Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “Nay—tis a simple enough matter in law.”

  She knew it. It was also not a matter in which she had any rights; she’d cast her lot five years ago, when she’d left Claerwhen in her father’s charge. “I wish to return to Claerwhen.”

  Henry shook his head. “I cannot grant that wish. I’ve yet to complete the formalities, but my word binds me to pass you into Montisfryn’s hands.” After a moment, he added, “If you truly wish it, you may petition him to release you into the convent’s care.”

  She humphed—derisively. Pacing aggressively, she systematically evaluated her escape routes. She would allow herself the luxury of being furious—with her sire as well as Montisfryn—later; first she had to secure her way out of the future they’d devised for her. As for her irrational, senseless disappointment that Montisfryn had not, at any time, been fighting for her hand—that she would keep entirely to herself. “Even if I am legally in his care, there’s no reason I cannot reside here.”

  “Nay, daughter. Once you are in his care, tis his responsibility to protect you. He cannot do so if you’re not of his household, or, at the very least, in one of his vassal’s keeps—one he can trust to protect you from importunate knights.”

  Importunate knights? And who was to protect her from Montisfryn? She glanced at her father. “You seem very ready to hand my honor into Montisfryn’s hands.”

  Henry shrugged. “Who better? His honor is beyond question. He’s a companion of Edward’s, a Marcher lord, well able to see to your safety.”

  “I seem to recall,” she retorted, frowning as she dredged up the dim past, “that you and Montisfryn’s father were not exactly close friends. I remember you coming into the hall one day swearing the de Montisfryths were the spawn of the devil.”

  “Ah, yes.” Henry smiled. “A grand day’s fighting.”

  “What?”

  He blinked, then scowled at her. “The differences between Montisfryn’s father and myself were never serious. You may rest assured of that.”

  She glared back; she could feel their net closing about her. Fury again threatened; ruthlessly, she quelled it. She faced her father. “You could petition Montisfryn to transfer me back to your care.” Her face cleared. “You’re his host—he would be honor-bound to at least consider it.”

  Henry drew himself up. “Nay. That I will not do.”

  She stared at him. “Why are you so ready to see me leave—to get rid of me? To throw me out?”

  “Tis not like that!” He frowned. “You’re everything any father could wish for in a daughter. You’re obedient—your talents are manifold. You’ve managed this castle in your mother’s stead exactly as she would have wished.”

  Eloise humphed and turned away.

  “But now there’s Emma,” Henry continued. “Aye, and Julia, too. They’re mice, right enough—the saints only know why. But tis their right and their duty to manage, and they’ll never do that while you’re by. Tis one reason I’ll not urge Montisfryn to return you to my care.”

  Not even in her present mood would Eloise argue that point. “There are other reasons?”

  “Aye. Tis in my mind you’ve your own life yet before you. You were not raised to grow old and molder in your father’s castle. You are but four and twenty—not so old you couldn’t bear a lord a brood of children.”

  “Huh!” She folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts and tapped a furious toe. How typically male! Her father hoped she’d marry Montisfryn, regardless of his talk of “protection” and “care.” A vision of herself swollen large with Montisfryn’s babe distracted her. His babes would be large, of that she felt sure. Abruptly realizing the direction of her thoughts, horrified, she hauled them back. “You know nothing of my…my aspirations.”

  “Nay,” Henry admitted.

  “You have no right to…to try to force such a thing on me in this way.”

  “Nay.” Henry’s voice gained in strength. “You will not be forced into anything. Tis little more than a change of scenery. Montisfryn’s stepmother lives at his stronghold—you’ll like Lanella.” He snorted. “She and your mother always got on well. But Lanella’s been ill these a-many years—Montisfryn has spoken of making you chatelaine in her stead.”

  “I do not wish to leave here.” Even as Eloise made the statement, she knew it for a lie. If even her father realized that Emma and Julia were hiding behind her skirts, then it was past time she left. “And I most certainly do not wish to join Montisfryn’s household.” That statement rang with far greater conviction. The prospect of constantly being under Montisfryn’s nose, subject to his lazy lion’s stare, let alone his smiles, was not one she could view with equanimity. A short ride she was sure she could survive intact—days without number was another matter. “I do not wish to be in the power of any lord other than you.”

