Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  After a moment, Hugh said, quietly, “And I suppose you and Graeham belong together.”

  Hugh had discovered the relationship one morning when he’d arrived earlier than usual for his visit, having stayed up all night throwing dice and drinking, and found Graeham coming down from the solar in his drawers. He’d accused the serjant of reneging on his promise not to compromise Joanna, and reminded him of some threat he’d once made about slicing off a certain body part and feeding it to him. No doubt he would have demanded that Graeham marry her, were it not that he’d be such an unsuitable choice for a husband. Of course, Hugh’s wrath was short-lived, as usual, evaporating in the face of Joanna’s indignant declaration that she hadn’t been compromised or taken advantage of.

  She reminded him of that now, because she sensed another of his cautionary lectures coming on. “I took a lover, Hugh. That might be sinful and it might be unwise, but I’m a grown woman, after all. I’m free to make my own mistakes.”

  “That’s just it, sister,” Hugh said, keeping his voice low because of all the people walking with them. “You’ve always done just exactly as you pleased, but more often than not, you’ve come to regret it. I just don’t want you to be hurt again.”

  “Graeham isn’t Prewitt, Hugh.”

  “Not in any obvious ways. God’s bones, I like the man. But think about it. Prewitt laid claim to you and then disappeared abroad. So has Graeham.”

  “Graeham hasn’t ‘disappeared,’” Joanna said testily. “He had to take Ada le Fever back to Paris. That’s why he was sent here in the first place, to bring her home. He’s coming back in a few weeks—I told you that.”

  “Aye, but you didn’t tell me why.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s returning to England for good, he said. Did he tell you why? Is Lord Gui releasing him from his service? Will he attach himself to a new overlord? Will he sell his services overseas, as I do?”

  “Nay—I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.” Joanna couldn’t live with that. It was bad enough having a beloved brother who was away so much, risking his life on foreign soil for other people’s kings; she couldn’t bear it if Graeham became a mercenary, too.

  “Why is he coming back, Joanna? For you? Does he have any way of making a—”

  “I don’t know, damn you!” A few heads turned; Joanna studied the grass beneath her feet as she walked, heat rising in her cheeks.

  Three weeks had passed since Graeham had escorted Ada across the Channel; it had seemed like three years. She missed him desperately. She needed to see him, to hold him in her arms, to whisper her thrilling new secret in his ear.

  “What did Graeham mean by ‘a few weeks’?” Hugh persisted. “Four? Five? Six?”

  “I don’t know.” Christ, but she wished she did. Please, Graeham, come back to me—soon. “Hugh, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  He curved an arm around her shoulder. “I know, but I have a responsibility to help you see reason about things. I’m the only family you’ve got anymore.”

  Too true. Lord William of Wexford, their sire, had been invited to this wedding, as had most of the local nobility, but he’d declined when he found out Joanna would be there. He had excised her from his world; she had no father. All she had was Hugh.

  And now Graeham.

  “How can it possibly work out, you and Graeham?” Hugh asked.

  “Somehow it will.” It had to. Joanna’s hand strayed to her woozy stomach. Up ahead, she saw the meadow that was the site of the wedding feast, set up with linen-draped trestle tables beneath fluttering white canopies; servants bustled about, laying white-bread trenchers on the tables. A bit of bread usually quelled her morning queasiness; she’d nibble on her trencher.

  “I blame myself for bringing him to your house that day,” Hugh said.

  “So you’ve told me numerous times. As for me, I’m very grateful to you for bringing Graeham Fox into my life.” Pausing in her walking, she kissed her brother on his clean-shaven cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You won’t thank me if he breaks your heart.”

  “He’s not going to break my heart.”

  “Has he told you he loves you?”

  “I told you—I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Ah,” Hugh said sadly. “I thought as much.”

  “I know he loves me. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

  Girlish shrieks advanced from behind, growing louder as Catherine and Alice ran past, holding hands and giggling excitedly. Joanna wouldn’t have recognized Alice. No longer was she the scrappy little waif condemned to fending for herself on the streets of London. She was the ward of Lord Robert of Ramswick, and by God, she looked the part, in a fine white silken tunic and a chaplet of daisies adorning her long golden hair.

