Lady of Steel

by Mary Gillgannon

  “You don’t understand,” Old Emma said. “It wasn’t one of King John’s barons who killed Mortimer. It was some crusader knight who fought beside King Richard at Acre. He claims to have a writ from King Richard giving him Mordeaux.”

  Nicola frowned at the maidservant. “Mordeaux is part of my dowry. How can Richard award it to another man when he already gave it to Mortimer?”

  “Perhaps news of what a worthless tosspot Mortimer has become spread as far as the Holy Land, and Richard decided to put another man in his place. Although, I suppose I shouldn’t speak ill of Mortimer now that he is dead.” Old Emma crossed herself. “This crusader knight, whoever he is, will insist on wedding you to seal his claim. Whether his allegiance is to Richard or John is of no consequence.”

  “But it is of consequence!” Nicola responded. “If Richard is never freed by the Emperor, John will end up being king. Then John might well give my lands to yet another man.”

  Nicola sank down on the stool where she sat when Old Emma dressed her hair. She was very weary of being a pawn in the power struggles of kings and princes. But at least for now, Simon was safe. That is what mattered.

  She turned to the maidservant. “Is there any word when this crusader knight will arrive at Valmar?”

  “The man who came with news of Mortimer’s death didn’t know much about the knight who killed him. Although he did mention he was surprisingly young. At least you’ll not find yourself wed to hoary old goat.”

  “I don’t care if the man is old, or hopelessly ill-favored, as long as he treats me with respect and allows me to run the household as I see fit.”

  “If that’s what you wish for, then I would advise you to seek your new husband’s favor, and behave as a dutiful wife should. Try to appear meek and compliant, at least at first. Few noblemen desire a wife who speaks her mind or who meddles in affairs best left to men.”

  Nicola gave Old Emma a bitter look. “You think I’m too proud and bold to make a good wife. Is that it?”

  “I’m simply telling you what I’ve learned in my years upon this earth. ’Twould not go amiss if you sought to appear as a demure and modest gentlewoman.”

  Nicola exhaled in disgust. “A demure and modest gentlewoman would have been ground beneath Mortimer’s boots long ago. The only reason I survived is because I’m not some weak and helpless maiden who depends on others to rescue her. If I hadn’t been bold and daring, I would be dead by now, and my son as well!” Anger and outrage raced through her veins. She would not apologize for doing what was necessary to save herself and her son.

  “Of course, milady. I didn’t mean to make you fret. I’m sure you’ll fare much better with this man than you did with Mortimer. Unless he is blind, the new lord will appreciate your beauty, and you’ll be able to use your looks to bend him to your will.” Nicola frowned at the servant, and Old Emma shook her head. “I’d forgotten how sheltered you’ve been. Most of the serving wenches in the kitchen below know more about getting their way with a man than you do. Perhaps we should fetch one and have her teach you.” She gave a cackling laugh.

  “I don’t want to learn to flirt and entice a man. I only want to protect Simon.”

  “Those two things may be one and the same, milady.”

  Nicola closed her eyes and contemplated Old Emma’s words. If she had to make a fool of herself to win over this new man, what of it? Would that be any worse than some of the other things she’d done to protect her son?

  As Old Emma waddled from the room, Nicola considered her advice. Like Mortimer, this conquering knight sought land, wealth and power. She was merely the woman that came with the demesne—the heiress. It was likely she would once again end up being a broodmare, a vessel to beget the conquering lord’s heir. At least this unknown man was unlikely to do as Mortimer had done and send a squire to sire a son on her. Few men were as strange and twisted as Mortimer. Nay, the new lord would undoubtedly bed her himself. Although it was very unlikely he would take as much care as her first lover had.

  Her mind slipped back to that afternoon so indelibly imprinted on her mind. Fawkes de Cressy had loved her with skill and tenderness. Although she’d urged him to finish quickly, he’d used his fingers and mouth to turn her body pliant and yielding. She’d wondered more than once where he’d learned his tricks. Even now, the memory of what he’d done to her made heat rise to her face. Fawkes had loved her until she was gasping and writhing.

