Riding towards York in the retinue of his master, Sir John Wallingdon, Robbie passed the time in two ways: he searched as he always did for a hint of the father whose unknown identity plagued him whenever he was in the presence of noblemen and knights, and he dreamed of Mary. There was plenty of time to do both as the procession of entourages all converging on the road to the city stretched seemingly for miles and was making slow progress.
Mary was among them somewhere, though Robbie had lost track of which covered litter she was travelling in. The ladies seemed to move from one to another as they kept each other company. As lady-in-waiting to Lady Isobel, Sir John Wallingdon’s wife, Mary would follow her mistress wherever that woman desired her to go.
Robbie sighed, thinking of the curve of Mary’s lips, the tilt of her nose, the smooth whiteness of her cheeks. No woman in the country could come close to her perfection. He would do great deeds in her honour. He would write poetry that would cause the hardest heart to weep. He would dedicate his life to her happiness if she would let him.
All he had to do was be able to speak to her without his throat seizing and his tongue becoming lead.
As a squire in the service of an elderly knight of middling wealth he had little to recommend him, but one day Robbie would be a knight, Sir Robert. With the expectation of one day inheriting the title of Lord Danby, Baron of Danby and Westerdale, he would be a much more attractive prospect to a young woman.
His stomach squirmed as it always did whenever the matter of inheritance occurred to him. He had kept The Great Secret buried within him, but never a day went by that he was not conscious of the deception he was party to, simply by living under the name he bore. His conscience would not permit him to deceive a wife over his origins.
With the prospect of Mary in his future, he was more determined to win his knighthood on his own merit. Robbie pictured himself taking Mary back to Wharram Danby, his childhood home. His mother would naturally love her as much as Robbie did himself. Even old Lady Stick would have to unbend when introduced to someone of such elegance, despite her dislike of Robbie. His twin sisters would fall over themselves to gain her notice while his cousins would look on in envy at the woman Robbie had won.
Most of his cousins, at least. Robbie slowed his horse a little, dropping back to the middle of the cavalcade as he pondered what his cousin Rowenna would make of his intended bride. He couldn’t imagine the meeting between the elegant Mary and spirited Rowenna, though they were similar in age. He would have to make time to travel to Ravenscrag and visit his cousin now he was home in Yorkshire. It had been abundantly clear in each of the notes she sent along with letters from Robbie’s family that she was desperate to visit the city more frequently than her father allowed.
‘What’s wrong, Danby? Forgetting how to ride? Are you going to travel to York at walking pace?’
A mocking voice pulled Robbie back from his reverie. He ground his teeth and looked into the eyes of the squire who had come alongside him. Cecil Hugone had been Robbie’s rival and friend—he was never sure which—since they had joined the same household within six months of each other as untrained pages and become squires together. Hours of work under the hard eye of their master had gradually changed both boys from scrawny youths into well-built young men, but while Robbie was tall and leaner than he would have liked to be, Cecil was thickset and squat.
Robbie took a deep breath to steady his voice. ‘Just thought I’d l-let you have a chance to ride in front without having to half kill L-Lightning to keep up with me.’
Cecil pursed his lips and Robbie knew his well-aimed arrow had found the intended target. Cecil never liked reminding he was not the best at everything.
‘We both know my Lightning could beat your Beyard without you needing to draw back. You were thinking of a woman, weren’t you, and I’ll wager I know which one.’
Robbie couldn’t prevent the blush rising to his cheeks. He wished he had grown a fuller beard to conceal it rather than the close-trimmed dusting he wore.
‘You aim high for a poor Yorkshire squire,’ Cecil said with a lift of his eyebrows.
Of course Cecil knew which woman Robbie had given his heart to. High indeed. Sir John was childless and his niece was rumoured to be the beneficiary of his fortune. Whoever caught the heart of Mary Scarbrick would find himself set for life and every man in Sir John’s household, old or young, had been admiring the nobleman’s niece when she had left her convent a month ago to serve as attendant to Lady Isobel. Cecil was included in that number and Robbie was certain he was equally determined to win Mary’s hand. The thought that Cecil might win the woman Robbie loved drove him to despair at night.
With a full beard and corn-blond hair, Cecil drew admiring glances from every quarter. He was the third son of a family who had first come to England from France with Edward Longshanks’s second wife. He was charming, handsome, good-humoured—and Robbie didn’t trust him not to put his own interests first any more than he would trust a fox in a henhouse.
Roger, now Lord Danby, could trace his line back for three generations of nobility, but as for Robbie himself...
He furrowed his brow. The deception he was party to was a weight on his mind, as was the fact he had no idea who his true father was. Despite the letters Robbie had written requesting, demanding and cajoling, his parents had refused to name the man beyond saying he was of noble birth. By hoping to win Mary as a wife, Robbie aimed considerably higher than even Cecil suspected.
Cecil laughed, mistaking Robbie’s discomfiture to do with their conversation. He threw his head back in a careless manner that Robbie knew for certain he practised when he thought no one as watching.
‘That’s it! You can’t sit straight in the saddle because you’re worried you’ll snap your swollen prick in half!’