  “Good day, mistress!” Alice called out as she raced past with her new little sister. “Good day, Sir Hugh.”

  Joanna and Hugh returned the greeting, but the girls were too far away by then to hear them.

  “Alice is thriving here,” Joanna observed.

  “You’d thrive if you lived in a place like this, too.”

  “I suppose I would.” Joanna knew she would. She longed for the quiet and serenity of the country. Every night, as she drifted off to sleep, she fancied she was in some lovely little cottage somewhere far away from the tiresome turmoil of London. In her imaginings, of course, Graeham was with her; she was his wife.

  At the edge of the canopied enclosure, Hugh took her by the shoulders and gave her his gravest big-brother look. “You should sell your house and buy one out in the country.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? It won’t work. I might make enough from selling that house to buy a new one, but I couldn’t afford any land to go with it. I don’t want some little village house all crowded in with a dozen others. I’d need some land to call my own, otherwise it wouldn’t be worth it.”

  “Then let me give you some money, enough for a few acres and to help support you if you have trouble selling your embroidery.”

  “Hugh, you know I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why not? Are you expecting Graeham Fox to come back and marry you and take you away from the city?”

  “Nay...” Not precisely.

  “Hoping?”

  Aye, desperately. “It’s because of what you did for me six years ago, Hugh. You bought me the house in West Cheap. You know I promised myself I’d never take your charity again.”

  “‘Tisn’t charity. I’m your brother, for pity’s sake. I have a right to try and look after you.”

  “I don’t need looking after.” And who knew what would come to pass after Graeham returned to her? She must wait for him before making any plans to leave London.

  As if he’d read her mind, Hugh said, “Whether you’re married to Graeham or not, you’ll need a home. It’s unlikely he’ll be able to provide for you.”

  “Hugh, stop it,” she said, dismayed that what he said was probably true, and appalled to find the situation all too reminiscent of her marriage to Prewitt, when Hugh had had to give her the home her husband couldn’t. Wresting out of his grip, she said, “I’m here to celebrate a marriage and enjoy myself. I’m not going to talk to you about Graeham anymore.”

  She did enjoy herself, after she’d picked apart enough of her trencher to settle her stomach. The day was mild, the food delicious, and the music—provided by a harpist who made her think of Thomas—exceptionally beautiful. Robert and Margaret, sitting with the girls and their parents at the high table, were as adoring as love-struck adolescents.

  In addition to the neighboring noblemen and their wives, every important Londoner had turned out for the wedding. The king’s justiciar and his wife were there, along with both sheriffs and the two barons, Gilbert de Montfichet and his cousin Walter fitz Robert fitz Richard.

  Joanna had exchanged cursory greetings with Lord Gilbert and Lady Fayette in the chapel before the nuptial Mass, feeling decidedly awkward; afte
r all, six years ago she’d rejected their son for a silk merchant. Nevertheless, they seemed remarkably gracious, especially Lady Fayette, who took her hands and told her how much she’d missed her over the years.

  Several times during the bride ale, Joanna had noticed Lord Gilbert looking in her direction, his expression inscrutable. Still, she was surprised and a bit apprehensive when he approached her table, looming over her tall and elegant in all his white-haired, terrifying majesty.

  She let out a sigh of relief when all he said was, “You look lovely today, my lady.” He tilted an appreciative glance at her tunic of honey-brown silk, the only gown she owned that was suitable for such a grand occasion.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Joanna gestured toward the table, empty now save for her and her brother, sitting across from each other. “Will you join us?”

  “I’d like that.” His lordship sat on the bench next to her. “Good to see you, Hugh. I heard you were fighting in the Rhineland.”

  “Aye—Saxony. I’m to return in the fall.”

  “You don’t have long, then. It’s already August.”

  “I’ll be leaving next month.”

  Lord Gilbert nodded, cleared his throat. He looked back and forth between them, tapping his fingertips together. Joanna and Hugh shared a surreptitious look of conjecture.

