Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  The town nestled snugly between river and walls. They cantered up a broad street toward the barbican beyond. Everywhere she looked, people tumbled from doorways and leaned from windows to call greetings. Montisfryn acknowledged the salutations with waves, as did his men. Children ran whooping beside the column; townsfolk pressed close. They slowed. Names and questions rang all about them.

  Montisfryn leaned close. “The two men ahead in caps?”

  “Aye.”

  “The reeve and bailiff.”

  She smiled and nodded graciously as he acknowledged them by name.

  The barbican loomed ahead. As they clattered across the drawbridge, the guards snapped to attention, weathered faces lit by broad grins, then the shadows of the entry arch descended. They passed beneath two portcullises before emerging into the sunlight to cross a last drawbridge spanning a spike-lined dry ditch.

  A great shout went up from the battlements as they approached the gigantic wood and iron gates; cheering welled and swelled as those in the bailey caught sight of them. They passed beneath another pair of portcullises set below the gatehouse, emerging into the bailey to a tumultuous reception.

  People thronged, milling close; a cacophony of names, greetings, and questions buffeted them. Montisfryn, still beside her and likewise hemmed in, raised a fist skyward. A huge cheer rose from the assembled multitude; it reverberated between the curtain walls, the inner as massive as the outer.

  A proud smile on his lips, Montisfryn lowered his fist to indicate a pair of towers in the inner curtain wall. Between them stood the gateway to the courtyard beyond. He nudged his gray into a stately walk; the crowd parted, forming a corridor to the gate, still eagerly calling and questioning the men who rode behind.

  Keeping her position beside Montisfryn, Eloise took stock of her surroundings. The outer curtain wall was segmented by towers jutting into the bailey, each large enough to house a small garrison. Between them stood storehouses and smithies, armorers’ forges and the like, all leaning against the outer wall. There were animal pens and stables galore, an alehouse, and a huge granary. As the cool dimness of the courtyard gate engulfed her, she turned and looked ahead.

  Only to find Montisfryn’s gaze upon her. She smiled; he lifted a brow, then looked forward as they clattered onto the courtyard cobbles.

  The welcome here was less rowdy, but nonetheless heartfelt. Pages, maids, cooks, grooms, scullions, serving men, washerwomen—all came running, waving, bobbing curtsies or nodding respectfully as Montisfryn’s gaze touched them.

  Eloise raised her gaze to the keep. As custom dictated, the chief members of Montisfryn’s household were gathered at the top of the steps. She barely noticed them. Instead, she felt her eyes widen, then widen again as she took in the massive scale of her new home.

  It was not merely huge, it was monstrous! From the outer gate, the ground rose steadily; the solid rectangular keep was built on the crest of the rocky outcrop, abutting the curtain wall, beyond which would lie a sheer drop hundreds of feet to the river flats below. Six stories, Eloise counted, and there would be dungeons as well; it was a formidable edifice.

  To its right, a hall had been added more recently, built on the same massive scale with three levels of arched windows. Further yet to the right lay more buildings, also of three levels, the lowest taken up by storerooms. Beyond lay the kitchens and outhouses. Swiveling, she looked left. A chapel stood beside the keep; in its shadow, she spied a covered well. In the lee of the west wall lay gardens and dovecotes.

  Montisfryn halted his gray before the broad steps leading up to the keep door. Jacquenta halted alongside. As Montisfryn swung down, his steward descended to greet him.

  “Welcome, lord! Tis indeed a great day that sees you return to us.” Of medium height, thin and gray-haired, the old knight yet stood straight as a pikesman; joy and relief lit his face.

  “Thank you, Edmund.” Stripping off his gloves, Montisfryn gripped the steward’s hand. “How goes things here?”

  “All is well with the estate, lord.”

  Eloise pricked up her ears. She cast a quick glance at Montisfryn; he was looking about him, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

  “And Lady de Montisfryth?”

  “As well as maybe, lord. She is eager to see you.”

  As Montisfryn came to lift her down, Eloise saw an odd gleam in his eye.

  “Aye, I warrant she is.” He set her down on the cobbles, then, taking her hand, led her forward. “I would make you known to Sir Edmund, lady. He is my steward here. Edmund, this is Lady de Cannar. She will be residing here henceforth, and will act as chatelaine.”