  She shook her head to banish the beguiling memories. Thinking of Fawkes would hardly help her get through her next wedding night. She moved away from the window and paced around the small chamber, her thoughts returning to the result of her and Fawkes’s coupling. She’d seen Simon a month ago. He’d looked like an angel, with his tousle of golden curls and sweet cherub’s face. By now his flaxen hair would have darkened slightly. His face grown thinner, his chubby legs, straighter and more agile. He would soon be a little boy, and leave the innocent perfection of babyhood behind. How could she protect him?

  ****

  “How long?” Reynard demanded. “How long before you decide Mordeaux is secure and go to claim Valmar, the true prize?”

  “There are things to do here,” Fawkes retorted. The two men sat eating bread and drinking ale in Mordeaux’s hall. “I must make certain the people have truly accepted me as lord. And my men need a rest, to have a full belly and sleep on a bench in a warm keep for a few nights.”

  “Lame excuses, both of them. Everyone at Mordeaux appears delighted you have killed Mortimer. The man was not well liked. Of course the fact he spent the last two years in a state of near constant drunkenness did not aid his reputation. I wondered what happened to the bastard. I recall Mortimer as a vigorous leader and a decent fighter. He was also shrewd and cunning. The Walter Mortimer we left in London would never have been so foolish as to accept your challenge.”

  “I don’t give a damn what happened to Mortimer. I’m only glad he’s dead and I finally have my revenge.”

  “Does it feel as sweet as you’d hoped?”

  “Yea, it’s all I’ve dreamed of.” Fawkes paused before taking another bite. Not true. It had all happened too quickly. He’d never had a chance to say the things to Mortimer he’d wanted to say. To make him suffer for what he’d done. To make him beg for mercy.

  “Then why don’t we go to Valmar immediately so you can savor the fruits of your success? You could share Lady Nicola’s bed this very night.”

  What if she doesn’t want me? The thought popped up, unbidden and unwelcome. He knew so little about the woman who played such a large part in his dream. They were strangers of everything but each other’s bodies.

  Fawkes clenched his jaw. “We’ll stay here this night and go to Valmar on the morrow. We’ll wear full battle attire and be prepared to fight. It’s possible the garrison there will refuse to open the gates.”

  “And who would order the gates closed?” Reynard asked. “Do you truly believe any of Mortimer’s men remain loyal now that he’s dead? You saw how they received us here at Mordeaux. Most people appeared relieved to see you take command.”

  Should he tell Reynard of Mortimer’s taunts? If Nicola had warned Mortimer, she might refuse to surrender the castle. Nay. He would not repeat the foul bastard’s lies. He set his pewter cup down with a clatter. “Tomorrow. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  Chapter Four

  Adam FitzSaer, Valmar’s castellan, entered the solar. He gave a faint bow and approached Nicola where she sat sewing by the glazed green window. “My lady. If I could speak with you a moment.”

  Nicola’s stomach clenched. She put aside the altar cloth she was embroidering. “What is it?”

  “The man who killed your husband and seized control of Mordeaux has sent word he means to claim Valmar. He will arrive in a few candle notches. How do you wish us to proceed? Do we draw up the bridge and man the walls? Or welcome him and his army?”

  If only she knew more about this man who had turned her life upside down. Even
as she told herself he could not possibly be worse than Mortimer, a part of her was terrified.

  But she dare not let FitzSaer see that. He’d always disliked her and thought she overstepped her authority. Indeed, she was surprised he was even asking her opinion. Of course, with Mortimer dead, he probably had no choice. He might be castellan of Valmar, but she was the heiress of the property and the only person with any legal claim.

  “My lady?”

  FitzSaer glared at her. She sought to focus her thoughts and speak confidently. “I see no reason not to admit this man and his men. After all, he has a writ from the king.”

  “But that writ is for Mordeaux, not Valmar.”

  “The two properties have always been connected. Besides, I see no purpose in fighting. We might hold him off for a few months, but if he’s survived the Crusade, he’s likely to be skilled at warfare. We’d probably end up surrendering anyway.”

