LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  “Are you hurt, my lady?” the knight asked as the others continued toward them at a leisurely pace.

  Hurt. Could so simple a word describe the discomfort in every joint…the raw skin of her shoulders where her bliaut had dug in when Sir Renley wrenched at her skirt…the ache behind eyes and at the back of her head from the jolt of landing on the cold, hard earth?

  Oh, Conrad, would that you were with me, that I did not feel so alone, that my world were yet the beautiful one you built around me, that there was something to laugh about—anything! But the walls have tumbled down.

  “I hope you will forgive me for acceding to your wish to dismount,” the knight persisted. “’Twas that or find us both beneath the hooves of a distraught horse.” One who remained agitated, as told by snorting and the stamp of hooves upon the frozen ground.

  She knew he spoke true, that her struggles had provoked the beast enough they could have suffered grave injury, perhaps even death, but she was in no mood to forgive the man.

  She looked around.

  The knight had lowered his chain mail hood to reveal short, dark hair—and more. The side of his face into which she had thrust her elbow was livid and beginning to swell around the eye, and bloody scores ran his jaw and throat, as well as the hand he had dug into her waist. She had been vicious.

  Though she had told herself he deserved whatever hurts she had inflicted, remorse jolted her. If he and his companions had merely happened upon the count’s attempt to abduct her—had not been looking to do it themselves—they were owed gratitude. Had they not intervened, she would now be Sir Renley’s captive, and once more she would be ripped away from all she held dear.

  Regardless, unless this man allowed her and her escort to continue on to their destination, she would find herself in the company of King Henry, and that could prove as detrimental as being in the company of the count.

  As she foraged for conciliatory words, the knight’s gaze probed her shadowed face and he said, “I am Sir Durand Marshal. You are?”

  He did not know? She narrowed her lids at the one who, until that moment, she had only looked near on to note the damage done his face. Some might consider him handsome, but he was not to her taste. However, his eyes were captivating, a stunning gold she had not seen upon another.

  “Surely, as one who shall bear the mark of our encounter for all to see”—his mouth lifted toward a smile that made no sense in light of that mark—“I ought to at least have a name to put to it.”

  Perhaps it was his due, but he would not hear it from her.

  “Sir Knight!” called the only one of her escort who had remained astride during their flight. “I am Sir Amos.”

  Relieved by the interruption, she looked to the older man who was flanked by King Henry’s men and discreetly inclined her head. All was in his hands, just as she had been instructed.

  “I am Sir Durand Marshal of Queen Eleanor’s personal guard. And the lady is?”

  “Of no consequence, Sir Durand. We—”

  “Of no consequence?” There was a sharp edge to the knight’s voice. “The Count of Verielle’s men risk trespassing on King Henry’s lands for a woman who warrants no name?”

  Then he knew the identity of their pursuers. That boded ill.

  With a smile so tight it looked more a grimace, Sir Amos dipped his chin. “I can but own I am charged with delivering the lady safely to her family.”

  “And yet you nearly lost her to the count’s men.”

  “So we did, and are most grateful for your aid. But now—”

  “I guess that neither will you tell me the reason the count sought to bring the lady to ground.”

  Sir Amos’s shrug was too hesitant to be believed. “Who can say why men do such things? As ever, lawlessness abounds.”

  “Indeed.” It was said so drily she wondered why Sir Durand did not take the wineskin from his belt and wet his mouth.

  The older knight sat taller. “We are under the press of time. Thus, we ask your leave to go our way.”

  “Which way is that?”

  “’Tis of a private nature, Sir Durand.”

  “No longer. As it was across King Henry’s lands you set your course, he will have the answers you refuse me.”

  Dear Lord, it shall come to pass, the woman silently lamented. Out of the count’s reach only to land in Henry’s lap. And, certes, Eleanor and he will know me for who I am.

  For a moment, her anger was dampened by dread, then the former quickened. Being an emotion with which she had too little experience, she struggled to keep hold of it lest it broke free and made matters worse—if that were possible.

