A Warrior's Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Sir Richard nodded and, with an escort of ten men, turned down the road for London, while Sir George de Gramercie headed for the large, imposing edifice rising out of the mist,

  Aileas skittered down the embankment and splashed her way across the ford. She scrambled up the other side and then dashed through the wood, along the path leading to the village outside her father’s castle. The grass was wet and slippery, so she could not run quite as quickly as she would have liked. Still, taking this route, she would easily be home before Sir George had even reached the mill.

  As she lightly leapt a fallen tree branch, she remembered the other well-dressed fellow’s face when she’d stuck her head through the hedge, and laughed out loud. How surprised he had looked!

  Hurrying on, she easily brushed aside the wet branches of oak and chestnut and beech, pausing in her swift progress only once to tuck her skirt, which she had hiked up the moment she had left the hedgerow, into the thick leather belt around her waist again. Then she was off, paying no heed to the mud coating her boots or the state of her clothes as she thought about her encounter with the man her father thought she should marry.

  George de Gramercie had not looked surprised when she stuck her head out of that hedgerow. Amused, perhaps, but not surprised. She had recognized him at once, of course, with his waving fair hair, bemused blue eyes and charming smile, although he was, in some ways, quite different from the youth she remembered.

  His face had grown thinner, more angled and less rounded. His body, too, was decidedly more muscular. Nevertheless, if she had not seen him, she would have known him by his voice, which was now more deeply masculine, yet still melodious, and always so very polite.

  Indeed, in manner, he didn’t appear to have changed very much. He had always been courteous, even to peasants, and so neatly attired that the few times he had come to Dugall Castle with his father, she had been so tempted to spoil his clothes that once she had thrown rotten apples at him until he had finally chased her out of the orchard.

  How angry he had been—so angry that she had actually been afraid of him and had torn her dress rather than face his wrath when he caught her.

  But he never had, and the next time she had seen him, he had acted as if nothing at all had happened.

  Today, he mustn’t have guessed who she was, or he would have addressed her properly and asked about her father. If he had known he was speaking to Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, he would not have dared to suggest she had been left by a lover.

  On the other hand, she had never been able to tell what George de Gramercie was thinking.

  Nearly at the village, she pushed through some underbrush and stepped onto the main road. She quickly untucked her skirt and surveyed the muddy road, smiling when she saw the hoofprints. Demon had passed this way recently, making his way for home after throwing her.

  She never should have taken it into her head to try to catch sight of Sir George de Gramercie before he arrived at Dugall Castle, or at least not with Demon, who hated the wet. He had been feisty and skittish the whole ride, and had balked at a low jump near the hedgerow, sending her tumbling.

  She hurried along the road, drawing a few glances from the villagers, but they were used to seeing Aileas alone and barely paused in their tasks. From habit, she surveyed the walls and towers of her father’s castle, making sure the sentries were in their places. Although it had been years since her family’s estate had suffered an armed attack, her father insisted that everything be maintained in a battle-ready state.

  He had also been improving the fortifications for years. Until he took possession of it, Dugall Castle had been little more than a lone, round stone keep with a chapel added at one end. Sir Thomas had enclosed a large area with a series of defensive walls and circular towers. Besides the hall and chapel, the inner ward now housed stables and barracks, armory and mews and an expanded kitchen, which he had the masons attach to the keep by a long corridor. Guest quarters, also attached to the keep by means of a stone stairway, were the latest addition.

  The guards at the gatehouse saluted as they stood aside to let her pass. “Have you seen my—” she began, but the watchman was already nodding.

  “Aye, Lady Aileas. He’s in the stable already.”

  “Good,” she said, knowing the groom would attend to Demon, so she was free to find Rufus.

  Hurrying past the corner towers, she reached the wide, flat, grassy area where her father’s men usually trained. She easily spotted Sir Rufus Hamerton’s red-haired head among all the other men and called his name.

  With a broad smile, Rufus detached himself from his fellows, who barely acknowledged the familiar sight of their lord’s daughter, and strode across the damp grass toward her, his hair ruffling in the breeze so that it looked even redder. His cheeks were likewise red from physical exertion, and he wore only breeches and boots, his leather tunic slung over his muscular shoulder. Sweat dripped off his massive chest, and as he approached, she could tell by the stench wafting toward her that he had indeed been working hard.

  “God’s wounds, I’m tired,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice as he casually scratched himself. “And parched. And if I don’t get to the garderobe soon, I’m going to burst.” He started to walk to the men’s barracks. “What brings you here in such a hurry, Aileas?” he asked jovially. “Are we under attack?”

  “No,” she replied, “not exactly.”

  He gave her a curious look.

  “We’re going to have visitors in a little while.”