  “This knight might have fought beside Richard at Acre, but that doesn’t mean he’s a skilled battle commander. From what I’ve heard of de Cressy, he’s quite young. Indeed, Richard knighted him only a year ago.”

  Nicola’s heart seemed to freeze in her chest. “De Cressy? You said the man is named de Cressy. What is his given name?”

  “I don’t remember. Why? Does the name mean something to you?”

  It could not be him. Fawkes was too young to have risen so high. To go from lowly squire to commanding an army—it took more than four years to accomplish that.

  “So, knowing the usurper is young and untried,” FitzSaer persisted. “Have you changed your mind about defying him?”

  She heard the excitement in the castellan’s voice. He clearly wanted her to order the gates closed. Like so many men, he was eager to fight, never considering the cost to others. She fixed him with a stern look. “Go now and tell the garrison to open the gate and bid this man and his army enter.”

  FitzSaer gazed at her with an expression of resentment and almost hatred. Then he bowed stiffly and left the solar.

  Nicola remained sitting. She felt so dazed and stunned she feared her legs would not hold if she tried to stand. Could it really be true? That her incredibly tender and skilled lover was to be her husband? It did not seem possible that her circumstances might be reversed so completely.

  The de Cressy name was not common. And he was the right age. She’d been so certain Mortimer was going to kill him, and erase any trace of the man who had impregnated her. Somehow he had not only survived, but thrived.

  With effort, she forced herself to stand. She must seek out Old Emma. She must get ready to face this man. He’d once conquered her body; now he seized control of all else she possessed.

  ****

  “Here now.” Old Emma approached Nicola. “Come away from the window. We need to get you ready.”

  Nicola let Old Emma help her out of her serviceable wool kirtle and into her best court gown. Old Emma fastened the laces underneath her arms, then stepped back and squinted at the effect. The rose silk bliaut fit snugly through the bodice and sleeves before widening to a long, full skirt with a train. Silver embroidery glistened at the neck and along the trailing sleeves.

  Emma grunted in satisfaction. “Your breasts are fuller from bearing the babe, but it fits tolerably well. Now for your hair. I think you should wear it down.”

  “Unbound hair is for maidens. I’m a maid no longer, as everyone knows.”

  “You’re also a widow, but it would be a shame to dress you in mourning attire. No one here will care about how you wear your hair, and you might as well make use of every advantage you have with the new lord.”

  “Fawkes liked me well enough years ago.” Too late, Nicola pressed her lips together. She had not meant to speak of what had happened between the two of them in the past.

  Old Emma chuckled. “Aye, so he did. So he did.” The serving woman sobered. “But he was a young, untried squire back then. Now he’s a hardened knight. They say no man comes back from Crusade unchanged.”

  Nicola sat on the stool so the servant could dress her hair. Old Emma was right. She shouldn’t expect Fawkes to be the same as he was four years ago. Although she hadn’t gone to war or fought in any battles, she was certainly much changed. No longer was she a pampered, naïve girl. She’d learned to be wary and calculating. Otherwise, she’d never have survived.

  How ironic this all was. When Fawkes had left her bedchamber that day, she’d feared for his life. Now he returned in triumph. He meant to claim Valmar and the rest of her dowry.

  But he didn’t need to claim her body. He’d already done that.

  She suppressed a shiver of desire as she remembered the feel of his hands on her, the near unbearable sensation of his shaft inside her. His smell, so male and alive. The silky feel of his hair as she sought to hold onto his shoulders as he thrust into her. Would it be like that this time? Would he banish all her resolve and bend her to his will in other ways, even as he had in the bedchamber?

  And what of Simon? Dare she tell Fawkes that he had a son? A son no one knew about. Would he be pleased? Or would he doubt he was Simon’s father, since the boy looked nothing like him?

  As if reading her thoughts, Old Emma said, “When will you tell him about Simon?”

  “I think…I think I must wait. Until I’m more certain of the man.” She flashed the serving woman a helpless look. “Given how my marriage turned out, you can hardly blame me for being cautious.”

  “But Simon is Fawkes’s son.”

