by Anne O'Brien
‘Well, Owen?’ she repeated. ‘What does Fitz Osbern have to say about this unlawful attack on my property? Don’t look so nervous. I shall not eat you. Not yet at any rate, it’s too early in the day.’
Owen grinned sheepishly as he dismounted and bowed low. Bryn trotted over to sniff her skirts and receive a pat of welcome, her fingers sliding over the smooth coat. She might despair of his master, but that did not mean she should take her irritation out on the hound.
‘I am to deliver this message, my lady.’ He drew a breath as he remembered the memorised words. ‘It is not my lord’s intent to storm the castle by force, but take it he will. He would rather do so without conflict. In recognition of all that is between you, he offers his dedication and service to you, lady, if you would have it so, and requests your hand in marriage. In recognition of this he bids me to give you this…’
He sank to one knee in exquisite deference, thrust his hand in his tunic, and held out the wrapped package as if it were a snake.
Rosamund found herself glaring at the innocent gift. Or was it innocent? This was not the first time he had raised the subject of marriage between them. But before, when they had stood on the ramparts, she waiting for the King’s reply, it had been placed before her as a pragmatic solution to an otherwise insoluble problem. This was different. Was this not a stark choice she was being offered? Marriage or forceful eviction from her home? Or was Fitz Osbern offering something other…? She stripped the wrapping from the flat parcel, allowing it to fall to the ground.
‘The Lord of Monmouth is indeed a cunning man.’
In her hands rested a pair of exquisite gloves, carefully, deliberately offered to her by Owen in a gesture of homage. A clever sign that Gervase recognised his debt to her, that she had come to his defence before Henry. A pretty conceit of chivalry, in which he was clearly well versed. Oh, he had tricked her well, had he not?
‘And this will win my hand and my castle?’ Owen shuffled uncomfortably as she turned her magnificent glare on him. ‘I should lock you in my dungeon for your impertinence.’ She saw him gulp and was sorry for her brisk words. ‘Except that it’s not your fault, is it?’
‘No, my lady.’
Delighted in spite of everything, Rosamund gave her attention back to the gift, examining it carefully. She had seen such craftsmanship before in the merchants’ houses in Salisbury. High-quality Cordovan leather, she suspected, and much prized, beautifully stitched, the gauntlets skilfully embroidered in gold silk thread. Any woman would be enchanted with such a love-gift. She could imagine their close, silken fit on her fingers…
Stern faced, hardening her heart, she commanded Owen, ‘Tell your lord that I refuse his magnanimous offer. The castle and my hand are worth more than a pair of gloves.’ Stooping to recover the wrapping, she re-wrapped them, carefully, because they were a beautiful thing and she coveted them. And held them out.
‘My lady.’ Owen bowed again, remounted and retreated, obviously in some relief.
‘Did the lady refuse?’
‘She did, my lord,’ Owen reported. ‘Lady Rosamund said that you were a cunning man—and that her castle and hand in marriage was worth more.’
‘I thought she might.’
Gervase took back the package and stowed it carefully in the travelling chest in his tent, struggling against his natural impatience. Yet not entirely displeased or unhopeful. Had he expected Rosamund de Longspey to throw herself at his feet quite so readily? She would not be the woman he loved if she had. But early days yet, after all.
Is this the right path to Rosamund’s heart?
God’s wounds! He sincerely hoped so. How had it come to this, when as Lord of Monmouth he could have his pick of any number of well-born girls from influential families as his bride? And he had to become besotted with a red-haired vixen! Attempting to woo a hostile lady when engaged in a siege against her was the devil’s own task. What if she would never open the gates? He grimaced. He would not consider that unpalatable possibility.
‘What are they doing now?’ Petronilla asked as she joined her daughter at the gatehouse.
‘Nothing.’