  His blue eyes intensely curious, his smile delighted, Sir Edmund bowed low. “Tis an honor, lady.”

  As he straightened, Eloise saw sudden consternation sweep the elderly knight’s face. It vanished immediately, yet his smile had waned.

  “Come, lady.” Montisfryn drew her up the steps; Sir Edmund slowly turned, then followed. Roland and Montisfryn’s senior lieutenants joined them as he introduced her to his chamberlain and wardrober.

  Both men bowed low; to Eloise’s sharp eyes both seemed strangely unnerved. Inwardly, she frowned.

  Montisfryn turned her to face the excited crowd congregated about the keep steps. “Look you well, lady.” With one arm, he gestured broadly, encompassing the courtyard and all it contained. “Henceforth, this is your domain.”

  His words, strong and clear, carried easily over the sea of heads. There was a hush, then an explosion of excited chatter.

  Eloise looked, but found no animosity. There were plenty of shy, speculative glances, yet his people seemed merely curious—and genuinely relieved. Given all she’d heard, she found nothing surprising in that.

  She glanced at Montisfryn, and encountered a proud, intensely satisfied smile. She arched a brow at him; he gazed at her for a moment, then turned her to the door. His smile, if anything, deepened.

  They passed ceremonially through the huge oak doors and into the entrance hall.

  And encountered their first surprise.

  That the cobwebs festooning the ornate carving decorating the arched doorway to the hall were as much of a surprise to Montisfryn as they were to her, Eloise could not doubt. He stopped and stared, all expression leaching from his face. Then, his hand tightening about hers, he slowly led her beneath the hanging tendrils and on into the great hall.

  It was certainly great and it was undoubtedly a hall. Beyond that, she had never seen its like. The place was filthy. Dust hung heavy in the air; the rushes simply stank. The banners hanging from the walls were themselves hung—with great swaths of cobwebs trailing down to catch at unwary heads.

  The floor was a sea of moldy rushes scattered with bones that not even dogs would touch. The raised dais, set along one end of the wide, vaulted chamber, fared but little better. The lord’s table sat, a massive edifice in oak, in its customary position. Its surface was clear, but that, and the benches and stacked boards lining the walls, were the only sign that anyone still used the place. Even the fireplace, a wide hearth in the center of the floor, seemed to hold the cold ashes of centuries.

  Releasing her, Montisfryn slowly walked on, eventually stopping by the hearth. His hands had risen to his hips; the tension in his shoulders testified to his shock.

  “Edmund?”

  The question was quiet, dazed, not the horrendous bellow she—and Sir Edmund—had anticipated.

  Gamely, the steward stepped forward. “Tis by the lady’s orders, lord.” He bowed his head as he made the admission; realizing, he raised it and squared his shoulders. “I was permitted to order only that which fell within the steward’s jurisdiction, and most especially forbidden to undertake, or in any way see to, matters which fell to the chatelaine’s role.”

  Alaun dropped his head back, closed his eyes, and groaned. Feelingly. “How long? Since I left, saints preserve us?”

  “Nay—twas after we heard of the victory at Crecy. Tis my belief she expected
you home after that.”

  Alaun emitted a low growl. Slowly, he turned to his new chatelaine. She regarded him calmly, no hint of her thoughts in her face. Inwardly, he grimaced. “This is now your affair, lady. I would not have had you face such a task”—grimly, he surveyed the horror—“but the matter lies before us, nonetheless. Give what orders you will to Sir Edmund; he will convey them on.”

  His fists tightened as his gaze swept his once-proud hall. Jaw clenched against the urge to roar, he cast a narrowed-eyed glare at his servitors. “Hear me well. I wish to dine in this chamber—and that in no more than two hours.”

  Sir Edmund paled.

  Eloise sent a raking glance about her, then, coolly composed, turned to Sir Edmund. “I would have all the women in, regardless of their normal duties—all except the kitchen staff. The women are to start with the walls—mops on sticks will reach. I would have the grooms and any other likely men—you will know who—in first of all, to sweep the cobwebs down and remove the banners. The laundresses can take charge of those. I want them beaten and brushed and their poles oiled before rehanging.” She continued, calmly reciting order after order, decision after directive.