  The baron cleared his throat again. “I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death, Lady Joanna.”

  It unsettled her to hear him speak of Prewitt, after everything that had happened six years ago. “Thank you, my lord. I was sorry to hear about Sir Geoffrey,” she said, referring to his eldest son, who’d succumbed two years ago to measles.

  He studied his tented fingers, took a deep breath. “I wanted you to know that I understood...well, not then, of course. But I understand now why you...didn’t feel that you could marry Nicholas.”

  Taken aback by this unexpected admission, Joanna said, “I appreciate that, sire.”

  His gaze still trained on his hands, Lord Gilbert said, “At the time, I must confess I was at a loss as to why you would balk at betrothal to a baron’s son—even a second son. I knew about his...unnatural tastes, of course, but young men often outgrow such proclivities. And I thought...’Twas naïve of me, I suppose. Certainly it was, but I thought a beautiful young woman like you could...” He spread his hands helplessly.

  “Change him?” Hugh put in, his crooked smile indicating what he thought of such a notion.

  The baron sighed, looked sadly at Joanna. “Obviously you knew better. You were right to refuse the betrothal. We ended up marrying him off to Lord Alger’s daughter, Mabila.”

  “I know,” Joanna said.

  “In five years of marriage, they’ve produced no children. They’re miserable together, of course. He goes his way, and...I’m afraid she goes hers.”

  Hugh raised his goblet to his mouth, casting a look at Joanna over the rim. Clearly he was as puzzled as she to find Gilbert de Montfichet sharing such personal revelations with the likes of them.

  “With Geoffrey gone,” the baron said, “Nicholas is my heir. He’s to inherit the barony. He’ll be lord of Montfichet.” He shook his head. “He’s not a bad sort, really, despite—” he waved his hand eloquently “—his tendencies. But he’s no baron. He’s not a leader, he’s a pleasant young fellow who likes his wine and his music and...other pleasant young fellows.” Closing his eyes, he said, “Christ, if only Geoffrey had lived.”

  “It must be heartbreaking to lose a son,” Hugh said. “But you have another, and he may yet surprise you. Nicholas is still young and unformed. Give him time to—”

  “Two others,” Lord Gilbert said quietly.

  “I beg your—”

  “I have two other sons—Nicholas and...a bastard son I’ve never acknowledged. I’m ashamed to say I’ve never even met him.” Looking at Joanna, he said, “I believe you know him. His name is Graeham Fox.”

  The breath left Joanna’s lungs in a gust. Hugh dropped his goblet, splattering the white linen tablecloth with red.

  A serving wench scurried over to pour Hugh some more wine and clean up what he’d spilled. Two couples who’d been sharing their table returned, laughing as they took their seats. Suddenly they were surrounded by people and conversation.

  “Do you suppose we could take a walk?” Lord Gilbert asked them, sliding a significant glance toward their table-mates. “Perhaps down by the stream.”

  Nodding mutely, Joanna rose and walked with her brother and the baron down to the gurgling little brook that meandered through the meadow. Hugh took his goblet to drink from as they strolled along the bank in heavy silence.

  Finally Lord Gilbert said, “Twenty-six years ago, my younger brother Charles was struck down while leading King Stephen’s forces against the Angevins at the siege of Wallingford. Charles left a widow, Constance. She was heiress to Kilthorpe Castle, near Reading. She was...”

  He paused at the edge of the stream, gazing into the bubbling water. “She had hair like rusted gold, and soft green eyes, and she was very charming. Quick-witted. She could always make me laugh. I’d always been...fond of her. Too fond, perhaps, and I’d sensed similar feelings on her part, but she was my brother’s wife, and I was a wedded man, and, well...”

  Hugh arched his brows at Joanna as he sipped from his goblet.

  “Kilthorpe Castle was critical to King Stephen’s defense,” the baron said. “No sooner was Charles in the ground than the king chose a new husband for Constance, Brian fitz Harold, one of his best military commanders. He sent me to Constance to negotiate the betrothal, although she had little choice but to concede to it. My lady wife stayed home. She shouldn’t have.” He sighed. “Constance was grieving over Charles, I comforted her. ‘Twas...complicated. I still can’t explain how it happened. Perhaps it was the wine, or...” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It just happened.”

