Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Elizabeth tossed the tunic aside and lunged to her feet. “Never!”

  He loomed over her, his face a determined mask. “My destrier will wear it when I ride into battle against your sire. Your father will know that I am proud to be a de Lanceau, and that I am not afraid to avenge my sire.”

  Rage shook her to her very soul. “I will not.”

  “You will. I know many methods of persuasion.” His gaze smoldered with warning, and he stared at her mouth. “I vow you are familiar with a few.”

  She was indeed. Her mind and body tormented her with constant reminders. Elizabeth lowered her lashes, refused to let him see her fear. “You are a beast.”

  His laughter rumbled. “Then you agree?”

  A scathing refusal welled in her throat. Yet, “nay” was a poor answer when he could force her to yield. If he confined her to her chamber, she might never get a chance to flee. Far wiser to say “aye” and escape him before she finished what he demanded.

  Her lips pressed into a line, and she glared up at him with all the fury boiling inside her. “I agree. Not because of your threats, but because you are doomed to fail. Your horse may wear your sire’s trapping, but my father will destroy you.”

  “We shall see, milady.”

  “Aye, we shall.”

  He pushed the trapping into her hands and stormed away. His muttered voice drifted back to her, as he spoke with Dominic.

  Mildred shook her head. “If I had known he would use your talents in such a way, I would never have—”

  “Do not blame yourself.” Elizabeth sat back in the chair and set the trapping on the side table. Lowering her voice, she added, “I will not complete it. We will be free before then.”

  The matron grinned.

  Moments later, de Lanceau left the hall, holding the parchment. Dominic walked at his side. As soon as the rogue disappeared from view, Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. Her rigid posture eased.

  Mildred soon succumbed to the fire’s warmth and dozed with her chin drooping to the front of her gown.

  While Elizabeth stitched the tunic, she heard the servants talking, the rattle of crockery as they cleared and scrubbed the tables, the yelp of a dog when it got underfoot. She also learned to distinguish the voices of the two guards by the stairwell, who amused themselves with a game of dice as the day passed. From their rough conversation, she gathered the keep had one well, a gatehouse guarded day and night, and too few horses for their liking, details she tucked away at the back of her mind for her and Mildred’s escape.

  The fire had burned low when Elizabeth tied the final knot in the thread. Smothering a yawn, she held the tunic up to the fading sunshine and shook out the creases. The embroidery caught the firelight and flashed like a fish out of water.

  “’Tis an excellent repair, milady.” The matron smiled and looked refreshed after her nap.

  “It did mend well.” Elizabeth inspected the tiny stitches one last time, pleased herself at how she could not see where the tear had once split the pattern on the hem.

  Her eyes shining, Elena came to the hearth. “Milady, the tunic looks new again. How can I thank you for helping me?”

  Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand and trapped another yawn. She thought of the agreement Dominic had struck with her that morning that had brought her to the hall, and bit back a disappointed sigh. The rogue had never intended to keep his word.

  Shifting in the chair, she eased the cramp in her bottom from sitting so long on a hard seat. With a rueful laugh, she said, “A hot bath would be wonderful.”

  Elena nodded. “I will fetch it.”

  Elizabeth almost fell out of her chair. “What did you say?”

  “Milord told me to bring a bath upon your request.”

  “He did?” After their heated words regarding the trapping earlier, she had not expected him to follow through with his vow.

  “Lord de Lanceau is a man of great honor. He would never break his word. Not a promise made to a lady.”

  “How chivalrous,” Elizabeth murmured and glanced at Mildred, who arched an eyebrow.

  “I shall send the bath to your chamber, milady,” Elena said. “I will come and assist you as soon as I have fetched soap, towels, and a basin to rinse your hair.” She curtsied and hurried away, muttering under her breath and ticking off items on her fingers as she went.

  At the tromp of approaching footsteps, Elizabeth stood. The guards had come to escort her and Mildred to their chambers.

  After anchoring the needle into the remaining thread, she placed both on the table beside the folded tunic. She turned and hugged Mildred. “I will see you anon.”

  She drew away, but the matron took her hand. “I am glad he granted you the bath. The rogue has a heart, after all.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “We shall see.”

  A smile touched Mildred’s lips. “I think we shall.”

  ***

  Geoffrey met Elena in the stairwell. Head down, one hand flat against the stone wall, she almost ran into him as she descended the spiraling passage.

  “Milord.” She dropped into an awkward curtsey.

  “You are out of breath.” He squinted up at her through the smoky torchlight and wished he could read her expression. “All is well?”

  “I am fetching the lady’s bath.”

  “She has finished the tunic?”

  Elena’s head bobbed. “You will be most pleased.”

  He stepped to one side and motioned for the maid to pass. Her footsteps faded as he climbed the last steps, two at a time, to the great hall.

  Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey crossed to the empty chairs near the hearth. The garment lay folded on the side table, its design glittering in the firelight.

  He held the tunic up for a better look and a smile tugged at his mouth. As he expected, the damsel had done well. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he let the garment slide to the table.

  His gaze shifted to the trapping, pushed to one side. He rubbed his fingers over the tattered, torn fabric. She resented his demand to mend it, but she had the skill to stitch life back into the cloth, to make the embroidered hawk soar again. He trusted her to make it worthy of his father’s memory.

  To make it whole.

  He lowered his arm and his fingers grazed the parchment tucked into his belt for safekeeping. Today he had learned a great deal about Elizabeth, and also the mother she had adored, a lady who had cared enough about her daughter to spend days teaching her difficult needlework. A vision of Elizabeth’s tear-streaked face and anguished gaze flew into his thoughts, and a heavy weight pressed upon his conscience. He forced the memory from his mind.

  A child’s giggle carried in the hall, and he turned to see a dark-haired toddler dart behind one of the chairs.

  “Roydon, come at once.” Elena appeared at the top of the stairwell, her cheeks flushed and her arms laden with linen towels, rags, and a cake of white soap. “Roydon!”

  Geoffrey grinned and pointed to the hearth. “There.”

  Elena saw him and attempted a curtsey, but the soap tumbled off her pile, followed by two of the towels.

  Chuckling, Geoffrey rounded the chair and crept up behind the little boy who was crouched down, watching Elena pick up the fallen items. With a mighty roar, he grabbed the child around the waist and swung him high in the air. Roydon squealed in delight, before Geoffrey set the squirming boy down.

  His eyes shone with excitement as he stared up at Geoffrey. “Again.”

  “Roydon,” Elena said in a gentle but firm voice. “To bed with you. I have a lady to tend.”

  He stuck out his bottom lip. “Mama, ’tis not fair.”

  Reaching down, she took Roydon’s chubby hand in hers and hurried across the hall.

  “Elena,” Geoffrey called to her.

  She halted and looked back at him. “A-aye, milord?”

  “When the lady has finished her bath, bring her to me.�
�

  Chapter Eleven

  “The water is getting cool, milady. I will fetch you a towel.” Elena set aside the lathered soap and pushed to her feet beside the round wooden tub.

  With a reluctant nod, Elizabeth trailed her fingers one last time through the lukewarm bathwater. Candlelight winked off the rippled surface, and the scents of rose, lavender, and cinnamon drifted up to her. Elena had poured the fragrance earlier from a glass-stoppered bottle into the bath, and, closing her eyes, Elizabeth savored the exotic essence that reminded her of faraway lands.

  When she raised her lashes, Elena waited beside the tub. “Please, you must not get a chill.”

  Elizabeth sighed. After rinsing a soap bubble from her arm, she stood. Water dripped from her hair and body. Shivering, she stepped out of the tub and into the towel Elena held out.

  Concern in her gaze, the maid poured a mug of wine from a flask on the table. “Drink. ’Twill warm you.”

  Elizabeth swallowed a mouthful, glad of the heated glow flowing down inside her.

  Once dried, with a towel wrapped around her hair, she took the clean chemise Elena offered. The sheer undergarment was not cut from coarse linen, but fine silk, and felt as light as goose down against Elizabeth’s palm.

  “Whose garment is this?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  Elena lowered her gaze. “Veronique’s, milady.”

  “Why does she lend it to me?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Memories of Veronique flaunting the gold brooch and her vain hostility whirled through Elizabeth’s mind, and she wondered at the courtesan’s motives for being kind. Elizabeth’s fingers curled into the silk, and she drank more wine to wash down the bitter taste of indignation.

  Dropping the chemise on the table, she said, “I prefer the one I wore before.”

  Wide-eyed, Elena shook her head. “’Tis a garment fit for your station, milady.”

  Elizabeth stared down at the gossamer silk and could not hold back a pang of yearning. ’Twould be wondrous to wear such a beautiful garment against her skin, and she could confront Veronique’s motives when they were made clear.

  “Very well.” Elizabeth set down the mug, donned the chemise, and then reached for the green wool. With a hesitant smile, Elena handed her an exquisite bliaut the color of the wild roses that grew inside Wode’s bailey. Another of Veronique’s garments. As Elizabeth slipped it on, she wondered again what the courtesan hoped to gain by her generosity.

  Elena fastened the gown’s ties, stepped back, studied Elizabeth from head to toe, and gave a shy nod of approval.

  Elizabeth laughed. She felt like a lady again.

  The maid dried Elizabeth’s hair by the fire, and then tamed it into a braid bound with pink ribbon. She fetched a small, round mirror made of polished steel. “You are beautiful, milady. More so, since you do not require layers of powders and rouges.”

