Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  From the shadows of the forest, Alaun watched her go. Predictably, Roland materialized at his elbow, chortling uncontrollably.

  “One of your easier conquests?” Roland eventually managed.

  Alaun turned and met his gaze. “One of my more intriguing conquests.” Without another word, he headed back to the stream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Indeed, Sir Percy. Tis a pleasure to see you again, too.” Summoning one of her minions, Eloise directed, “A chamber in the west wing, Alwyn.”

  With a regal nod, Eloise dismissed Sir Percy, mentally as well as physically, and returned to her position behind the keep door. To carefully peer out.

  It was not general practice for a chatelaine to thus efface herself, but she’d insisted that today only Emma and Julia should stand at the top of the keep steps, flanking her father and William as they welcomed all those who had answered the call to arms. Her tone had been sufficiently shrewish to ensure none had argued.

  From her vantage point, she had screened each party of guests, but had yet to sight the stranger’s face. Or his body. She wasn’t sure which had made the greater impression. Never in her life had a man affected her so; she was anxious to discover if the affliction was permanent, not least so she could take appropriate steps to counter it.

  She’d ridden back to the castle in an uncharacteristic dither, nearly riding down one of the guards in the barbican. All the way back, and for hours later, she had felt that knowing hand on her bottom. The predatory curve of the stranger’s lips was indelibly imprinted on her mind. Yet what truly puzzled her—what had sent a wary shiver through her normally unshakeable resolve—was that while both touch and seductive smile had evoked strong memories of Raoul, that hadn’t dampened her interest.

  For the last nine years, the lightest caress, the veriest hint of such a smile, had sent her rigid. Even this afternoon, while she’d been greeting the lord of Hightham’s party, one of his knights who knew her not had candidly looked her over. With luck, the hapless fool would thaw out before the banquet.

  Peering through the shadows, she frowned. The sinking sun was gilding the gray stone of the keep. The courtyard was still crowded, the newcomers leaving their allotted quarters to chat and watch the later arrivals, while the serfs and craftsmen who had labored all day drifted home. The incoming stream, however, had dwindled to an intermittent trickle. And the stranger hadn’t appeared.

  Beneath her breath, she swore. Relief was not what she felt, and she didn’t like to think why.

  Disgusted with her unlooked-for sensibility, she gathered her skirts. Her father and brother might as well abandon their positions and retire to make ready for the banquet. She stepped forward—

  A horn sounded.

  The single brazen note echoed from keep and wall, a clarion announcing the arrival of some significant noble.

  Just what she needed—unexpected nobility. Swallowing her curses, Eloise swung about. “You—Eadith.” She pointed to a maid. “Run and prepare the main chamber in the south tower. Find some others to help—quickly now!”

  It was the room below Eloise’s own, the one she had hoped to keep free as a ladies’ bower, but that couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t rearrange the entire keep for one man. There was space in the barracks and lower floors for lesser knights, but their master, whoever he was, would have to be well-quartered.

  Turning back to the courtyard, she was just in time to see a pennon, dipped to pass through the tunnel leading from the outer bailey, emerge into the sunlight. As the banner was raised, she, along with everyone else in the assembled throng, struggled to make out the emblem. A dragon? Entwined with a lion rampant? The primary colors were scarlet and gold.

  Eloise tried to recall the device. It was not local, that she would swear. The shape of the banner declared the owner an earl. The Earl of what?

  Montisfryn.

  The name came to her on whispers, rising from the crowd like startled butterflies. The rider carrying the standard rode forward; he was followed by more, carrying pennon and banner. The crowd was fairly awash with whispers now. A glance at her father and brother was uninformative, other than telling her they knew who this was. Both men stood proudly erect, feet apart, fists on hips, towering over their diminutive ladies. This was no ordinary unexpected guest. Both Emma and Julia had sensed the expectation in their husbands, yet, from their faces, knew no more than she.

  Who was the Earl of Montisfryn?

  The knights made their entrance in half-armor—richly embroidered surcotes over mail, their heraldic arms emblazoned on their shields, specific features of their devices repeated on each surcote and on their destriers’ magnificent caparisons. Plumed, crested helms covered the warriors’ heads. The setting sun caught their lance-points, adding more gold to the show.