  “Sir Durand,” Sir Amos began, “I am certain King Henry—”

  “Nay, you are not,” the knight said and called, “Sir Jessup!”

  A young man with a sword across his lap and one in the scabbard at his side, urged his horse forward. “Your sword, Sir Durand.” He passed the unsheathed weapon to the other man.

  When did he lose it? she wondered. When she had fought him and Sir Renley who had threatened to tear her in two?

  “Retrieve the mare”—Sir Durand jerked his chin at where her horse had ended its flight at the tree line—“and see the lady remounted as quickly as possible. Our dinner grows cold.”

  She caught her breath. Her life had just taken another terrible turn, and he worried over his dinner?

  Tongue, stay still, she entreated. If not for me, then Conrad.

  Sir Jessup grunted. “If there yet be dinner to be had.”

  I hope it is ice in your mouth, she fumed as the young man turned his mount toward her mare. May it go down like dirty snow.

  “And here are the rest of us,” Sir Durand announced as the sound of hooves heralded the return of those who had chased away Count Verielle’s men.

  Though the possibility of escaping an audience with King Henry had been hopeless, now it was laughably so. And one look at Sir Amos confirmed he knew it. Unless God was of a mind to Himself right this wrong, England might remain a distant shore.

  Shortly, beneath the watchful gaze of Sir Durand, Sir Jessup assisted her into the saddle. Though she did not normally require aid in mounting, as she was no slight thing and Conrad had eventually come around to her way of thinking, she ached so deeply she was grateful for the consideration.

  Accepting the reins passed to her, she peered out from beneath her hood at Sir Durand.

  He inclined his head, then shouted, “To Bayeux!”

  Blessedly, despite the knave’s yearn to fill his belly, he set an easy pace that, by the time the great fortress came into view an hour later, allowed her to calm her frustration sufficiently to play the role for which she was best known—a most unusual wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She was hardly petite and more pretty than not—providing she did not open her mouth without benefit of a smile. Fortunately, in terms of her prospects, that smile was so white and broad it could be forgiven the small gap between her front teeth. But her laugh…

  Ladies were not supposed to express joy in that manner. It was too loud and quick, and when it eased, often it was only to take in more air with a gasp husky at its start and nearly shrill at its end. Then more laughter.

  From alongside the stairs on the eastern end of the great hall, Durand had watched her a quarter hour as she conversed with knights who had gathered around her near the fire in the cavernous hearth—a group conspicuously absent other ladies, all of whom sat distant from the peculiar woman in their midst, often looked her way, bent their heads near, and giggled behind their hands.

  They could be excused their prattle, Durand supposed. The woman was fascinating, almost scandalously so.

  Of course, he was interested in her only as long as she did not become interested in him. Though never had he been so often in the company of women than since he had entered King Henry’s service three years past, and others envied him the opportunities for flirtations, stolen kisses, and caresses, none of Eleanor’s ladies
moved his heart with yearning as once—nearly twice—it had been moved. And that was a good thing, for it kept at arm’s length the temptation and sin that had nearly been the end of him when he had served the Wulfrith family and felt for Lady Beatrix—

  The woman laughed again at something one of the knights spoke near her ear, tossing her chin high and causing her veil to shift and allow a glimpse of dark hair. Not for the first time, Durand wondered who she was and her purpose here. A guest who had accompanied her lord husband to keep Christmas with their liege? The daughter of a vassal who hoped to add his indelicate offspring to Eleanor’s ladies?

  That last made him chuckle. If the queen had agreed to take the woman into her household, she would not be long in returning her. Indeed, were Eleanor not absent from the hall, she would see such brazen behavior reined in.

  Durand sighed. As he had been away from Bayeux a fortnight to attend to Henry’s business in Rouen, it would take some time to bring himself current on what had transpired in his absence. Fortunately, the men he had entrusted with Sir Amos’s party when he had received the king’s summons upon their arrival hours past, would oblige him over tankards of ale—if they could be coaxed away from that woman.