  “Oh?” Rufus halted and put on his tunic before smiling down at the shorter Aileas. “Who?”

  “Sir George de Gramercie.”

  It was obvious Rufus didn’t remember the name, for he shrugged and resumed walking, picking up his pace so that she had to trot to keep up with him.

  “Our neighbor’s son who’s been roving all over the country for the last ten years like a traveling minstrel,” she reminded him. “Now that his father has died, he’s come home at last.”

  Rufus’s response was a desultory grunt.

  They had reached the outskirts of the barracks, a large wattle and daub, timbered structure near the stables and armory. Rufus obviously couldn’t wait to get to the garderobe, for he turned down the small alley between the stable and armory and sighed as he relieved himself.

  “God’s holy rood, that’s better,” he said when he returned and began walking toward the barracks again. “So what’s all the fuss?” he asked, gazing at her with puzzlement. “Lots of visitors come here.”

  She couldn’t believe Rufus had forgotten about Sir George. “He’s the man my father wants me to marry!”

  Rufus barked a laugh as he shoved open the barracks’ heavy wooden door. “Isn’t he the one you said spends more on his clothes than his armour?”

  “Yes,” she said, catching the door before it hit her, then following him inside the large and chilly room, whose only furnishings were straw pallets covered with rough woolen blankets, a table with one basin and ewer and wooden chests—one per knight, squire or page. There were hooks on the wall, upon which hung an assortment of clothing, armor and weapons. In one corner was a battered chamber pot.

  Several men were also there, resting after their duties or before their watch. They called out greetings and nodded to Aileas. “Seems we’re about to have a popinjay in our midst, men!” Rufus declared. “Get out the feather beds and clean sheets!”

  Aileas smiled at Rufus’s sarcastic remarks. Surely once he saw Sir George, he would realize that she could never marry a man like that. Why, besides being vain, he was too thin, with no stomach at all to speak of. Surely he couldn’t fight worth a fig. And while his family was rich, he was probably lazy and derelict in his duties as the lord of an estate.

  Nevertheless, she didn’t want to talk about her future with an audience, so she lifted her brows and said, “Is it not nearly time for the changing of the guard? And should not some of you be cleaning your weapons? If my father sees ev
en a hint of rust...”

  She did not have to say more, for the men quickly grabbed their accoutrements and went out, bowing their farewells.

  “I’m thinking of having my old blade mended instead of going to the expense of a new sword,” Rufus said meditatively as he hung his sword belt on a peg.

  “What?” Aileas cried, her hands on her hips. “That’s stupid! It’s been mended so much, it’s sure to snap any day now.”

  “It’s expensive to have a new sword made. Besides, the handle of my old one fits my hand perfectly.”

  Aileas realized she didn’t want to get involved in a discussion on the merits of new weapons versus old, familiar ones. “What about Sir George? What if my father insists that I marry him?”

  Rufus threw himself down on the first straw pallet he spied and gave her a quizzical look. “Isn’t he the one been neglecting his duties all these years?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then why would your father want you to marry a reckless puppy like that?”

  “Because our lands join.”

  “Well,” Rufus said, making a pillow of his hands and lying back so that he was looking at the beams in the ceiling, “you would be the lady of a great estate. You could do much worse.”

  For a moment, Aileas was very tempted to kick him. Didn’t he realize she thought he was the perfect man, the perfect warrior? He would be the perfect husband, too.

  How blind could a grown man be?

  “I saw him. On the road,” she revealed scornfully as she sat cross-legged on a nearby pallet. “I’m sure he’s as vain as ever. You should see his tunic. It’s embroidered He probably cries if he spills anything on it.”

  Rufus chuckled companionably. “I can hardly wait to meet him.”

  Aileas could hardly wait for Rufus to meet him, too.

  Then he would see that she could never marry a man like Sir George de Gramercie.

  Chapter Two

  As far as George could tell, nothing at all had changed at Dugall Castle in the years he had been away. The grimly gray stone walls were still thick and imposing, and the soldiers guarding the gates still numerous and watchful, as if a horde of enemies might suddenly sneak out of the moat and attack.

  Inside, there was not an animal, bale of hay, barrel or stick out of place. Several men were engaged in swordplay or practising their technique with mace and chain. Even the servants seemed to bustle about in a curiously military manner, and not a one of them was female.

  Far from making George feel secure and safe, it was as if the castle were under seige, with all the women safely sent away. Indeed, everything about Dugall Castle seemed to give the place a curious sense of tension and impending doom that George did not like.

  The surrounding village also had this air of suppressed anticipation, which was quite unnecessary, given the general peace in the land and the amiability of Sir Thomas’s neighbors.