  Dragging her gaze from the spectacular sight, Eloise glanced at the crowd. They were, one and all, mesmerized. Whoever he was, the Earl of Montisfryn knew the value of a grand entrance.

  Returning her gaze to the knights as they approached at a stately walk, the heavy thud of chargers walking in unison reverberating like a drumbeat between the walls, Eloise felt the faint stirrings of respect. The gesture had been gauged to a nicety. Her father had straightened perceptibly; it was an honor to have a great knight appear in such style. It would ensure the tournament was talked of for months, if not longer.

  Her gaze fastened on the knight in the lead. The Earl of Montisfryn had a magnificent pair of shoulders…

  Eloise froze. Eyes widening, she scanned the rest of the knight—the arms, the thighs—it could be the same man. Her heart thudding in her throat, she waited, barely breathing as the earl halted his destrier before the keep steps.

  Alaun let a pregnant moment pass while through his visor he eyed his old adversary. Henry de Versallet had grown older—too old to fight. His son, however, looked to be a prime specimen, an opponent capable of giving him a fair match. Moving with his habitual deliberation, Alaun reached up and removed his helm. The nine knights at his back did the same.

  Behind the door, Eloise pressed a hand to her lips, choking back her exclamation. She closed her eyes, uttered a quick prayer, then opened them again, but the sight before her remained unchanged. Stiffening, her heart thumping, she swung about and stalked deeper into the hall.

  Out on the steps, Henry gestured grandly. “Welcome, Lord de Montisfryth. My house is honored to receive you.”

  Alaun allowed one brow to rise. He dismounted; his knights followed suit. With him at their head, they trooped up the steps.

  Alaun attended the introductions with half an ear, lazily scanning the crowd. He took note of William, measuring the heavily-built knight even as William returned the compliment. After greeting Lady de Versallet and William’s wife with courtly courtesy, drawing awed glances from them both, he gave his attention to his host.

  Henry was frowning, peering into the shadows about the keep door. “My daughter, Eloise, was about.” Henry glanced at him. “You might remember her—twas the tournament for her wedding you were here for last.”

  “Ah, yes.” Alaun smiled coolly. “The time I lost my father’s palfrey. To you.” He paused, but Henry made no response. “Lady de Cannar, if I recall aright.” He vaguely remembered the skinny girl whose nuptials had cost him his father’s prize stallion.

  Henry snorted. “Not any more. De Cannar died. Eloise is chatelaine here—she’ll attend to any needs you might have.”

  Alaun inclined his head. Introduced to Sir John Mattingly, he consented to be led to his chamber.

  As the other guests dispersed, Albert d’Albron joined Henry at the top of the keep steps. “Your prediction of nine years ago has come true, it seems. Your old sparring partner’s son has certainly grown into that body of his.”

  “Aye, and from all I’ve heard, he’s learned to use it most effectively.” Henry rubbed his hands together, anticipation lighting his face. “His presence is a coup, no doubt of that. The man’s a born fighter. I
’ve heard tales aplenty of Montisfryn’s prowess—it looks like at last I’ll see the phenomenon in the flesh.”

  Gleefully, Henry clapped Albert on the shoulder. Together, they entered the keep.

  *

  In a chamber off the entrance hall, Eloise pored over a slate, a chalk gripped tightly between her fingers.

  The door opened, and she glanced up.

  Blanche, Lady of Selborough, Albert d’Albron’s daughter and Eloise’s oldest friend, looked in. “Problems?”

  Eloise returned to the slate. “May the saints fly away with the man—he’s ruined my table!”

  Blanche chuckled and closed the door. “I’d have thought he’d make your table.”

  “He’s an earl—curse his golden hide. He’s the ranking nobleman. I’ll have to put him at the lord’s table, and at Emma’s side.”

  “Lucky Emma.”

  Eloise snorted. “She’ll probably turn green when she realizes.”

  “Surely she’s not still so nervous?”

  “She is.” Eloise paused, then smiled. “In fact, it won’t surprise me if she can’t find two words to say to him.”

