The Warrior and the Wildflower

by Gregg, Everley

  He pondered the fact that the duke had not yet arrived from his business in Lille. ’Twas not surprising for Philip, who did everything at his own pace and pleasure.

  But finally, the duke arrived. When he did, the noon sun shone directly overhead, and he was accompanied by a dozen of his most trusted knights. A trumpet heralded his arrival, echoing outside the gatehouse. Mathieu couldn’t resist the temptation of rolling his eyes. The duke did like his pomp and pageantry, and always announced his arrival with the blare of the trumpet.

  He liked Philip well enough, but could not hold a great amount of respect for the man’s personal values. How could one admire a noble who kept a mistress in every town, and who spawned bastards more often than he sneezed? Besides, Mathieu had come to be very fond of Isabella, and had a great deal of respect for her. It saddened him to see how Philip took the gracious woman for granted.

  They came through the portcullis, dressed in Burgundy’s traditional colors, with flags of red, yellow, and blue waving in the breeze. Mathieu heard the tittering of young voices, and saw the group of young ladies—Philip’s bastard daughters gathered here by Isabella—peeking out from the garden gate. His mouth thinned in disdain.

  It wasn’t the duke at whom they gawked. It was the twelve knights surrounding him, all huge men decked out in chainmail, some wearing helmets that glittered in the sun. Their spirited chargers pranced in place with excitement, stirring up a veritable dust cloud in the bailey.

  Ladies loved the knights. In reality, Mathieu knew ’twas the fantasy of knighthood they swooned over. He was painfully aware that most of these men couldn’t even name the twelve virtues of knighthood, let alone conduct their lives in alignment with them.

  Mathieu knew too much about Duke Philip’s knights. He’d seen firsthand how the brawny men entertained themselves. His stomach roiled with the memory.

  Pages came running for the rest of the party’s mounts, but Mathieu himself approached the duke, dropping to one knee at the head of Philip’s enormous grey stallion.

  “Your Grace. I am glad you have arrived safely.” Rising to his feet, Mathieu took the horse’s reins as the duke dismounted. “Shall I send word to Lady Isabella of your arrival?”

  Philip was a tall man, with angular, sharp features and broad shoulders. He cut an impressive figure, dressed in black from head to toe. His eyes were dark and keen as well, reminding Mathieu much of those of his falcons. Philip turned those eyes now on his ostler.

  “Mathieu. Good to see you, my boy. Are the preparations for the feast well underway?”

  Mathieu stiffened even as he nodded promptly. “Yes, my lord. All is near complete.”

  My boy. Mathieu resented how the duke addressed him. But in truth, Philip had been addressing him this way since he became Simon La Laing’s squire—over ten years ago.

  Still, he’d not been a boy then nor was he now, at twenty-eight winters. ’Twas no wonder the captain of his guard, the pompous Captain Knape, looked down upon him so.

  “Good, good. Yes, please send word to Lady Isabella that I’ve arrived and would like to speak with her in my solar.”

  *

  Philip entered his solar to find Isabella seated at the desk beside the castle’s steward, a ledger and leaves of parchment spread out before them. The lady was keeping checks and balances on the duchy’s wealth. Warmth filled Philip’s chest as he considered his Portuguese bride. He’d done well in choosing this fine, intelligent woman. Hardly a pretty plaything, Isabella was so much more. She was not only adept at political relations, but was also well-schooled in the numbers.

  “My lady grace,” he began, crossing the tiled floor with long strides, “so good to see you.”

  Isabella rose immediately and curtsied before him with a bowed head. “Philip. Welcome home.”

  He kissed her hand and then barked at her assistant. “Leave us, Guarin.”

  “Have the kitchen maids bring us refreshments, please,” Isabella called after the steward as he left.

  As soon as the door latched shut, Isabella motioned toward the chairs flanking the windows. “Please sit, my lord. How were your dealings at Lille?”

  Philip relaxed into the velvet upholstery and heaved a sigh, his mouth grim. “We have opened discussions about an alliance with Charles of France regarding Calais. ’Tis not proceeding as smoothly as I had hoped.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do we remain peaceful allies?” she asked, a thin eyebrow lifting.