Robbie winced inwardly at Cecil’s crudity. His intentions towards Mary were pure and Robbie himself was chaste. He yearned to marry her, not dally with her, then move on to another conquest as Cecil frequently did, if what he boasted about was true. Having said that, the affliction Cecil described did cause him trouble at times. That was only natural. There were nights when it felt like a knife was plunging into his groin and he was sorely tempted to seek out one of the maidservants of the household who had hinted that his particular attention would be received gladly. Sir John was elderly and presumably unaware of the behaviour of some of his household. For all Robbie knew, he was the only person not slipping from one bed to another after dark.
He loosened his cloak a little at the neck to allow the breeze to play about his throat. The weather in early June was warm and he could attribute some of the heat that flushed his body to that.
Robbie had learned over the years to speak through gestures to save his voice catching—a nod or wink, a shrug or a smile could make his meaning understood without having to endure the expression on the face of a listener who was no doubt branding him as feeble-minded. He had also discovered that enduring Cecil’s taunting with good humour was the quickest way of putting an end to it and that replying in kind was even better.
‘It’s true,’ he said with mock regret. ‘I am considering having a s-special s-saddle made that is much longer at the front in order to accommodate my inhumanly large member. How fortunate you are, that you have never had to fret over such matters!’
Cecil laughed coldly and punched Robbie on the arm. ‘A sting and a good one! So, tell me—what were you thinking about the fair Mary?’ He leaned closer in his saddle and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘How she’d be to kiss? What it would be like to bury your head between those tender breasts—or those supple thighs?’
‘None of those!’ Robbie said.
Cecil smirked. ‘Something more dissolute than that, even! Between her rounded—’
‘Guard your tongue if you w-wish to keep my friendship!’ Robbie growled. He sat upright in the saddle and let his hand drop t
o the sword at his belt.
Cecil eyed the sword and the hand tightening on the grip.
‘My apologies.’
Robbie took hold of the reins again, his temper, which was always slow to flare, subsiding.
‘If you really m-must know, I was w-wondering how M-Mary would greet my cousin Rowenna.’
‘A cousin! Is she fair?’
Robbie had last met Rowenna on a brief visit to York two years after he had left Wharram Danby to join Sir John’s household. His memory was of a thirteen-year-old, still far too ungainly and unladylike in her mannerisms and interests, but who was showing signs of becoming a comely woman. Dark, unruly curls came to mind, along with a plump form and a determined expression.
He enjoyed a private moment of humour as he considered the likely outcome if he introduced Cecil to Rowenna, remembering the many times she had trounced him at games and scorched him with her tongue, but this ended abruptly as he thought of the games Cecil might introduce her to. He felt a curious prickle at the base of his neck, as though someone had blown on his neck with ice-cold breath. The idea of Cecil showing interest in Rowenna was not something he wanted to encourage. He shrugged in an offhand manner.
‘She may be fair. I have not seen her for five years. She writes to me from time to time and tells me of home.’
Cecil wrinkled his nose. ‘A writer. I suppose she reads also and is grey-complexioned and furrowed of brow from the effect of concentrating.’
‘Possibly. I don’t think she is too serious. She used to get us both into trouble. There was one time she made me drive the sow into the beck and...’
He tailed off. Cecil was losing interest already, Robbie noted with some relief. Women were made for dancing and wit and seduction in Cecil’s world. A woman of a scholarly nature would bore him, though Rowenna’s descriptions of life in Yorkshire had always been a source of pleasure to Robbie and a link with home.
Now he thought of it, a studious woman of letters did not seem like the Rowenna he recalled from their youth, and little like the author of the letters, which were witty and exciting, painting a vivid picture of home and of a vibrant girl who seemed to delight in living, for all she grumbled about how quiet the village was. She had always seemed more alive than anyone Robbie knew and he loved her for it. Loved her for the way she could draw him out of his inclination to solitude—though more often than not into mischief and trouble—in a way no one else managed.
He’d sought her out eagerly on that last meeting, hoping to share his tales with his closest friend, but she’d been too busy drubbing some sense into her youngest brother to properly listen to Robbie’s tales of life in the nobleman’s house and his duties as a squire. Once he had done with his business in York he would make a point of visiting Ravenscrag and seeing Rowenna in person.
‘Come on, Rob, let’s not idle here in the middle of the party,’ Cecil urged. ‘It’s hard enough we are journeying north when there is fighting to be done in the south without having to travel at the pace of a grandmother walking to market. Let’s work up some sweat on these beasts.’
Robbie glanced back over his shoulder, as if he would see evidence of the unrest that had recently arisen in response to the newly introduced Poll Tax. Thanks to Sir John’s age and preference for dwelling at home, they had missed most of the riots that had supposedly taken place in the south of England.
‘The last to the bridge pays for the wine tonight!’ Cecil said.
He cracked the reins with a cry and cantered away. Robbie could afford to give Cecil a head start. He was the better rider and had more affinity with horses than Cecil did. He always had loved them since the time when his stepfather had put him astride his great destrier despite his mother’s protests. Robbie took his time to scratch Beyard in the soft spot behind the bridle before he gathered the reins. The bay rouncy tossed his head and snorted, eager to let loose and put the ground beneath his hooves.