It was infuriating. Rosamund folded her arms, narrowed her eyes to discover any sign of activity in the camp, then tapped her fingers restlessly against the wall. How could she be expected to talk with him, come to some arrangement to both their satisfaction—she swallowed against the sudden heat that flowered in her belly and sent shivers over her skin at the prospect—when he was camped out there and she was walled up inside? Not that she wished to, of course! When they had lived cheek by jowl, compromise had proved to be an impossibility. How could affairs between them be any different now? She sighed a little. She would just have to get used to Fitz Osbern doing nothing on her forecourt. This could be a long siege. But if he thought she would weaken, he was wrong!
‘Good morning, Owen.’ Rosamund smiled.
‘A message from my lord. And this, my lady…’ Owen handed over a little leather-covered box. ‘My lord says that he will not give up his chance of winning your consent. He hopes you will reconsider.’
The sun, mild enough to promise the approach of spring, set a fire in the heart of the jewel in the box. It was old. A family piece, she suspected, as she tilted the case to allow the light to glimmer over the clever setting, momentarily astonished that he would give her so important a gift if it had belonged to some long-dead Fitz Osbern lady. A brooch from the days of the Conquest, set with pearls, ornamented with enamels, created by clever fingers to hold a mantle firmly in place. Its heavy gold was made more delicate with a fine filigree edging. In the centre was a dark blue stone, a sapphire by the fire in its heart.
‘My lord says the sapphire will compliment you colouring, lady.’ Hand formally on heart, Owen faithfully repeated the words as instructed.
Rosamund looked up with a keen glance. ‘Owen…what did your lord say when you returned the gloves?’
‘That he expected no less, lady.’ Then flushed as he realised the uncomplimentary nature of his honesty.
But Rosamund raised her hand to brush it aside. ‘Tell your lord that, no, I will not reconsider.’
Regretfully she handed back the ring brooch, perversely charmed by this unorthodox wooing, if that was indeed what it was. Owen’s nervousness had also become a thing of the past and, although he took the brooch, to her amusement he persisted.
‘My lord asks that you will consider the advantages to ending this impasse,’ Owen announced.
‘This impasse will only be ended when your lord takes his soldiers and returns to Monmouth,’ replied Rosamund.
Rosamund did not even stay to watch Owen return to camp. She walked thoughtfully back toward the keep with Petronilla, who had been equally thoughtfully and silently present throughout the exchange, considering the advantages of intervening, keeping her company. The silence became too much.
‘Say it, Mother.’ Rosamund came to an abrupt halt. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘I doubt it, dear Rose. Only that I wish Lord Hugh would send me such a gift. It was exquisite,’ Petronilla replied mildly, abandoning any thought of giving her opinion since her daughter was clearly of an edgy turn of mind. Nor did she feel a need to mention the letter discreetly passed to her by one of the escort, now hidden beneath her mantle, a much-desired letter that she would read privately later. She found the days just as long and wearing on the nerves as did her daughter. When Lord Hugh was so near, but too far for any communication, it was almost tempting to ride out of the gates to meet him…But enough of that. First she must sort out her daughter’s prolonged courtship. For that is surely what it was, even if Rose insisted on seeing it as an attempt to buy her off.
‘It’s just a ruse to get his own way!’ Her daughter, if nothing else, was predictable.
‘Yes. I expect it is.’ The Countess laughed softly, which drew a fulminating glance from Rose. Who would have thought the Lord of Monmouth would have a turn for the romantic? Perhaps
this would not be the best time to point it out to the furious lady whose heart was clearly being rent in two. Which she would also deny.
‘The squire’s here again, my lady,’ Sir Thomas informed her, before stomping off, muttering about the strange ways of some of the nobility.
Her heart struck a heavy beat. Abandoning any pretence at being busy elsewhere, Rosamund covered the distance across the bailey with undignified speed, untucking her sleeves and over-skirts, not even staying to catch up a mantle.
‘What is it today?’ Was it so perverse of her to enjoy these moments? To appreciate what Gervase might send—and then refuse it? Always wondering what would happen when he abandoned this careful campaign of persuasion. ‘Is it some exotic trifle from the east?’ Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at Owen where he sat, still mounted, just within the gate. ‘Another jewel or a length of silk? Or perhaps even a popinjay?’