  “Do not be difficult, daughter.” Henry’s tone verged on the peevish. “It matters not in whose care you are—your rights are not altered.”

  She threw him a cynical glance. Did powerful men—men like Montisfryn, like Raoul—worry about women’s rights? “Tis not my rights…” She paused, then waved the point aside; she doubted any man would understand.

  “Nay, daughter.” Henry straightened and regarded her sternly. “Tis time you took another husband. You’ve wasted five years here, on top of the four years before that—consider your sojourn under Montisfryn’s care in the light of viewing fresh fields.” He paused, then added, “Your mother would have wished it.”

  She whirled, scorn in her eyes. “How do you know what Mother would have wished now?”

  There was an instant’s silence, then Henry drew himself up. “The matter is settled. There’s no benefit to be had from further discussion.”

  Eloise drew breath and met his eye. Her father would not assist her out of Montisfryn’s trap; he would aid and abet the devil, hoping to hear wedding bells in the future. Curtly, she nodded. “Very well.” It was Montisfryn with whom she had to contend. “What is to happen next?”

  Henry eyed her frowningly. “The presentation of the tournament prize will be made after the third course. I must make the transfer of your person into Montisfryn’s protection before witnesses.”

  She could imagine the scene. “Will I need to be present?”

  “Nay. Tis not necessary.” He hesitated. “I’ve already discussed the matter with Alaun.”

  Alaun? She gritted her teeth and forced her temper down.

  “With so many strangers in the keep, he felt twould be wise to keep close the exact nature of his prize until his party is ready to leave.” Henry paused. “You needn’t fear that he does not fully comprehend your legal position.”

  She humphed. Her legal position had never been in danger—it was she, herself, the woman, who was under siege.

  Just as she had been with Raoul.

  Henry studied her set face; his eyes narrowed. “I would have you remember, daughter, that you will owe Montisfryn obedience in the same way you do me.”

  She swallowed a snort. Filial obedience—even feudal obedience—would not be sufficient to deliver what Montisfryn sought.

  Encouraged by her silence, Henry turned to the door. “I must start the banquet. It would be best if you remain here until Montisfryn comes for you. He has a baggage train in the vicinity—he wishes to leave immediately the transfer is made. A small chest will be all it’ll be possible to carry. I’ll get Emma and Julia to pack the rest of your things and send them on. He’s stationed four men at your door—just a precaution—I can’t say I blame him.” He paused by the door. “I’ll send your maid up, shall I?”

  Deep in plans, Eloise stared blankly, then nodded.

  Henry hesitated, then strode back and gruffly embraced her. “Fare you well, Eloise.” Abruptly, he released her and strode for the door; hand on the latch, he paused. “Incidentally, how did Montisfryn come by your garter? William said you had not given it to him.”

  Eloise’s eyes flashed. Straightening, she lifted her chin
. “Nay, Father. If I am already in Montisfryn’s care, then that, I believe, is a matter that rests between him and me.”

  Henry chuckled; to Eloise’s relief, he opened the door, went out, and pulled it shut behind him, cutting off the sound.

  She relieved her temper with a frustrated growl, then, kicking her skirts about, she resumed her pacing—and her planning.

  *

  From the dais in the hall, at his place on Emma’s left, Alaun graciously accepted the tributes and accolades with unruffled patience. He had already dispatched his three wagons to join with his main column, encamped near Marlborough. Three of his knights with their squires and men-at-arms had accompanied the wagons; if any brigands were watching the castle, they would follow the wagons, hoping for mishap. None would occur, not with such an escort.

  Behind his lazy, satisfied façade, he carefully rechecked his plans. He and his remaining men had eaten earlier; dressed to ride, they picked at the dishes before them—and waited. Not even Roland knew the full story. Relying on accounts passed on from those at the high table, his cousin, in company with most others present, expected to witness a highly romantic betrothal, something sensationally unexpected—or both.