  Deciding it was time to coax, he strode forward. As he did so, she glanced his way, glanced again, and lowered her smile.

  His face, over which Henry had not been quietly amused, surely offended. But he did not care. He was simply grateful his eye had not swelled to such an extent his vision was obstructed.

  He was a stride from the gathering when the woman swung to her right where another knight approached.

  “My lady.” The man halted, took her hand, and bent over it. “I am Sir Oliver.”

  There was her smile again, big and bright, even in profile, and it stopped Durand from ordering the two knights behind whom he had paused to take drink with him.

  Sir Oliver straightened. “And you are?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Ah, Sir Oliver, do not pretend you have not inquired. I laugh much too often and loud for others to not ask after me, even if only to know what name to pair with a curse.”

  Those around her chuckled.

  Durand did not. As much as he disliked being intrigued by a woman, he was equally appalled to hear one speak thus.

  “A curse, my lady?” The knight’s eyes lowered and momentarily stuck to her chest that, despite the modest cut of her bodice, did not hide that she was generously endowed. “I cannot imagine cursing you.”

  She slid her hand from his. “Oh, do imagine, Sir Oliver. It makes for interesting thoughts which might otherwise be…” She shrugged. “…boring.” Another smile, but this one did not fool Durand.

  The knight was misbehaving as much as she—if not more—and though it was not likely the lady knew her would-be suitor was wed, it was obvious she did not care to be looked upon in such a manner. One redeeming quality, Durand supposed.

  Sir Oliver’s brow rumpled slightly, as if he was unsure of whether or not to be offended, but then she laughed, softly this time, and his forehead smoothed.

  The lady turned forward again, set her gaze upon Durand, and inclined her head. “Sir Durand.”

  He barely contained his surprise. In the next instant, he berated himself. Of course she knew him, just as he ought to know her. In his defense, he had not had a chance to look near upon her earlier. Other matters had been more pressing—reaching her ahead of the count’s men, snatching her from atop her horse, keeping them both from landing beneath his destrier’s hooves. And when he could have become familiar with her countenance, he had not been inclined to do so, allowing her to shield her face beneath her hood. Too, there was a marked incongruity between their first encounter when she had been quiet far beyond the usual reach of a woman’s tongue—excepting screams and shrieks—and this encounter when her tongue exceeded the reach of any woman he had known.

  Still, you are a Wulfen-trained knight, Durand Marshal, he silently berated. Was not judicious observation one of your earliest lessons? You have been most negligent.

  The lady smiled at the other knights. Then, with a rustle of unsullied skirts that evidenced her journey across Henry’s lands had been planned well enough to allow for a change of clothes, she stepped forward—somewhat stiffly, as was to be expected considering the means by which she had dismounted his destrier.

  The knights on either side of him moved apart, and she halted before Durand. Though she stood several inches shorter, she was no small thing, but neither was she of an ungainly height. And just as she was generously endowed above, her hips were well defined past a relatively slender waist.

  Tilting her head to the side, she considered his bruised and scratched face. “I should apologize.”

  He did not expect that. Though her resistance to his attempt to rescue her had irked him, he understood she could not have known he spoke true in claiming he was King Henry’s man.

  He summoned a practiced smile, the intent of which was to appear genial, but not enough to encourage affection to which many of the queen’s ladies were partial. “As should I,” he said. Of course, in a manner, he had already done so. After tossing her free of his destrier’s hooves, he had expressed the hope she would forgive him.

  The lady raised her eyebrows.

  He raised his.

  When some moments passed with neither voicing remorse and dozens of curious eyes making themselves felt, she laughed, and the sound that rolled off her tongue and past the small gap between her front teeth did not ring true. Had it before? Had he been too distant to detect the false note? Or was this laughter exclusive to him? Of course, if not the latter and her mirth was forced, it was understandable if one took into account how sore she must be from her landing on the frozen ground.

