She hurried away as if she half feared he would ravish her on the floor, nearly slamming the door behind her.
Myles slumped onto Sir Wilfrid’s chair with a weary sigh.
Myles was still sitting there several minutes later when Sir Wilfrid opened the door and halted on the threshold.
“Sir Myles, what brings you here?” Sir Wilfrid began pleasantly as he entered, trailed by his two favorite hounds.
Myles got to his feet. “I want to know what the devil you’re playing at,” he demanded, coming around the table. “What is this nonsense about letting your niece refuse my hand? Does your word count for so little that it can be disregarded on the whim of a woman?”
Sir Wilfrid frowned and he loudly cleared his throat as he crossed the room and sat in the chair Myles had vacated. “Sit, please, my young hotspur,” he said, gesturing at the other chair. “And listen before you say more you may come to regret.”
Myles had a good mind to walk out of the solar. He had been insulted by this alleged bargain between Sir Wilfrid and his niece and, worse, made to feel a fool. The only thing that prevented him from doing so was the certain knowledge that if he did, he would not stop until he had left Wutherton Castle far behind, which would mean acknowledging defeat, and that he would not do.
“Was it Giselle who told you of our agreement?” Sir Wilfrid asked in a reasonable tone.
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“She said that if she did well as chatelaine over the twelve days of Christmas, she would be allowed to refuse your choice of husband for her, if she wished.”
To his very great surprise, Sir Wilfrid’s initial answer was a nod and broad grin.
Myles leaned forward and splayed his hands on the top of the table. “And you intend to abide by this ludicrous arrangement?”
“Now, now, Sir Myles, calm yourself,” Sir Wilfrid said placatingly in his gruff voice. “You have not listened carefully enough, a fault not uncommon among the young, in my experience. She may refuse if she does a fine job, and if she wishes. Consider how easy it is for things to go wrong during twelve days of feasting and celebration. Consider, too—although I’m sure your modesty forbids—the groom in question. Now then, how much risk is there in letting Giselle think she has some choice?”
Mindful of her current opinion of the groom, it struck Myles that the risk was great, indeed. Nevertheless, Sir Wilfrid clearly favored the match, and the hint that he would be able to find some fault in Giselle’s efforts should have been comforting.
Myles told himself that he was also attaching too much importance to Giselle’s acceptance. Surely it was Sir Wilfrid’s opinion that mattered most.
Sir Wilfrid sighed. “I dote on her, I must confess, and think of her as my own daughter. When she asked this of me, I couldn’t find the will to refuse.”
Myles recalled Giselle’s eyes when she had talked of her time with Lady Katherine and her hopes for freedom, and realized it would take a very strong man to resist that particular young lady’s pleading eyes and soft voice.
“I should also tell you Giselle’s life has not been easy, despite her wealth. She came to me after her parents died, when she was very young. If my dear wife had been living, I would have kept her here, but I knew nothing about raising a girl. That’s why I sent her to be fostered with Lady Katherine, who, while the most admirable of women, is very...rigorous. Giselle’s sojourn there was certainly not filled with idleness and gossip.
“I’m sure this agreement we have comes as something of a shock to you, but I’m equally certain it’s all just a ding in the armor, eh? What’s the harm in giving way a little, when it pleases her and costs us nothing—and there’s not much else of which that could be said when it comes to women, is there, Sir Myles?”
Myles forced a smile onto his face.
“Come now,” Sir Wilfrid said, heaving himself out of his chair, “what do you say to some hunting? It’ll do us all good to ride out, I think.”
Myles did not disagree.
“You go on ahead. I have a few small matters of business to deal with, and I’ll join you later in the far meadow.”
The younger man nodded, bowed and left the solar.
Sir Wilfrid went to the window and watched the group of noblemen gathering outside the stable. Then he realized Giselle was standing near the kitchen talking to a rather motley group of strangers. Entertainers, by the look of their wagon and the bundles tied upon it.
Suddenly Sir Myles burst out of the hall and marched toward the noblemen.