  “She found herself with child?” Hugh said.

  “Aye. She was my sister by marriage, and promised to one of the king’s most important vassals. Poor girl, she was frantic when she realized she was pregnant. There was no way she could pass the baby off as her husband’s, because Charles had been away from home for months before he died. I was consumed with shame, and beside myself with worry for her—for both of us.”

  “What did you do?” Joanna asked.

  “I told the king and Lord Brian that Constance agreed to the betrothal—as indeed she had—but that she was too deep in mourning over Charles to give herself in marriage quite yet. Lord Brian could take up residence at Kilthorpe and command his army from there, but propriety would demand that she live elsewhere until they were properly wedded.”

  “Clever,” Hugh muttered.

  “She spent her confinement at Holiwell Nunnery. That’s where our son was born—in secret, of course. I arranged with the prior of Holy Trinity for the infant to be brought up there. Constance was devastated to give him up—he was her firstborn—but ‘twas the only way. She returned to Kilthorpe and married Lord Brian. A year later, she died in childbirth, along with twin babes.”

  Hugh tried to hand his goblet to Joanna, but she waved it away. Lord Gilbert gazed at nothing with his searing blue eyes, so much like Graeham’s that she wondered how she could have missed the resemblance. There were other similarities, too—that aristocratic, high-bridged nose, the chiseled cheekbones, the height, the bearing.

  “For the most part,” his lordship said, “I tried to forget that I’d ever sired a bastard son. Every reminder of him brought back memories of shame and grief. But when Brother Simon—he’s the prior of Holy Trinity...”

  “I know him,” Joanna said. She and Graeham had had a lovely visit with Brother Simon before he left London.

  “When he told me young Graeham intended to take minor orders, I felt I had to intervene. My youngest brother was pushed into a Church career he wasn’t suited for, and it ruined his life. In my judgment, too many young men take orders without truly grasping what they’re letti
ng themselves in for—and what they’d be giving up. I got to thinking about it and decided that Graeham had grown up more sheltered than was healthy. Of course he wanted a career in the Church—’twas all he knew.”

  “That’s when you sent him to Beauvais to serve Lord Gui,” Joanna said.

  “Aye. Gui de Beauvais is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I knew I could trust him to do right by the boy. I asked him to watch for any hint that Graeham might have an aptitude for soldiering. Of course, he did, and I assume you know the rest.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Joanna asked.

  “On the twenty-third of June, I received a letter from Lord Gui telling me that he’d sent Graeham to London on some important mission. ‘Twas going to take longer than Graeham had anticipated, so he found lodgings in West Cheap at the home of a woman whose name was, of course, familiar to me—Joanna Chapman. Gui begged me to look Graeham up and introduce myself as his father, but it seemed like madness to break my silence after all these years. Though when I saw you the next evening at the Midsummer Watch, my lady, I wondered if it might be a sign.”

  “Ah, yes,” Joanna said. “I thought you looked at me rather curiously.”

  “I was tempted, certainly, to contact Graeham, given all the praise Gui heaped on him, and given that Nicholas...well, that he’s been something of a disappointment. A man likes to be able to feel that he’s produced a son worthy of carrying on his lineage. Still, I wasn’t convinced. Then, a few days ago, when I returned home from a hunting trip, my lady wife greeted me at the door with Lord Gui’s letter in her hand.”

  Hugh winced and tilted the goblet to his lips.

  Lord Gilbert shook his head. “The strange part was, she wasn’t nearly as angry about my infidelity as about my abandoning my own son. She said the only way I could redeem myself now would be to do as Lord Gui advised and go to see Graeham. I must say, she argued her point vehemently. She wore me down. Of course, she’s right—I should have claimed the boy in the beginning, not shunted him off as I did. I had resolved to come round to your house and meet him, when a second letter arrived from Lord Gui, just yesterday, telling me that Graeham had completed his mission and would be leaving London on the fifteenth of July.”