‘No, lady. None of those. This gift was brought especially for you from my lord’s own lands in Monmouth.’
Solemnly, Owen dismounted, approached, and with a bow presented the bridle to her.
‘Oh!’
At the end of the bridle stepped a perfect little mare. Dark bay, with a polished coat and a soft eye. She tossed her head and snorted, side-stepped in a flirtatious manner as if perfectly aware of her own importance and exquisite beauty.
‘Oh, no!’ How could she possibly reject such a gift as this?
‘There is no message, my lady. My lord says the mare speaks for herself.’
Drawn forward against all her good intentions, Rose stroked her hand down the silken neck, patted the sleekly rounded shoulder. And instantly fell in love.
‘I can’t keep you,’ she whispered, resting her forehead against the warm coat, her hair mingling with the rough mane. ‘Damn him for sending a gift I would find almost impossible to refuse! I love you already, but I cannot…’
The mare rubbed her nose into Rosamund’s shoulder as if she would persuade her to reconsider. It would have taken very little. He had remembered her loss, and chosen to give her such a particular gift. Gervase Fitz Osbern knew exactly the way to her heart. Even if the mare were not so very pretty, it would take a harder heart than hers to fling the gesture back in his face. Yet she must not weaken, despite his magnificent consideration. Tears pricked behind Rosamund’s eyelids.
‘You are so beautiful, so perfect…’
And then before she could shame herself in the eyes of the interested garrison, she picked up her skirts and fled to the empty solar, tears streaming down her face. Leaving Petronilla, who was not too disturbed by all this, to send Owen back, with kind words, and the little mare.
The gift of the mare proved to be Rosamund’s undoing, forcing her to face a difficult reality. Until that moment she had managed against all the odds to keep her heart stony in its rejection of Fitz Osbern, dwelling on his male intransigence. His craftiness. The sheer calculating dishonour with which he had disobeyed the King and besieged her. His underhand scheming in presenting her with such tempting inducements to hand herself and her home over into his control. But now she wept as she had not since her own mare fell prey to Welsh arrows. He must have remembered her grief, her sharp loss. He had sent her one of his own. How could she remain unmoved in the face of such thoughtfulness? And yet she had still sent the beautiful animal back. Was her pride so misplaced? Should she not simply abandon her defiance and open the gates? Was she not being foolishly wilful in resisting all this time? She clenched her damp fingers into fists of frustration. What was stopping her from grasping at what her heart told her was the thing she most wanted in all the world?
But the reply that sprang into her mind was stark.
How do you know that he will not inveigle you into opening the gates, thank you with supreme arrogance for returning his property in one breath, then callously rid himself of you in the next? There is no guarantee. Not after you have been so difficult and obdurate since the day you first met. You dare not risk it. How can you even trust his offer of marriage?
How do you know that his heart is as completely engaged as your own? He never spoke of love, did he? You might have lost your heart to him, but how do you know that Gervase even has a heart to lose?
Rosamund fought against the well of tears at the bleak picture.
You know because he cared enough to give you a little silken-mouthed mare!
The tears welled and flooded down her cheeks again.
‘This can’t go on, dearest Rose.’ After dispatching the mare with a final reluctant pat, Petronilla had run her daughter to ground and now took her hands in hers for comfort. ‘It’s making you too unhappy.’
‘I know.’ She turned her face away, conscious of her ravaged looks.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I can’t just give in to the gifts, the offer of marriage…’
‘Why not? It seems to me that it would not be such a disaster.’
Rose set her teeth at the gentle humour in her mother’s voice, knowing that there was no point in evading the issue. The Countess could be decidedly determined for a lady of so gentle a mien. So she might as well face the truth.
‘I can’t because he has never said he loved me.’
‘Oh. I suppose it matters.’
‘How can you ask it? You know what it is to be trapped in a loveless marriage.’
‘So I do. Do you love him?’
Rose sniffed, again considering evading the issue, then under her mother’s keen scrutiny, gave up. ‘Yes!’