  “For the time being. Yes, for the time being,” Philip avoided her gaze, not wishing to discuss this subject any further. Not now. Not on the eve of the festival. He shifted in his seat. “Our ostler tells me all is about ready for May Day. I look forward to this celebration of spring.”

  “Mathieu has been exceedingly helpful, my lord. He even went all the way to Ghent to retrieve Eva.” She tilted her head, her eyes boring into his. “Eva of Utrecht. You do remember Marisse, I trust?”

  Philip sobered. “Of course. So the girl has arrived?” He cleared his throat. “Is she comely?”

  Isabella sat back in her chair, and Philip noticed her knuckles whiten with her grip on the chair’s arms. “Very. Not unlike her mother, I would wager.”

  Philip’s gaze strayed to the window, where he had a clear view of the stables and blacksmith stall. “’Twas a very long time ago, Isabella. Before I knew the wonder of you.” He pinned her with a smile he hoped looked sincere.

  “Aye, at least sixteen winters past. Her name day was yesterday. Will you assist me in locating a suitable husband for her? I would hate to see yet another of your daughters end up in a peasant’s hovel.”

  Ignoring the jab, Philip watched Wallis through the tall window, checking the shoes on his destrier. His assistant struggled to steady the monstrous stallion. “I’m assuming Rutger is still intent on wedding Alys?”

  Isabella closed her eyes and nodded. “He intends to ask for her hand in the coming days, I am told.” She exhaled the slightest of sighs.

  “This does not please you, my lady?”

  “He is not a noble, sorry to say.” Isabella folded her hands in her lap. “But Rutger is a fine young man. He will soon earn his own blacksmith stall, mayhap here at Coudenburg, since Wallis intends to return to Germolles with me in the fall. And Alys loves the boy.” She paused, riveting him through hawk-like eyes. “I suppose a union for love trumps one for title.”

  Her voice was soft and distant, almost as though she spoke to herself more than to Philip. Again, he chose not to rise to her challenge, regarding her in silence.

  ’Twas easier to deal with an intelligent woman this way. No wonder Philip yearned to spend time with the simpler, peasant wenches. They asked no questions, falling instead in awe at his feet.

  Philip liked it much better this way.

  She straightened then and lifted her chin. “Yes. I approve of the marriage. I’m quite certain Rutger will be approaching you to ask for her hand before your stay here ends.”

  A long pause fell between them before Philip asked the question he loathed to raise. “How many new daughters will I meet this May Day?” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

  “Only two you’ve not met before. Beverielle, and of course, Eva. She is the only one old enough to plan a future for, though. Alys will soon be spoken for. With Beverielle, we have a little time.”

  We. Part of Philip softened to know his wife had taken on this task—of securing stable futures for his bastard daughters. Another part of him wondered why this was so.

  But deep down, Philip knew the reason. Isabella was a virtuous woman, with strong Christian morals and a sound sense of justice. She had vowed, from first she’d discovered the considerable extent of his wanderings, to ensure a Burgundian-worthy match for each of his bastard daughters.

  The fate of the boys, she’d left to him, which he minded not at all. They were easy to place, in positions at court, in monasteries, or in strategically selected marriages. The males of the Burgundy line were mor
e easily controlled.

  With the daughters, Philip cared not even to try. He wasn’t sure if he admired Isabella for her intentions, or thought her quite mad.

  Isabella leaned toward him. “I would like to seek a match for Eva of Utrecht this very summer. She is young, but wise and quite headstrong. It is unfortunate she possesses an infirmity—”

  “Yes, I remember hearing of it. Is it disfiguring?” Philip scowled. “This must have come from her mother’s line. The Burgundys have no such afflictions.”

  Isabella’s mouth flattened. “It is not disfiguring. Under her gowns, it is quite invisible. She walks with only a slight limp.”

  Philip snorted. “A husband will surely see what’s hidden beneath her skirts.”

  A knock on the door interrupted the rapidly rising tension in the room. Two servants entered carrying trays bearing small cakes, a pitcher of wine, and two goblets. Relief flooded Philip. He stood.

