evaded them all.’

  ‘So did you return to your home? To your father’s dominion?’ Petronilla understood how painful that could prove.

  ‘My father was dead. There was no compulsion on me from that quarter!’ Eleanor’s face softened as if she knew of Petronilla’s misfortunes. ‘I knew what I wanted. Or should I say who. I wanted Henry Plantagenet. Duke of Normandy he was then. He was very young, of course. A mere eighteen years, but not inexperienced in the needs of a woman. He had already taken my eye when I first met him in Paris. How tall and handsome he was. How vigorous and energetic, and so excitingly masculine. Quite as handsome and vigorous as his father, Count Geoffrey of Anjou.’ The complacent gleam in her eye shocked Rosamund, even more Petronilla, who decided not to ask how this supremely confident woman knew about father Geoffrey’s vigour.

  ‘So, what did you do? Did you…?’ How to put it. How difficult it was to ask the Queen if she loved Henry, enough to make her risk her reputation, to make herself the talk of European court circles.

  ‘Did I love Henry?’ Eleanor helped. ‘Oh, I did. The moment I saw him. And I knew I wanted him. I put myself in Henry’s way and made sure that he was mine, even before my annulment was made. After the annulment, there were eight weeks of legal wrangling and a papal dispensation. Those eight weeks seemed endless to me.’

  ‘It seems very short to me!’ Petronilla announced at this flouting of convention.

  ‘So my counsellors warned,’ Eleanor continue smoothly. ‘But I wanted him and I wed him. I took him to my bed even before the bishop had pronounced his blessing. I was not disappointed. Living with Louis had made of me a nun.’

  Rosamund regarded the Queen, so stately and regal, with new admiration. Flouting convention indeed, she had manipulated her life to suit her own needs. Of course she was rich and powerful, but she had allowed no one to stand in her way. ‘Did you ever regret it? Your marriage to Henry?’ Rosamund flushed at what was a most intimate question, but she needed to know, and did not think that this outspoken woman would rebuff her.

  Eleanor wrinkled her straight nose. ‘Regret? Sometimes he infuriates me, I admit. I cannot manage him as I thought I would. He is too decisive. But then I could not love a man who was a milk-sop. I need a man and a lover with power.’ She tilted her chin in contemplation. ‘Henry has given me sons. He is potent. This is my fifth child within the six years of our marriage and he kicks within me as if he will be like his father.’ Again she stroked her hand on the curve of her belly beneath the fine cloth. ‘Henry listens to me, asks my advice, even if he does not always take it.’ Then she laughed. ‘No. I have no regrets. Who could resist a man such as Henry? There is a fire between us that cannot be denied. I cannot resist him, or he me. I knew it the moment I met him. What a woman can find in bed with a man is all important in life.’

  Rosamund found herself leaning forward to take in every word. ‘So…what is your advice, your Grace?’

  ‘Simple. A woman should use her head and her body to entrap the man she wants. Even so determined a man as Henry Plantagenet. Or even Gervase Fitz Osbern,’ she added slyly. Her laughter filled the room with warmth.

  ‘But I don’t know that I want him.’ Rose scowled down at her linked fingers.

  ‘You do, Rose. I know it.’

  Rosamund’s thoughts scrabbled to make sense of the Queen’s magnificent revelations, as the lady, admitting to weariness at last, retired to rest briefly before the onset of the court. Breathtaking revelations, they were. But it was all very well for the Duchess of Aquitaine to cast off one king and lure another to her bed. What had such advice to say to her? Even if she did want to entrap Gervase Fitz Osbern. Which she didn’t, of course. Was she not doing all in her power to get rid of him?

  ‘I think a mother’s response should be to order you not to listen to any of that!’ Petronilla stated, still in awe of their regal visitor.

  ‘And you didn’t, of course.’

  ‘Well…’

  At the solar window embrasure, the two ladies turned as one to watch the three men make their leisurely way across the courtyard, engaged in some deep conversation.

  ‘I take it, then, that you’re not going to use your feminine wiles on Lord Hugh?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Rosamund let her gaze rest on the broad shoulders and fiery hair of King Henry. ‘She said he was so excitingly masculine.’ But Rosamund’s appraisal of the King was fleeting, quickly moving on to the taller, darker man at the King’s side, with the familiar flutter of awareness. She could well imagine that Gervase would be equally so.

  ‘Do you feel nothing for Gervase Fitz Osbern? No attraction? No affection?’ Eleanor had asked her.

  Affection? That was far too mild a word for what she felt for him, if she were honest. But did she want to bare her heart to the Queen, when she wasn’t at all certain of its state herself? There is a fire between us that cannot be denied. I cannot resist him, or he me. I knew it the moment I met him. All Rosamund could think of, could bring into her mind in that moment, was the force of that first meeting when he had dragged her close, imprisoned fast against him to shield her from danger. And the subsequent occasions when the air between them had shimmered with heat and tension.

  ‘Not affection,’ she had said at last. ‘But…’

  ‘Does Fitz Osbern like you?’

  ‘I think he despises me.’ That was easy to answer.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Eleanor had placed her hand on Rosamund’s arm as she had escorted the Queen to a chamber to take her rest. ‘Some more advice then, from a woman with more experience than you. Let
him have his own way in the ordering of things. And when he doesn’t, make it seem as if he did. A clever woman can manage a man with a smile and lowered lashes to cover a will of iron hidden beneath. I think my lord Henry will decide for you in this case, which will put you at a disadvantage with Fitz Osbern. If you want Fitz Osbern, and I think you do, you must make sure you give him the choice. Let him think he is the victor. It’s always a risk, of course, because he could reject you. But a clever woman can make it very difficult, well-nigh impossible, for a man to do so.’

  And later as they made their way down the stairs into the Great Hall where Henry would hold his court, first halting at the top where Rosamund found herself being nudged by the Queen in a most undignified manner, Eleanor nodded toward the group of men who awaited them, a gurgle of laughter in her throat.

  ‘I see that my Lord of Monmouth has used the past hour most skilfully. Now, I wouldn’t turn a man like that from my bed, would you, Rose?’

  Rosamund had no breath to answer. For the man she saw below her, and so unexpectedly titled, was far from the unkempt common soldier with manners to match who had inflicted himself upon her in recent days. He had fooled her. Deliberately. Outrageously. And she had been entirely taken in!

  Chapter Nine

  L ord of Monmouth?

  The thick black hair, worn so casually, had been washed and trimmed, tamed into a semblance of neatness that curled into his collar, to frame the stern face with its straight dark brows and autocratic nose, all lean planes and stark cheekbones. The fledgling beard had gone too, to reveal a square chin even more forceful than she had suspected. The worn campaigning clothes had been rejected, replaced now by fine hose, soft boots of high-quality leather with side lacings and a heavy knee-length tunic in a deep russet that threw highlights into his dark hair. Hem, sleeve and neck were impressively decorated with thick bands of embroidered silk, shining against the fine linen of his under-tunic. Dispensing with the heavy-duty sword belt, the formal girdle was eye-catching with its trim of metal gilding and a jewelled clasp. An emerald ring glittered balefully on one long-fingered hand. Even beside the impressive stature of King Henry, Gervase made an imposing hard-muscled figure to draw the eye. Against all her instincts, Rosamund could do nothing but stare. Her heart bounded within her ribcage.