  Her laughter ended on a sigh that sustained the bow of her mouth while relaxing the corners. “It seems we are at an impasse, Sir Durand.”

  “You make it sound adversarial.”

  She put her head to the side. “Pray tell, what would you call it?”

  He shifted his weight. Never had he met a lady so outspoken, albeit in a most playful manner—

  Deceptively playful. This woman whom he had wrested from atop her horse might be the same in physical form, but she was not the same in spirit. She had much too quickly come about. But he would banter with her—and, perhaps, discover what game she played.

  “What would I call it rather than an impasse?” He shrugged. “Perhaps ’tis more a matter of one offense canceling out another.”

  Her lips softly pursed. “I rather like that, Sir Durand.” There was a glint in her eyes that some might call mischievous but seemed to him too hard and sharp.

  She pressed her shoulders back, winced as if pained, and clasped her hands at her waist—the left, he noted, fit with a wedding band. “I assume,” she said, “you now have a name with which to credit the mark I bestowed upon you.”

  That which she had earlier refused him. “You assume wrong, my lady. Unlike Sir Oliver, I have not had time to inquire after one who laughs too often and loud. I have been with the king these past hours.”

  She searched his face with the intensity of one looking for lies. “Then it falls to me to provide a name.” She gave a slight dip. “You may call—”

  “The queen,” murmured the men and women in the hall.

  Those who were not facing the stairs, including Durand, turned to receive her royal personage with bows and curtsies.

  Trailed by two of her ladies, Eleanor smiled and waved to indicate the occupants of the hall should return to their conversations. When her gaze settled on Durand, she did not falter over the face he presented, only frowned and adjusted her course.

  Aware of those around him dispersing, though he yet felt the nameless woman at his back, Durand bowed a second time when Eleanor halted before him.

  After a quiet word to the ladies accompanying her and their subsequent departure, she said, “I am pleased you are returned to us, Sir Durand, and wroth
with my lord husband for not consulting me ere dispatching you to Rouen.”

  He had known she would not like it, but though he numbered among her personal guard, he had once numbered among Henry’s knights and, from time to time, the latter yet called upon him. “I am sorry if it proved an inconvenience, your Majesty.”

  “It did, as Henry well knows.” She took a step nearer, surveyed the damage to his face. “This looks fairly recent.”

  Certain she had been fully apprised of the incursion on her husband’s lands and had granted the one behind him an audience hours earlier, he stepped aside to reveal the woman and said, “A small cost for delivering the lady out of Count Verielle’s hands.”

  “Small?” Eleanor’s eyebrows peaked. “’Tis good you are not as vain as some men, Sir Durand.” She looked to the woman and said with a note of censure, “Ah, here is the one of whom my ladies carry tale of making mischief among our men.”

  Durand frowned. Had the two not spoken upon the lady’s arrival?

  The woman stepped forward and executed a slow, deep curtsy, the effort of which Durand suspected was more a reflection of her aches than deference. “Your Majesty, I thank you for allowing Sir Amos to speak in my stead. Blessedly, I am recovered now.”

  “Recovered, indeed.” Eleanor motioned for her to straighten. “I understand your company is much sought after.”

  The woman smiled, this time not broadly enough to display teeth. “I do like to laugh, Your Majesty.”

  “I remember well your penchant for laughter, though methinks you were all of ten and five when last we met and the habit was yet acceptable for one so young. That would be…ten years ago.”

  If the lady was shamed by the mild rebuke, her color did not reflect it. However, her tone was all respect when she said, “Be assured, Your Majesty, henceforth I shall endeavor to temper such displays of joy.”

  “Then you shall be welcome at my court, Lady Beatrix.”

  Durand jerked at hearing the woman’s name. Over the years, he had encountered other ladies who bore the name that always moved his memory to one of petite form and golden tresses, but never had there seemed a poorer fit.