  The door opened to admit Sir John. Eloise waved him forward. “Here is the new seating for the lord’s table. There are to be no last minute alterations, no matter what any knight—or noble—might say. Is that clear?”

  Sir John, who had served at the castle since Eloise was a child, smiled. “Aye, lady. I will see to it.”

  With a heavy sigh, Eloise rose. “Come, my Lady of Selborough.” She waved Blanche toward the door. “Tis time for us to change.”

  Blanche’s husband had been detained—a little matter of a rebellious vassal. He was unlikely to be free in time to appear at the tournament, so Eloise had arranged for Blanche to share her chamber.

  They left the room arm in arm, but Eloise was waylaid by the cellarer. Blanche, absorbed with thoughts of sartorial significance, went ahead. The sun had disappeared behind the walls before Eloise finally followed.

  Her foot was on the lowest step of the tower stair when a squire, a man of indeterminate years, came hurrying down. Seeing her, he immediately halted and flattened himself against the wall. Stepping back, Eloise motioned him on. “Nay. Continue. And then I may pass easily.”

  The squire bobbed respectfully and dashed past. Only as Eloise started up the stair did the man’s livery, scarlet with a golden lion and dragon entwined, register.

  She froze, then looked up. The door to the chamber below hers lay ahead, mercifully closed. Her gaze on the panels, she climbed steadily past, then went quickly up the next flight. When her door latch fell behind her, she quietly exhaled.

  “At last!”

  Eloise turned to see Blanche holding up two richly embroidered surcotes, one in peacock blue, the other in vivid green.

  “Which do you think? Both go with scarlet.”

  Blanche’s silk cote was a delicate sea-green. Eloise frowned. “The green.” As she headed for her chest, she added, “We won’t be sitting anywhere near him, I warn you.”

  Her head popping up through the wide neck of the green surcote, Blanche pulled a face. “A pox on this formality. Still, there’s always the dancing.”

  “Dancing girls.”

  “Eloise! How could you?”

  “Against my better judgment.” Eloise wondered if her temper would survive the night. She frowned at her stock of embroidered surcotes.

  Commonsense, along with propriety, dictated that she should wear her best, yet she refused to pander to Montisfryn’s vanity, as Blanche and doubtless half the other ladies would. A dusky lilac surcote she had never favored was the least likely to complement his scarlet. Unfortunately, it didn’t complement her, either. With a sigh, she reached for it, then glimpsed the black velvet beneath.

  For what felt like the first time in hours, she smiled. “Where’s Jenni?”

  Even as she spoke, the door opened and her little maid slipped in. The girl was flushed and breathless. Eloise waved her forward. “Come, Jenni. I must hurry.”

  With Jenni’s assistance, Eloise stripped and washed, then, clad in her fine linen chemise, she sat on a stool while Jenni brushed her hair. After pulling on a pair of soled hose and gartering them above her knee, Eloise stood and donned the ivory cote she’d chosen. The garment fitted the upper half of her body snugly, the neckline so wide it left her shoulders bare. Long folds fell from her hips to the floor; the sleeves fitted like a second skin, extending beyond her wrists.

  Jenni wound a finely wrought gold girdle about Eloise’s hips, then climbed on the stool to lift the black velvet surcote over Eloise’s head.

  As the weight of the sleeveless surcote settled on her shoulders, Eloise imagined it her armor. The black was relieved by intricate gold-and-silver embroidery bordering the neckline and the elongated armholes that extended to her hips, revealing the richness of the ivory cote and gold girdle beneath. Denser embroidery filled the surcote’s center panel, which narrowed to her waist before the surcote widened into the long skirt, the velvet flaring over her hips, then hanging heavy to the floor.

  Settling her skirts, she straightened. “My hair. Quickly, now.”

  Jenni’s fingers flew. The long tresses of deep, rich brown were braided and looped, with ivory ribbons entwined in the plaits. Suspended from a worked gold fillet, a gold-encrusted divided crespine, simple but elegant, enclosed the two vertical loops of plaits, one on either side of her face.

  “Just my ring,” Eloise called as Jenni darted to her jewel casket. Placing the single emerald on her finger, Eloise smiled smugly. Her attire was positively austere.