  He was almost sorry he wouldn’t be present to witness the deflation when the truth—so mundane—was revealed.

  The third course was removed; Henry rose and gave a short speech, declaring the Earl of Montisfryn official victor of the tournament. Clapping and cheering greeted the pronouncement, followed immediately by a keenly anticipatory hush. People leaned forward to peer at the high table; the prize’s absence had been noted by all.

  Henry scanned the hall. “And now, Lord de Montisfryth and I, together with my fellow judges, will retire to complete the prize-giving. I bid you all enjoy yourselves.” He gestured to the dishes arriving from the kitchens.

  A stunned silence stretched, then was drowned beneath a wave of frenzied speculation, swelling dramatically as imaginations overheated. Rising, Alaun struggled to keep his smile within bounds; Henry was extracting every last ounce of drama from the situation. With his eyes, Alaun signaled to Roland, summoning him to his side.

  Roland shot to his feet and rapidly made his way up the hall. William de Versallet, too, lumbered up. Joining with the judges, they left the dais and repaired to the solar, immediately behind and above the hall.

  Through a squint set in the wall high above the lord’s table, Henry looked down on his guests. “Twittering like a flock of starlings.” Turning, he waved Albert d’Albron and the sheriff, Sir Geoffrey, to the two chairs in the chamber.

  Alaun lounged against the mantel; Roland stood, much more tense, beside him. William propped against a chest.

  Planting himself before the hearth, Henry rubbed his hands. “Right then! You two are the official witnesses”—he indicated d’Albron and Sir Geoffrey—“William is my next of kin and de Haverthorne here is Montisfryn’s. So—you are here, gentlemen, to witness the transfer of my daughter Eloise from my care, under which she has resided for the past five years since quitting the convent to which she had retired on the death of her husband, Raoul de Cannar, to the care and protection of Alaun de Montisfryth, Earl of Montisfryn. Any questions?”

  Albert raised his brows, pursed his lips, then shook his head. “It seems plain enough.”

  Henry glared at him. “You knew?”

  “Well,” put in Sir Geoffrey, “seemed obvious to me.”

  “The reality doesn’t seem to have impinged on many other minds, however,” Albert mused. “But then, there are few others present who have served as justices.”

  “Humph!” Henry was clearly relieved he was not to be cheated of his anticipated entertainment. “So—it’s done!”

  “Provided Montisfryn accepts the charge?” Albert glanced up inquiringly.

  “Aye.” Alaun met his gaze. “I accept the charge of Eloise de Versallet, widow.”

  Albert regarded him thoughtfully, then turned to Henry. “I think that settles it. Shall we drink to it?”

  That suggestion met with approval all around. Accepting a cup, Alaun sipped the fine wine and waited, keen to have one last, private word with his host.

  Roland, clearly glad to have a drink in his hands, came to stand beside him. “What in the name of all the saints in creation are you about? That woman is worth a fortune. Not a small one—a large one. From all I hear, she’s the equivalent of Edward’s treasury on legs.”

  Alaun merely nodded.

  After a moment’s thought, Roland asked, “And that’s why we’re due to leave rather abruptly?”

  Again, Alaun nodded.

  Roland sighed. “Am I allowed to inquire as to why you’ve suddenly been visited by this urge to take on hordes of rapacious hedge-knights?”

  “I’m under edict to marry, remember?”

  “I thought you’d forgotten.” Roland frowned and sipped his wine. “So why haven’t you asked for her hand?”

  “In case it’s escaped your notice, the lady’s a widow. Her hand is hers to give.”

  Roland opened his mouth, met Alaun’s eye—and promptly shut his lips. After a moment, he asked, “Why her?”

  Alaun’s jaw felt as tense as a unsprung trap. “Because she’s the perfect candidate. Wealthy, well-born, and an experienced and effective chatelaine.” He took a long sip of wine.

  Roland waited; when no more was forthcoming, he glibly suggested, “And getting heirs on her will be no hardship?”

  Alaun narrowed his eyes, but forced himself to shrug. “Aye. But in my case, as you know, while lust might wax strong, it never lasts long.”