Robbie’s spirits rose once again as he recalled that a tournament was planned for the assembled nobility once they arrived in York. He would take part in the bohort—the games for squires. He knew, without feeling the sin of pride, that he was a far better archer and swordsman than Cecil and that performing well was sure to win Mary’s notice.
He clicked his tongue, urged Beyard into a canter and chased after Cecil. He reached the bridge first, overtaking Cecil and Lightning with ease.
* * *
Cecil bought the wine as promised and not too grudgingly. They sat in the noisy inn that evening, sharing it companionably and joining in the arguments regarding the rebellions, some knights sympathetic to their cause and others outraged that common men might rise up against the King. Robbie drank slowly and listened with interest as both sides made strong cases, but before long he found the heat and noise too great and his thoughts drifted once again to the matter he had been thinking of before Cecil’s interruption on the journey.
Mary and Rowenna. That was it. They would love each other, of course. How could they not, when he loved them both so deeply?
* * *
York was much as Robbie remembered it from his last visit. After the small market town near Sir John’s manor house, the narrow streets felt oppressive and the buildings imposing. As they rode through the streets, Cecil once more came alongside. He gestured to the building site where a new Guild Hall was being constructed. It would eventually replace the current Common Hall, but would not be ready in time for the feasts and banquets that were to take place over the next month.
‘I’ve never been to York before. Are the women worth spending money on? You’ll have to try find me an alehouse where we won’t catch more fleas or the pox.’
Robbie grimaced at Cecil’s condescending attitude. He knew the streets well enough and his mother had been professionally scathing enough about other brewers she had encountered for him to deduce where he would find decent ale.
‘I can take you to the best alehouses, but I don’t know many women of the sort you’d be interested in,’ he said. ‘I was a boy when I was last here! The only woman I know is my Aunt Joanna and she’d have your eye out with her adze if you tried your sweet tongue on her!’
Cecil laughed and slung an arm about Robbie’s shoulder. ‘Then we’ll have to discover the delights together, won’t we! Not tonight, however. I’m too weary after the early start and for once have a craving for my bed with no company in it.’
They travelled at a walking pace through the city to the bank of the smaller of York’s two rivers. The inn was nestled into the walls, close enough to allow easy access to the tournament grounds and festivities that would accompany the summer pageant, yet far enough away from the stench of the city and the early-morning cries of street hawkers selling their wares.
Robbie settled into his quarters in the inn that had been commandeered by Sir John’s steward for the household. He was sharing a room with Cecil, two pages and four of the menservants. He would have preferred more space and privacy than the cramped attic room of eight men would allow.
‘I still would have preferred the camp with the other knights,’ Cecil grumbled. ‘Don’t you wish sometimes that Sir John was young enough to compete and had the inclination?’
Robbie made vague noises of agreement. He was fond of his elderly master, who had long since retired from active service to the King. The squires and servants had been dismayed to discover they would be quartered in an inn rather than the tents beside the ground itself. As Robbie inspected the straw mattress that was to be his bed for the month for obvious fleas, he had to admire the steward’s choice. The room was clean, the straw likewise. Robbie unlocked the small chest where he kept his personal effects and checked his savings. Rowenna’s ribbon, faded with age, was nestled in a corner. Robbie ran his fingers over it, remembering the night she had given it to him.
The night he had learned of his true birth. Even now the bitterness of Roger’s
betrayal and his blundering attempt to act as if the secret was of little consequence made Robbie’s stomach lurch and fill with acid. Since they had parted that night with Robbie furious and Roger refusing to comprehend why, Robbie had seen Roger only once. That had been Roger’s brief visit to Wallingdon four years previously, where they had spoken stiffly and publicly, aware of Sir John’s presence and neither mentioning their argument. He would have to visit Wharram and see Roger at some point, but the idea filled him with anxiety and could wait.
He made his way downstairs and busied himself unpacking and polishing the armour Sir John no longer wore, until he was summoned to the main room of the inn, where the household would eat. He took his place at the table. His mind was only half on the prayers that Sir John intoned before they ate and half on when he might catch a glimpse of Mary. Unfortunately the litter bearing Sir John’s wife and her attendants had travelled at a slower pace and would not arrive until the following day. Even when it did, the women would be eating with Sir John in the small chamber that had been set aside for their private use.
Robbie ate with enthusiasm, scooping up barley-thickened pork stew, and listened to the other men trading insults and jokes. Their language was coarse and their wit quick. Even without the affliction that caused his words to become trapped behind his tongue he did not have much to add. The meal was drawing to an end and the household beginning to drift away on private pursuits. The segregation between the male and female members of the household relaxed, someone struck up a tune on a pipe and Robbie sat back, contented to watch others conversing. He began composing a verse to Mary in his head, wondering if he had the courage to commit it to ink and try passing it to her. Perhaps before he fell asleep he would write it down. It was only doggerel, but he knew Mary had simple tastes and was a poor reader. He hoped the effort—and brevity—would gain him some standing.
A Midsummer Knight's Kiss Page 3