  Finally satisfied with her own toilette, Blanche turned. “By the sainted Virgin, Eloise! You can’t wear black!”

  “Indeed, I can. I’m a widow, remember.”

  “Yes, but…” Blanche frowned.

  “I’m to be the raven,” Eloise informed her as she headed for the door. “The raven amid all you gaily plumed lovebirds.”

  With that, her head held defiantly high, she majestically swept down the stairs.

  *

  In the chamber below, Alaun lounged on the bed. He was dressed for the festivities, a heavy silk houppelande in deep forest green sheathing his shoulders, its full sleeves caught at his wrists. Soled hose of a softer green provided a subtle contrast. Short, the houppelande concealed nothing of his powerful thighs, while the goffered neckline of his fine shirt showed above the furred collar. In one hand, he clasped a chased goblet; a blood red ruby gleamed as he raised the cup to his lips and idly sipped.

  From his perch on a stool by the bed, Roland, in a blue jupon over parti-colored hose, viewed his cousin with misgiving. Alaun appeared sleepily content, a relaxed lion ready to roll over and have his stomach scratched. Roland trusted the illusion not at all. “You’re going to make quite a few ladies very peeved.”

  Alaun shrugged. “What they wear is none of my concern.”

  Roland raised his eyes heavenward. Alaun’s casual attitude toward the fairer sex, occasionally verging on the negligent, was a byword at court. In Roland’s opinion, his cousin was spoiled. Spoiled by the fact that, having been blessed with a manner both easy and courteous and a body beyond compare, the ladies flocked to his side. And his bed. The constant procession of beauties, some well-born, others less so, through the flaps of his pavilion outside Calais had spawned innumerable ditties.

  But none of the women lasted long; none had proved capable of fixing Alaun’s interest for longer than it took him to bed them.

  However, given that the king’s orders to Alaun to secure his domains had included a command to secure his succession, it was time and more, in Roland’s opinion, that his cousin paid the ladies’ wishes more heed.

  He was about to say so when the door opened.

  Bilder, Alaun’s squire, entered. An unprepossessing individual with lank fair hair brushed over his head to conceal the bald patch forming on his crown, Bilder’s oftimes vacant expression led the unwary to
consider him wanting—an impression as erroneous as Alaun’s laziness.

  Alaun drained his goblet and fixed Bilder with a glittering gold stare. “Well?”

  “Ain’t no woman of that description in this entire castle.”

  Alaun grimaced. He knew Bilder too well to question his accuracy. Could she be one of de Versallet’s serfs? The last thing he wanted was to have to reconnoiter the old man’s nearby manors. Looking down, he studied the goblet; his fingers tightened on the stem as the image of her rose in his mind—the flashing eyes, the scornful tone. True, she’d been more amenable later, even shaken; she’d realized by then that he was knight, if not lord…

  He stilled, eyes narrowing. What if it wasn’t that—and it had simply been him that had done the shaking? Her horse, he would swear, had been better bred than the rouncys serfs rode.

  He looked at Bilder. “Forget women. What about ladies?”

  Bilder nodded. “Rovogatti checked that out. He’s right quick with the maids, what with all that Latin charm. Only one possibility, though from all we can gather, she fits your bill right well.”

  “Who?”

  The word was a command; Bilder hesitated no longer. “The old lord’s daughter. A real hoity one, she is. Runs the castle, which, if I may make so bold, operates like a well-drilled army. Lady Eloise, she be.”

  Stunned, Roland glanced at Alaun. And the hair on his nape lifted. Alaun’s expression remained relaxed, but his eyes were alight with an unholy golden flame.

  “What else did Rovogatti learn of this lady?”

  Bilder shifted. “I don’t know as how I’ve the whole story, mind, but she’s not married—by all accounts she’s disinclined to take a husband. Too used to being her own mistress, seemingly. It’s she who’s the real lady here.”

  Alaun’s eyes gleamed. “You interest me greatly.”

  Bilder cast him a cautious glance. “Rovogatti did say as how it seems she has no great opinion of knights, nor men in general. Wasn’t actually interested, if you get my drift. Much sought after, but she brushes them all aside.”