  “Will he believe that? Everyone at Valmar will tell him the babe I gave birth to three years ago was stillborn. For me to suddenly produce a child now, a child that looks nothing like him, and then claim the boy is his…” She shook her head. “I need to know what Fawkes is like now. I knew very little of him then. One candle-hour with someone is scarce long enough to take their measure. Especially since we barely conversed.”

  Old Emma smothered a laugh. Then she grew serious. “I think you should tell Fawkes everything right away. Tell him about Mortimer’s madness. How you feared your husband’s hatred of you was greater than his desire for an heir. How you showed Mortimer the dead baby so you could hide Simon away and save his life. I vow, you’ll be able to convince Fawkes. He knew Mortimer and what he was capable of. Why should he doubt you when you tell him you thought Mortimer deranged enough to kill an innocent babe?”

  The way Old Emma explained it, it sounded perfectly reasonable. But Nicola wasn’t the only one at Valmar who would have the new lord’s ear. Mortimer might be a monster who raped children, and a drunken lout, but he hadn’t abused those who were loyal to him. The knights of Valmar and Mordeaux had been disgusted with Mortimer, but they hadn’t suffered under him. If they told Fawkes some of the things she knew were spoken about her, he might well believe them. Men were much more likely to believe another man than a woman.

  “I will tell Fawkes about Simon. But not yet.”

  Old Emma let out a sigh. “Very good, milady. Now, to decide on jewelry.”

  ****

  The day was dazzling. Sunlight winked and glinted off the knights’ armor as they approached Valmar castle. Sweat soaked the linen shirt beneath Fawkes’s gambeson. The heat was stifling, but even worse was the tension building inside him. He’d dreamed of this day for so long; now he worried it would all go awry. He glanced up at the castle wall, searching for archers. Although the portcullis was raised, that didn’t mean they would be allowed safe entry.

  Fool, he told himself, there was no treachery here. He’d become too suspicious, too wary. Years of warfare did that to a man.

  The castle seemed smaller than he remembered. Probably because he’d seen much grander fortresses. Whole walled cities. The splendid palace of King Tancred of Sicily. But Valmar was a fine enough castle. It had stout walls, solid defenses, and four turreted towers that added a touch of grace to the sprawling structure.

  The tower to the right of the gatehouse was Nicola’s bedchamber. For so long he’d see
n it as a rare and exalted place. Now that he knew the tower belonged to him, it had lost part of its magic. Would the same thing happen with Nicola? Could any mortal woman live up to his impassioned dreams?

  His memory of her had become a kind of grail, a shining vision of beauty and perfection in a world of atrocity and evil. He’d built up such expectations. Now he worried the reality would disappoint him. It had been four years. What if Mortimer’s abuse had damaged her beauty? What if she was no longer slender, elegant and perfect? Worse yet, what if Mortimer’s words were true? Was it possible she was so embittered that she’d betrayed him even as he sought to rescue her?

  Cruelty and abuse could alter anyone. And even though he’d coupled with Nicola, he’d known little of her thoughts. She was the lady of Valmar. So far, the people he’d encountered spoke of her with respect, and muttered disapprovingly of Mortimer’s treatment of her. But that didn’t mean she was some paragon of goodness. Over the years, he’d idealized her until she’d become almost a goddess in his mind. But the real Nicola might well have flaws, terrible flaws.

  Fawkes set his jaw and urged his destrier onto the bridge. There was nothing to do but pass through the gates and find out what awaited him.

  ****

  Nicola watched from the ramparts as Fawkes and his army swarmed into the bailey. She was surprised at how many knights there were, how well equipped, how fine their horses. She’d heard tales of warriors who went off on Crusade in hopes of winning glory and wealth, only to die ignominiously of the fevers that ran rampant in the hellish climate of the East, or to be killed in battle with the Saracens. For every man who returned in triumph, two or more had perished. Yet Fawkes had prospered. Thinking of the sum required to pay this many knights, she was impressed anew. Not only had Fawkes earned his spurs, he must have won an enormous amount of booty. How many men had he killed to amass this fortune?