  “You’ve already had her?”

  Roland’s stunned surprise grated. “The damned woman’s resistance is legendary,” Alaun growled. “Twill take time to overcome it.”

  Roland remained seriously confused. “But if you’re going to marry her, why bother?”

  “Nay—she knows that not.” Alaun fixed Roland with a hard stare. “Neither will you inform her of it.”

  “Nay, she’ll hear nothing from me,” Roland hurriedly assured him.

  Viewing Roland’s startled, somewhat concerned expression, Alaun grimaced. “Tis just that she’s too willful—prideful—too used to being her own mistress to settle easily under a man’s hand. Tis too long since she’s lain beneath a man—I plan to remind her of the pleasure before I mention marriage.”

  “And after that she’ll meekly agree?”

  He answered in a low growl. “Meekly or otherwise, she’ll agree.”

  Roland grimaced, murmured, “An interesting hypothesis.”

  Alaun heard, but didn’t react. Seeing Henry alone by the window, he pushed away from the mantel and strolled over. “I’ve been meaning to ask—what, exactly, was the substance of our families’ dispute?”

  Henry eyed him shrewdly. “Your father died suddenly, did he?”

  “He did. A hunting accident. I was with Gloucester at the time.”

  “That explains it. I didn’t think you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “It’s a little involved. It was your father’s duty to explain it, but as William was yet too young for you to fight, Edmund presumably saw no point in explaining what you might not, at that age, have understood.”

  “Am I old enough to understand it now?”

  Henry grinned. “The tradition was started by your great-grandfather, back in old Henry’s time. That particular sovereign wasn’t at all keen on his barons indulging in wasteful activities like tournaments. The saints only know what he thought they should get up to. Both our families have long been warrior breeds—we’ve been a match for each other through the ages. We could, it seemed, keep each other in training easily enough, but—and here’s the rub—we’ve a most unhealthy habit of marrying strong-minded, strong-willed ladies. After the first illicit meeting, both your great-grandmother and William’s laid down the law—the king’s law, you understand. So your great-grandsires had to come up with a reason for clashing, or
that would have been the end of it.”

  “I take it they found a reason?”

  “Not easily. In the end, your great-grandfather suggested the bloodlines insult—you must have heard something of that? Ours is pure Norman while yours is mongrel?”

  “That much I’d heard.”

  “All rubbish, but it proved good enough for the ladies at the time. As the years went on, we didn’t need an excuse—it became tradition for the men of our families to fight whenever we happened on each other. Twas easy enough to arrange to meet by accident somewhere in the forests.”

  Much that Alaun had not previously understood was now explained.

  “When your father died, ‘twas the end of it. You were too young for me to fight, and William was but a boy. And with Edward on the throne now and tournaments every second week, you don’t need the old excuse anymore.”

  Alaun frowned. “Why did you inveigle me into challenging you nine years ago?”

  “The horse.” Henry’s smile grew distant. “I’d always wanted that brute, but Edmund wouldn’t put him up. Twas his favorite, so I never pushed him over it, but once he was gone, I reasoned you would have other horses and I should have at least one Montisfryn stallion to my herd.”

  Alaun studied the rim of his goblet. “Did you ever get any real champions from him?”

  “Nay.” Henry frowned. “I could never understand it.”

  Alaun didn’t try to suppress his chuckle.

  “What?” Henry demanded.

  Grinning, Alaun set down his goblet. “Tis the mares that hold the strain. We’ve bred for generations and never got a stallion to give the full characteristics into another mare. You need the right seed, true enough, but the right vessel as well.”

  Henry looked disgusted.

  “Tis time I departed.” Sobering, Alaun met Henry’s eyes. “I’ll take all care of your daughter—you have my word on it.”

  “You’d better,” Henry growled, “or, old or not, you’ll meet me in the forest.”

  Smiling confidently, Alaun grasped Henry’s out-thrust hand. “She’s in her chamber?”

  “Aye, with your men without. She didn’t seem overly bothered about that, but she’s unlikely to leave meekly.”