To Sir Wilfrid’s dismay, a quick glance at Giselle showed she was paying him no attention, although the woman seated on the cart nearest her was staring at Sir Myles as if she’d never seen a man before.
What was wrong with his niece? Was she determined to be pigheaded about this notion of freedom? Didn’t every young woman want to be married, and wasn’t Sir Myles the answer to every maiden’s dream?
Finally Giselle deigned to cast the briefest of looks over her shoulder as the noblemen mounted their horses and rode out of the gate.
With a disgruntled frown, Sir Wilfrid marched to the door, threw it open and grabbed the shoulder of a shocked Mary as she passed by with a load of coal for the brazier in Lady Giselle’s bedchamber. “Put that in here and fetch my niece at once!” he ordered.
Chapter Five
After her disturbing exchange with Sir Myles in the solar, Giselle had been delighted to be distracted by the news that the mummers had arrived and were waiting in the courtyard.
Nevertheless, as she hurried to greet the traveling band of players who would entertain the company in the hall that night, she couldn’t rid her mind of Sir Myles.
Why was he so persistent, if her bargain with her uncle angered him so? Why did he issue his challenge, especially when he would surely realize, now more than ever, that his chances of winning were slim, indeed?
Perhaps the apparent disappointment on his face and abrupt change of manner from angry arrogance to apologetic self-doubt had not been feigned. Maybe she had been mistaken and that had not been calculation in his eyes.
Oh, she was imagining excuses that he did not deserve! He had been acting a part. as if he were one of the players.
She spotted the band of players gathered near the kitchen, their breath white puffs in the cold air as they stamped their feet to stay warm. Two small wagons bearing assorted baggage, a woman nursing an infant, and a girl were also part of the group.
Lady Katherine had considered mummers suitable entertainment, provided their selections were based on the Bible, and Giselle knew these particular actors well, from their leader, Matthew Appleton, to the youngest performer of them, Matthew’s son, Peter, a lad of fourteen who played the women’s parts, for of course no woman could playact.
The only females in the company were Matthew’s wife and daughter, and they did the things wives and daughters usually did in a household, plus looked after the costumes and the necessary properties, all while traveling about the countryside.
“Good day, my lady, and happy Christmas!” Matthew called out when he noticed her. He made a sweeping bow, still graceful and lithe for a man of nearly forty. The others followed suit. “You are looking very well, my lady. Isn’t she, Martha?” Matthew said to his wife as Giselle drew near.
Martha, a pleasant-faced woman a few years younger than her husband, smiled.
“We thought you’d be a married lady now, though, didn’t we?” Matthew noted, his brow furrowed. “And to a most fine nobleman, for so we were given to understand.”
Martha nodded and looked concerned.
“Who gave you to understand this?” Giselle inquired, attempting to adopt a bantering tone.
“Well, my lady, it was Sir Myles Buxton.”
At the mention of that gentleman’s name, Martha and her daughter smiled approvingly.
“Is he not here, my lady?” Matthew asked.
“Yes, he is,” Giselle answered l
ightly. “You know him well?”
“We’ve performed for him many times, my lady,” Matthew said enthusiastically. “A most kind, charitable fellow, and with a right wonderful sense of humor—for a nobleman.”
Kind? Charitable? A wonderful sense of humor? These were qualities Giselle had not noticed, or had not an opportunity to, perhaps.
“Yes, indeed, my lady,” Martha seconded, apparently sensing Giselle’s doubt. “Why, no matter how much Matthew acted up, pretending to be Sir Myles when we performed at Buxton Hall, Sir Myles took it all with very good grace. And paid very well, too, I must say.”
Giselle could not imagine anyone doing justice to Sir Myles’s natural grace or self-assured manner. However, she had no wish to discuss Sir Myles anymore. “Sir Wilfrid will pay well, too, never fear. You may join us in the hall for the feast before the performance.”