  “Come, let us celebrate the arrival of spring.” He poured the wine and handed one goblet to his wife, raising his own. “To May Day.”

  She touched her goblet to his and repeated the toast. “To May Day.”

  After taking a sip, she continued, her tone flat but surprisingly ominous. “And to finding a suitable match for your newly discovered daughter, Eva of Utrecht.” She paused, a terse silence falling between them.

  When she continued, her tone had soured, as with vinegar. “Oh, and of our son? Charles? So good of you to ask after him. He is quite well, the energetic young lad. I will ask Jehanne, our nurse, to bring him to your solar after the noon meal.”

  Chapter Ten

  May Day’s Eve dawned cloudy and cool, the threat of rain evident in the deep-hued clouds on the horizon. As Eva peered out through the window of the girls’ quarters, she frowned.

  “How can we have a bonfire if rains come?” she asked aloud, to no one in particular.

  “’Twill not rain,” her younger sister, Jutte, joined Eva at the window. “The spirits of spring shan’t allow it!” Jutte stamped her slippered foot.

  Alys rose from her pallet and joined them, looping an arm around Jutte’s narrow shoulders. Hailing from Brussels, Jutte of Brabant was only a winter or so younger than Eva. Yet Jutte seemed so much more a child than Eva.

  “Rain is not a bad thing, Jutte. We need rain for the flowers, and to yield a good crop at harvest.” Alys smoothed a hand down the younger girl’s shiny, dark hair. “Do not worry. If the rains smother the bonfire, we shall have a giant blaze in the hearths of the Great Hall.”

  Alys turned to Eva. “Margriet said to meet her in the kitchen garden after breaking our fast. We will teach you the bassadance.”

  The rains did not come, but the dancing lessons did not go well. For one, the grassy footing was soft and did not offer Eva the support she needed to hold her ankle steady. She also felt odd clasping hands with the girl she’d just met. Margriet was a maid who’d been toiling since before dawn in the kitchens. She wore her apron still, covered with flour and spotted with stains. Her hands were reddened and rough, evidence of her endless duties as a kitchen servant.

  Yet the girl’s face was alight with joy. She was, Eva guessed, only a few winters older than herself. Already, she soon learned, Margriet had married Alain, one of the gatekeeper guards.

  “When did you marry?” Eva asked her when they had taken a break to rest on the turf benches.

  “Only just last fall.” Margriet grinned sheepishly as she laid a hand across her middle. “Already I carry Alain’s child.”

  Eva blinked. “Do you both live here at Coudenburg?”

  “Aye. Alain has been gatehouse guard here at the castle for many winters. We have our own quarters off the back of the kitchen. We are fortunate, indeed.”

  Another young girl already betrothed, and happily. Eva wasn’t sure if this knowledge gave her hope or made her feel all the more an outsider. She carried noble blood in her veins, but . . .

  A few moments later, when her twisted ankle failed her and she landed in the grass with a thump, heat rushed her cheeks. All the noble blood in the world hadn’t kept her from being born flawed. A creple.

  Margriet and Alys both rushed to help Eva to her feet. “We are so sorry, milady. Are you well?”

  Their images swam as Eva’s eyes filled, and she could not answer for the binding in her throat. Nodding, she limped off toward the turfed bench.

  “’Tis no use,” she moaned. “I shall not be able to dance on the morrow. I shall content myself with watching you both dance with your true loves.”

  Margriet tipped her head and studied her sadly. “You are very beautiful, Eva of Utrecht. Surely, dancing is not the only reason a lady catches her husband’s eye.” She then turned away to return to the kitchens.

  Although the morning remained cloaked in a misty fog, rains did not come. By noontime the skies cleared, and bright sunlight warmed the air to steaming. After her failed dance lesson, Eva sought out Isabella in her solar. It always made her feel better to be in the company of such a grand woman as the duchess.

  “Your stitches are the finest of any I’ve seen,” Isabella exclaimed, examining a kirtle she had asked Eva to repair. “Your maman taught you the craft well.”

  Eva sighed. “Aye, I can craft with cloth. But ’tis a trade, not a noblewoman’s pastime.”