  Elizabeth stared at her reflection. The eyes that returned her scrutiny appeared wiser and more knowing than days ago. Her face looked slimmer too, mayhap because of the warped metal. But she smiled at her complexion, tinged with pink from the bath’s heat, for the bliaut complimented her skin tone.

  “You are pleased, milady?”

  “I am.” Elizabeth placed the mirror on the table. “Thank you, Elena.”

  The maid beamed. “Milord will be pleased, too.”

  Elizabeth’s smile wavered. She did not wish to hurt the woman’s feelings, but she did not care what de Lanceau would think. For the first time in days she felt relaxed, and looked forward to watching the sunset fade into the black velvet of nightfall.

  Sipping the last of her drink, she skirted a puddle of spilled water and crossed to the window, the soft wool brushing against her heels. As she drew open the shutters, voices carried on the breeze: children reciting a bedtime prayer.

  “I must take you to him now.”

  One hand gripping the cold stone ledge, Elizabeth faced the maid. “Pardon?”

  Panic swam in Elena’s eyes. “Lord de Lanceau ordered it. He bade me to bring you to him when you had finished your bath.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, milady.”

  Disquiet pounded in Elizabeth’s blood. Mildred’s warnings about ransomed maidens raced through Elizabeth’s mind, and she fought for calm. “Tell him I am tired and have gone to bed. He may speak to me tomorrow.”

  “A-aye, milady.”

  Elena bent and picked up the soap. She was trembling. Did she anticipate a beating? Would de Lanceau punish her, and then send guards to the chamber to see his order obeyed?

  Elena was a mere servant, after all, and ’twas her duty to obey the wishes of lords and ladies . . . but after her kindness with the bath, she did not deserve de Lanceau’s wrath.

  Elizabeth stepped away from the window and set down the empty mug. “I will come. I hope the matter is not important, and I may return here soon.”

  The maid’s eyes shimmered. “Thank you.”

  When Elizabeth followed Elena into the corridor, the guards straightened away from the wall and fell into step behind her. The passage seemed darker and grimmer than before. The maid led her past rows of hissing torches and into the passage ending at the wooden landing. Despite Elizabeth’s sketchy knowledge of the keep, she soon realized the maid led her to the living quarters above the hall reserved for the lord and his family.

  To de Lanceau’s private solar.

  She suppressed a shudder.

  A few more steps and the maid halted before two massive oak doors braced with iron hinges bolted into the wood. The doors looked designed for an impenetrable fortress. Elena knocked twice, pushed open a door, and gestured for her to enter. A nervous giggle tickled Elizabeth’s throat as she walked inside.

  The door boomed closed. The chamber plunged into shadow. Elizabeth whirled and groped for the handle, and her nails scratched over wood. When she found the cold metal ring, it did not budge.

  This time, de Lanceau had trapped her in his own cage.

  She dropped her forehead against the door and forced herself to breathe. She would not face him with panic screaming inside her like a terrified child. For all she knew, he might ask her a question or two about her father or mending the trapping, and then would send her away.

  There could not be many reasons for him to summon her to his solar at night, after a perfumed bath, without a chaperone.

  The primary reason that filled her mind was not reassuring.

  Elizabeth thrust up her chin. She was the daughter of a strong, respected lord, and she was no coward. She must keep calm and sensible, and see what de Lanceau wanted.

  Silence settled around her. Across the room, a fire glowed. Fingers of flame beckoned her, and she headed toward the light.

  Her slippers whispered on the wooden floor. Elizabeth held her head high and waited for her eyes to adjust to the solar’s dimness. She walked past a large, comfortable-looking bed covered with a silk coverlet and pillows. Opposite were three windows fitted with wrought iron grilles. The chamber must have a magnificent view of the lake and fields in the daylight.

  She paused to brush a loose curl out of her eyes and noted the oak table beside the bed, the unlit candles in the sconce on the wall, and, in the darkest shadows, a large wooden chest. The chamber seemed well appointed but not opulent, and well suited to Branton’s rogue lord.

  As Elizabeth approached the fire, her steps slowed. Two carved chairs were drawn up to the hearth. A table draped with a cloth stood between the chairs, and held a burning candle, a jug of red wine, silver goblets, and assorted sweetmeats on a silver tray. Next to the wine she spied a dish of dried figs, glazed with honey and cinnamon.

  Her stomach rumbled. She had not tasted figs in so long—

  The solar door slammed behind her.

  She screeched. Her hand flew to her throat.

  De Lanceau emerged from the shadows and strode
toward her. He had shed his white shirt. Another of black wool hugged his shoulders and draped to the thighs of his black hose. He must know he had startled her, but ’twas not laughter that gleamed like gray fire in his eyes.

  His strides slowed. His gaze skimmed over her bound hair, down the rose wool, and back up to her hand gripping the back of one of the chairs. “Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured.

  Her breath burst from her lips.