Matthew and Martha and the rest of their company were all smiles. “We had no doubt of being well treated, did we, Martha?” Matthew said with a glance at his wife. “Being in the hall tonight is most welcome, too. Apart from the food, which I’m sure will be excellent, we can study your guests, the better to entertain them.”
Giselle slowly became aware that no one else was listening to Matthew. They were looking at something over her shoulder, and Martha in particular had an approving expression on her face. Giselle followed their gaze, to behold Sir Myles striding toward the stables attired as if for hunting, with his cloak thrown carelessly back over one broad shoulder.
Well, she never thought he wasn’t a good-looking man. It was his manner that left much to be desired.
They all watched as he easily mounted one of the finest stallions she had ever seen, a large black beast that he apparently controlled solely with his knees. Several other male guests were likewise mounted or preparing to, obviously intending to ride out hunting.
That was good, because it would replenish the larder, already depleted to some extent. It would also take the annoyingly distracting Sir Myles out of her way for the rest of the day.
Then Giselle felt a spark of devilment. “I would dearly love to see you play Sir Myles,” she said impulsively to Matthew, smiling sweetly.
Matthew directed a knowing look at his wife, which Giselle ignored. They could think what they liked, as long as Sir Myles was mocked. Despite the man’s apparent equanimity when he had witnessed Matthew’s past performances, he might not be so easy when she saw the imitation.
“Delighted, my lady!” Matthew cried. “Shall he be Sir George slaying the dragon?”
“Whatever you consider appropriate,” Giselle said. “You are all to sleep above the maid’s quarters. If you wait here, I shall send someone to show you the way.”
“Thank you, my lady. We shall not disappoint you.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“My lady!” a very flustered Mary cried. The maidservant’s skirts swirled around her thick ankles as she rushed toward them. “My lady! Your uncle wants you. In his solar. Without delay!”
Giselle quickly bid adieu to the startled mummers and followed Mary, the servant’s panic infectious. “What did he say? Why does he wish to see me?”
“He didn’t tell me,” Mary said anxiously. “But he’s right angry! Growled like a bear! Told me to fetch you at once!”
Giselle cast a wary eye at the gate. Perhaps Sir Myles had voiced his displeasure at her agreement with her uncle to Sir Wilfrid before he had departed. If so, she thought with more anger than dismay, he no doubt had kept his impertinent challenge to himself.
Insolent, selfish man!
“Oh, I wonder what can be the matter!” Mary cried anew. “You’ve done everything wonderful well, my lady. Surely he can’t have found fault with you!”
Giselle hoped that was not the cause of this sudden summons. There had been a few mishaps, like the yule log getting wedged in the entrance and the lack of hay, but nothing more serious than that.
Once inside the hall, she gave her cloak to Mary with trembling hands and proceeded to the solar, pausing to catch her breath outside the open door. When she felt a little calmer, she entered.
Her uncle was seated behind the table, his huge hunting hounds slumbering at his feet, a goblet of mead at his elbow, and a fierce expression on his face. “Shut the door,” he ordered.
She hastened to obey.
“Why don’t you like Sir Myles?” he demanded the moment she had closed the door.
She turned to face him, and Sir Wilfrid saw the defiance that was her inheritance from her mother, his sister. God’s holy heaven, why did she have to have that portion of Livia’s character?
“He is the finest knight in the land, and the best-looking, too,” he said. “Every maiden within a thousand miles would beg to be his wife.”
“Then they may have him.”
“Giselle!” Sir Wilfrid rumbled, his frustration winning over his desire for diplomacy. “It took a great deal of effort to arrange this marriage and I am not about to let it be destroyed by anyone’s whim, not even that of my beloved niece!”
She took heart at his last words. “I’m sorry to upset you. Uncle,” she said placatingly, “but please try to understand. He acts as if...as if he can just come here and crook his finger and I will be his.”
The foolish young whelp! Sir Wilfrid thought with some disgust. Perhaps the coolness between these two youngsters was not totally Giselle’s fault, after all. Anyone could see that Giselle was the type of woman who would want gentle wooing, and perhaps Sir Myles had been too overbearing.