  Isabella dropped her embroidery in her lap and shot Eva a stern look. “And what do you consider a ‘noble woman’s pastime?’ I am a duchess and I love to sew, though my stitches cannot compare to yours.”

  Shrinking at Isabella’s scolding tone, Eva peered up through her lashes. “But you are a duchess. You have no need to impress anyone with your worth. Your maids and servants craft and mend your wardrobe. Your noble blood speaks for itself.”

  “I beg your pardon, young lady, but you seem to have a warped perception of what it means to be a noble woman. Or man, for that matter,” Isabella huffed. “There are many women and men of high status whose values fall far below those considered noble.”

  Tears blurred Eva’s vision, and for a long moment she could not speak. When she finally raised her gaze to Isabella, she realized the woman was still glaring at her in a most disapproving way. Her heart seized.

  The very last thing in the world she wanted was to displease this wonderful, caring woman who had allowed her presence here at the castle.

  “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. I did not mean to sound—”

  “Haughty? For that is how you sound, Eva. At times you act as though you deserve better than everyone else. What makes you this way? Is your maman conceited as well?”

  Eva began twisting her fingers in her lap, her stomach churning. “Nay, Your Grace. Maman is very humble, indeed.” She paused. “But . . . she is not of noble blood.”

  “Ah, I see. But you are. You seem excessively aware of the fact. Forget not, young lady, that you may be the duke’s daughter, but a bastard one. If not for me, you would not be here at all. Philip probably would not even recognize you as his own.”

  Eva’s eyes rounded as she stared at the duchess. “’Twas not the duke himself who summoned me here?” she asked, her voice small. “The missive was signed—”

  Isabella laughed. It was not a happy sound, but one laced with bitterness. “Never. He wrote the letter, with me standing over him right here in my solar, but ’twas me who found you. I was the one to invite you here, Eva of Utrecht. But certainly not to puff up your person with pride.”

  A hot tear snaked its way down Eva’s cheek. “Then . . . why did you send for me?”

  Isabella’s shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. Her face relaxed, and she gazed at Eva with softer eyes. “I brought you here because, as the duke’s wife, I feel it is my duty to ensure a stable future for all of his children.” She rolled her eyes then. “All of his many children.”

  “A stable future . . . does that mean marriage to a nobleman?”

  Isabella crossed her arms and studied her. “What is it that you want fo
r your future, Eva? Do you want to wed a man for his title? Or because you care for him, in your heart?”

  Confusion clouded Eva’s mind. She didn’t think it was possible to separate the two. “How can one whose blood is noble love a man who is not of her rank?”

  “Hmm,” Isabella began, her eyebrow rising, “I see you are less mature—and less wise—than I thought. I feared you had been sheltered to excess. Do you parents—your maman and stepfather—do they not know love?”

  Eva pondered this a moment. Did love describe what existed between Marisse and Andries?

  “I do not think of what my maman and stepfather share as true love. They are partners, in business and in life. But there seems to be no . . . passion. No romance.” Realizing her audacity, Eva felt her cheeks warm and covered her mouth with her hand. “My apologies, Your Grace. It is just I have a different vision in my head about love.”

  “A fanciful tale, I am sure. The one touted by the minstrels and bards.” The duchess sighed. “It exists, I am certain. But not all are lucky enough to find the elusive dream.”

  Isabella’s gaze strayed to the window, and a faraway look glazed her eyes. “A lady needs to decide what is more important to her—her status, or her heart. And bear in mind, in choosing either, you may not succeed.” She pinned Eva’s gaze. “I waited for love, but my father chose my fate—marrying for political connections and status. I had already seen over thirty winters, and love had not found me yet. Mayhap it never would.”

  Eva stared at her in disbelief. “So ’twas not your choice to marry Philip? Was it not a supreme honor to wed the Duke of Burgundy? The Grand Duke of the West?”

  She knew her question was rude and assuming, but she had to know. She’d already drawn the duchess’ ire. How much worse could it get?

  Isabella just sighed again and motioned Eva to come to her. Kneeling at her feet, Eva found both her hands enclosed warmly within jewel-encrusted fingers.