‘Well, Gervase never will tell you one way or the other unless you give him the chance. He’ll hardly announce the state of his emotions by herald from outside the walls, now will he?’
‘No. And even face to face, he’s more likely to offer me an alliance, publicly in the Great Hall, all signed and sealed with witnesses, like a peace treaty. Unless he changes his mind and sends us on our way, of course.’
Petronilla clicked her tongue against her teeth at what she clearly saw as defeatism. ‘Then arrange it so that he can’t.’
‘Can’t what? Offer an alliance or send us packing?’
‘Both! Either! Have I brought up a daughter of mine to be so lacking in spirit? We can’t keep on with this, Rose. We could be here, receiving and returning gifts, until we are old and grey, especially me.’
Which, as intended, made Rose smile. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive my selfishness. Do you want me to arrange free passage for you? I know he would allow it. You could be comfortable settled at Lower Broadheath within the week.’
‘No, that’s not what I want. I want your happiness, Rose.’
‘I want love, not gifts,’ Rosamund said regretfully. ‘I want his heart, because, without doubt, he has mine.’
‘Then tell him!’
‘How can I? Do I open the gates and cast myself at his feet? I have my own pride too.’
‘And too much of it, I think.’
As her mother departed with barbed comments about daughters who did not know what was good for them, Rosamund was left to wonder, even if she could open her heart to him, how would he ever forgive her for all she had done? Her intransigence. Her humiliation of him by inviting the King’s interference. So he had kissed her, possessed her, but lust was not love. Then, when tears threatened again, to her shame that she should be so weak, Queen Eleanor’s advice hovered at the edge of her mind, nudging her memory.
You must be mad to let a man like that go.
I don’t want to let him go. That’s the whole problem!
A man has his pride. Let a man think the desired outcome is of his own devising. A woman should use her head and her body to entrap the man she wants. Even so determined a man as Gervase Fitz Osbern.
As the echo of Eleanor’s confident laughter filled the room with warmth, Rosamund’s tears dried with astonishing rapidity. The advice from the Queen kept her thoughts occupied for some considerable time.
If only she dared put the advice into practice.
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br /> ‘She’s not taking the bait, Ger.’ Hugh gave the mare an affectionate smack on the flank as she was led away. ‘I thought the mare would do it.’
‘I know. So did I.’ Gervase considered the travelling chest containing a pair of gloves and the brooch. His horse lines now must provide stabling for a homebred blood mare.
‘How many more gifts do we have to sit through? If it’s many more, I’ve a mind to leave you to it and take myself back to my home that I have not seen nearly enough of, of late.’
‘None. I’ll persuade no more. Let’s get it over with.’
‘At last! The north corner is the weakest. Are you considering mining beneath? Or fire would be quicker…’
‘Both too long and unnecessary. We’ll set up a diversion in one place and attack on the opposite side. She hasn’t enough garrison to hold us off if we run a diversionary tactic. We’ll be over the wall before she blinks.’
‘I see you’ve planned it.’
Yes, he had. Not entirely surprised by the outcome, although he had hoped the mare would tip the balance. Disappointed, if the truth be known. But then Rosamund would not be the lady she was if she could be bought by costly bribes.
‘And if any get injured?’
‘She flung down the gauntlet.’ He took in the narrowed stare, the curl of distaste on Hugh de Mortimer’s mouth and clapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t worry, Hugh. We’ll spare the women.’
‘I have to say I don’t like it.’
Neither did he. What if, despite all his care that this should be a bloodless conquest, either Rosamund or Petronilla were injured in the attack? He would never forgive himself. It was not beyond a possibility. Nor was it in his nature to unnecessarily risk the lives of his men.
Why could the woman not do the sensible thing and give in?
But he had already been over that ground. Throughout a sleepless night, when his body ached for her and his mind cursed itself and the dilemma that had entrapped him, Gervase frowned into the darkness. Damn the King and his callous advice! He did not like it one little bit.