Convinced he saw part of the trouble, Sir Wilfrid’s voice softened. “Considering that the marriage contract is all but signed, perhaps that isn’t so strange.”
“But it is discourteous and most impertinent.”
“Is that all he is guilty of, in your sight?”
“The gifts he bought for me—he only chose them to show his wealth. There was no thought of me at all!” Even as Giselle voiced her complaint, she was uncomfortably aware of how childish she sounded. She felt even worse listening to her uncle’s next words.
“He didn’t buy those presents for you. He won them.”
“Won them?”
“In tournaments. Every time he defeated an opponent, he demanded a prize suitable for his bride.”
“But he didn’t get them for me,” she protested feebly. “He’s never even seen me before.”
“God’s teeth, girl!” Sir Wilfrid all but shouted. “What do you want the man to do? Get down on his knees like a moonstruck calf and beg for your hand? I never should have made that bargain with you. You were anxious to hate him on sight. I must be in my dotage!”
Giselle truly did not enjoy upsetting her uncle, so she said with more hopefulness, “I don’t hate him, Uncle. He’s just so...so conceited and sure of himself and I want some measure of liberty before I marry.”
“I’ve a good mind to forgo our agreement, since you aren’t playing fair.”
“Uncle! Of what are you accusing me?”
“You aren’t giving the fellow a chance! You looked like a woman about to be executed when you danced with him, and he’s the finest dancer I’ve ever seen. You’ve rebuffed his gifts—”
“Did he tell you that?”
Her uncle glared at her and she blushed, knowing she should not have interrupted him. “No, he didn’t tell me that. He didn’t have to. You haven’t worn one new bit of finery, so either you gave them back or might just as well have. Well?”
What could she say? He was quite correct.
Her uncle took a deep breath. “Listen to me carefully, Giselle. If Myles Buxton acts like a conceited, arrogant nobleman, it’s because that’s how he was taught noblemen should behave if they desire attention. If you want him to understand you, you should be willing to do as much for him.”
Her uncle was right, and she knew it.
Nor was she so stubborn as to refuse to acknowledge that. Instead, she sat opposite him and regarded him steadily. “Who
taught him to behave so?”
Sir Wilfrid smiled slightly. “Ah, now you begin to wonder about him. You should have asked me sooner.
“But since you finally have, I shall tell you. His father and his older brothers, that’s who. If you think Myles acts the selfish princeling, you should meet them.”
“That’s no excuse,” Giselle said, her tone petulant despite the remorse she was beginning to feel.
“Perhaps not. But know you this—his life has not been as easy as he would have you believe. His father doted on his brothers, never him. Myles was treated as second-best, always, no matter what he did or how well he did it.”
“Why?” she wondered aloud, finding it hard to believe that any nobleman would not be proud to have such a son.
“I suspect it’s because of all Charles Buxton’s sons, Myles was the only one to take after Charles’s wife—and how that man loathed her.”
“Loathed her?” Giselle shivered, imagining life as a woman chained in marriage to a man who hated her.
Before she could say that this was precisely the situation she wished to avoid, her uncle continued. “It was quite mutual, I’m sorry to say, although neither one was forced into the marriage.”
“They chose such a fate? Why?”
Sir Wilfrid sighed wearily. “The woman Charles was first betrothed to, and whom he loved dearly, or so they say, died before the wedding. I suppose after that, he didn’t expect to be happy, so he took the first rich woman offered to him. As for Edith...she was not young, and I daresay she thought it was him, or the convent.”
“I am not so desperate, Uncle,” Giselle reminded him.
“No, nor is Myles.”
Her uncle rose and came to her, pulling her into a fatherly embrace. “He’s a good man, my dear. You deserve the best, Giselle, and whether you think so at the moment or not, Myles Buxton is the best.”
“But I don’t understand. If his parents were not happy together, why would he insist that we marry, if I do not want him?”
The Knights of Christmas Page 15