  Reassured that she was not about to run screaming from his hall, Alaun turned toward the dais.

  Three minutes later, Eloise concluded her orders.

  Sir Edmund regarded her gravely. “Tis indeed what is needed, lady.” His gaze flicked warily to his lord’s broad back. “But we’ll never accomplish all that in two hours.”

  She raised her brows. “Naturally not. But tis senseless attacking jobs like this in halves. Have the squires remove the lord’s table and the boards, trestles, and benches, and set them up in the gardens. In honor of the lord’s triumphant return, we will naturally have a celebratory dinner for the entire household. The day is fair—I believe we should hold it outside.”

  Edmund blinked, then smiled, slowly at first, then more broadly.

  She met his eye. “Can I leave it to you to instruct the cooks?”

  “Aye.” Edmund nodded. Straightening his shoulders, he shifted his gaze to Montisfryn’s back.

  “Nay, Edmund. Leave the lion to me.” Smiling at the surprise in the old knight’s eyes, she laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Tis my scheme. He’ll not eat me.”

  Edmund frowned. “Lady…”

  “Nay, sir. Enough.” She drew herself up. “Do you away and start this business—to my mind there will be no excuse can we not eat supper in this hall.” She arched a haughty brow. “And I have it on good authority that my tongue is a lethal weapon.”

  Despite the warning, Sir Edmund’s smile was more grateful than wary. With a low bow, he left her.

  Lips curving, Eloise turned. Montisfryn stood behind the high table staring up at his family crest carved into the back wall. The others had taken advantage of her discussion with Sir Edmund to escape the unwholesome atmosphere. Lifting her skirts, Eloise picked her way across the floor. Stepping up to the dais, she calmly clasped her hands before her and waited, the image of a dutiful chatelaine.

  Montisfryn glanced at her. His lips quirked as he took in her stance, then he sobered. For a moment, his gaze held hers, then he grimaced and held out his hand. “Come. If this welcome has not prostrated you, we’d best go and visit its perpetrator.”

  Eloise preceded him up the stairs that led from the dais. Even though she wasn’t touching him, she could feel the anger radiating from him. It was as well she was with him; hopefully her presence would restrain his ire. Perhaps the poor old dear had simply lost her wits?

  Minutes later, brought face to face with Lanella, Lady de Montisfryth, Eloise rapidly revised her assessment of Montisfryn’s stepmother. Lanella was not that old, she was certainly not poor, and if this bright-eyed lady had lost her wits, then so, too, had Eloise.

  “Alaun!”

  Lanella greeted her stepson with unaffected joy. Propped in a large chair and swaddled in scarves and wraps, she held out crabbed hands, her face wreathed in smiles. She remained seated; she clearly could not rise.

  “Maman.” Montisfryn took her hands, dwarfing her as he bent to place a filial kiss on her cheek. Straightening, he fixed his errant parent with a stern and distinctly irate glare. “I am not pleased with you, maman. Particularly not when I’ve brought a new chatelaine to relieve you of your duties—as you’ve requested for so long.”

  Eloise could not doubt the eager surprise that lit Lanella’s countenance.

  “You have?” Lanella looked for all the world like a child about to receive a long-dreamt-of treat. “But…” Her expression clouded.

  Montisfryn shifted, standing directly between them. From her position by the door, Eloise saw Lanella try unsuccessfully to peep around his large frame. “How did you know…?”

  “I didn’t.” Montisfryn’s tone was clipped.

  Lanella blinked up at him, her expression blanking. “Oh.”

  Eloise felt for the lady. She glided forward and sank into a curtsy. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady de Montisfryth.”

  Lanella beamed at her.

  Then they both looked at Montisfryn.

  Suddenly finding himself the focus of a pair of polite, but pointed glances, Alaun growled, “Allow me to present Eloise de Versallet, lady of the late Raoul de Cannar. She is under my protection, and will henceforth reside here and assume the duties of chatelaine.” Hands on his hips, he had no difficulty summoning a resigned scowl. “I will leave you to get acquainted.”

  With a curt nod, he headed for the door, pausing at the last to acidly comment, “Perhaps, maman, as it will be Eloise’s duty to rectify them, you might warn her of what other horrors you have laid up for me.”

  Under his glare, Lanella squirmed.

  Immediately the heavy arras over the doorway settled behind him, Eloise found Lanella’s bright and remarkably shrewd gaze on her.

  “My dear—I’m so glad to welcome you.” Lanella held out both hands, her smile inviting Eloise to take them. “And I must apologize for whatever state the hall was in. I cannot easily go down. Was it truly horrendous?”

  “Worse.” Eloise gave up the struggle to hide her grin. Lanella had the most expressive face, her features moving fluidly to keep pace with her thoughts—delighted one moment, a trifle worried the next. “But I’ve already given orders to put all right.” She studied the older woman for a moment, then asked, “Are you truly not upset at being put aside as chatelaine?”

  “Upset?” Lanella’s blue eyes flew wide. “My dear, if you only knew! I’ve been at him for at least the last three years to replace me!”

  Eloise let her brows rise. “You’ve been ill for three years?”

  Lanella grimaced. “Nearer four. I cannot get about. My companion, Maud, takes care of me, and I’ve learned to be content here in my chamber. But as you know, to fulfill the duties of chatelaine, one needs to take one’s eyes on tour. I’ve done the best I could these last years, but when I heard of Crecy—I assumed Alaun would shortly be back, you see—I thought to make plain to him how much this great house needs an active chatelaine.”

  “I think you succeeded.” Eloise smiled at the memory of Montisfryn’s face when he’d first seen his hall.

  “But come—pull up that stool and sit beside me here.” Lanella waved to a stool with a beautifully embroidered cushion. “You must tell me how you come to be in my stepson’s care.”

  As she shifted the stool, Eloise wondered how much to reveal. From Roland, she’d learned that Montisfryn was as close, if not closer, to Lanella than one might expect had she been his real mother, that Lanella had never sought to promote her two sons ahead of their stepbrother, but had staunchly supported Montisfryn throughout his career. Her own daughters were married, well-established, yet she’d chosen to remain in her rooms in Montisfryn’s castle, far from her grandchildren, and await his return.

  Glancing at Lanella, Eloise encountered a limpid, transparently hopeful gaze. With a swish of her skirts, she sa
t. And smiled. “It started with a pig.”

  *

  On leaving Lanella’s apartments, Alaun slowly paced the corridors, and wished he was a fly on Lanella’s chamber wall. His new chatelaine had been as impressed as he could have wished with his castle and his keep—until they’d entered his hall.

  With a low growl, he shook aside the memory. Just when he thought his problems were over, that he’d finally reached the end of his difficult trail and had Eloise safe in his castle, to act as his wife until she trusted him enough to acknowledge him as her husband, fate had tempted Lanella to one of her tricks.

  Suppressing another growl, he forced himself to stop by a dust-strewn arch. The familiar view could not hold him; he snorted, then sneezed.

  His feet had taken him toward his own apartments on the second level of the new block next to the hall. Not sure what he would find there, or that he wanted to know, he hesitated. His antechamber lay at the end of the long, tapestry-lined corridor; warily, he poked the hanging beside him.

  A cloud of dust billowed forth. Choking, he fell back, then, muttering dire imprecations against manipulative stepmothers, he turned and headed for the top of the keep.

  The bracing breeze blew the cobwebs from his mind.

  Summoning his lieutenants, he paced the battlements while they made their reports. By the time they were done, the autumn sun was high and his stomach insisted the dinner hour was nigh. But the gong had yet to be struck; he was determined not to set foot in his hall until it was fit to receive him.

  Eschewing the sight of the ant-like creatures scurrying about the courtyards far below, he lifted his gaze to the surrounding lands—his lands, under his law, his rule, his hand. Like a dark ribbon, forests swathed the northern and eastern horizons, trailing away to the southeast. The Long Forest covered the northwest, the Shirlet next it, with the Wrekin beyond. To the northeast lay Morfe; from there, a dark green streak took in Kinver, directly east, and Feckenham, stretching southeastward.

  Pivoting, he looked south to the river flats, good grazing land interspersed with fertile fields and lightly wooded terrain. To the west lay the foothills of the Welsh mountains, rough hills hiding small, rock-strewn valleys, gradually rising to the craggy, mist-shrouded sentinels lowering on the horizon.