  As George dismounted and handed his reins to a page who trotted out to meet them, he suddenly realized that he could feel insulted, or even threatened, by this castle’s battle-ready state, until he considered the squalor of some noblemen’s castles. Here, everything was neat and exactly where it should be, which was not usually George’s experience of households where men were on their own, without women to organize their domestic comforts.

  Sir Thomas himself marched out of the great hall almost at once. Though his neighbor’s face was marked by several scars of battle and tournament, his bearing was still erect, and his gaze still as piercing as a hawk’s. As usual, he wore a surcoat exactly like the one he had donned years ago when he went on Crusade.

  In fact, as George noted the several clumsily mended rents and the distinctly gray tinge to the white fabric that comprised the majority of the overgarment, he realized that perhaps this was the very one. Under that was a coat of very fine chain mail, polished to gleaming perfection. Sir Thomas wore no gloves, despite the cold, exposing gnarled, chapped hands, which George didn’t doubt could still level a man with one blow or maintain a grip on any weapon for hours.

  He had always made George feel like a naughty little boy. Fifteen years, it seemed, were not enough to erase that sensation.

  Sir Thomas halted and briskly took his guest by the shoulders to give him the kiss of greeting, his mail jingling slightly. “Welcome, Sir George,” he said, eyeing George’s soldiers over the younger man’s shoulder even as he spoke. “It is good to see you again.”

  “And you, too, Sir Thomas,” George replied, wondering if his men found favor with Sir Thomas, for the old man had a keen eye for a fine soldier. He subdued the urge to ask. After all, he was an overlord in his own right now.

  “Come inside and have some wine. It’s late in the day. You must have gone slowly, or else come by the north road,” Sir Thomas noted, his voice slightly condemning, with the unspoken implication that unless George had taken the longer route, the lateness of his arrival meant that he was a lazy fellow.

  George reminded himself that Sir Thomas thought everyone who didn’t work as hard as he did or take his military and lordly duties as seriously must be a lazy fellow, a judgment that encompassed every other nobleman George knew.

  Then he realized that Aileas must not have returned, or if she had, she had not mentioned their meeting on the southern road. Considering her own impertinent behavior, perhaps she had thought that the better course.

  They entered the hall, a large, exceptionally cold room in which the vast hearth stood empty. The walls were free of tapestry or anything that could remotely be construed as decoration, and the furnishings old, worn and unembellished. There was not a single feminine attribute about the place, nor were there any soldiers or noble guests taking their ease inside.

  Sir Thomas sat in the largest chair on the dais, a heavy oaken thing much carved, with no cushion upon the seat. He gestured for George to sit next to him in a chair of similar design. George complied, to his regret, for the seat was as hard, cold and comfortable as a boulder, and the carving in the back of the chair made it feel as if fifty dagger points were digging into his back.

  “How is Lady Aileas?” George inquired politely, deciding that if she had not thought fit to mention their meeting, neither would he. “I had hoped to greet her when I arrived.”

  Sir Thomas made a dismissive grunt. “She’s healthy as that horse of hers. Took him out for a gallop. They’ll be back soon.”

  Although George knew Sir Thomas was not a man given to emotional display—or. indeed, display of any kind—the perfunctory tone of his reply startled him nonetheless, especially when George recalled that Aileas had apparently been riding alone. “She is a skilled horsewoman, I’m sure,” he ventured.

  “Best I ever saw. Taught her myself,” Sir Thomas bragged. “Better even than her brothers, and they’re excellent.”

  Not excellent enough to keep from getting thrown and abandoned, George thought. “I daresay she likes a lively horse.”

  A cowed-looking page boy appeared in a doorway George suspected led to the kitchen. “Wine!” Sir Thomas barked, and the lad quickly disappeared. “Lively, did you say?” his host continued. “That stallion of hers is the very devil of a horse. I told her she’ll break her neck, but she won’t listen to me. Too strong willed.” For all the apparent condemnation of his words, his tone was distinctly boastful.

  “She has an escort, I presume?” George asked, certain the answer would be no and beginning to wonder if Aileas had met with another accident on the journey home.

  “Escort?” Sir Thomas replied with a harsh caw of a laugh. “She’d lose ’em in a thunderclap if she did. Prefers to ride alone. Always has. As long as she stays on my land, she’s safe.”

  “Of course,” George said, not willing to point out that outlaws and brigands often didn’t respect a lord’s borders, and the sight of a young woman alone would be tempting for such men.

  Sir Thomas continued to peer angrily at the kitchen doorway. “Where the devil’s the wine?” he bellowed, then h
e turned his fierce gaze on George. “She’s like her mother, that one. See this scar?” Sir Thomas pointed at a small, crescent-shaped mark on his forehead. “Her mother gave me this the first time I tried to kiss her.” His bushy gray eyebrows lowered ominously while the rest of his face remained immobile. “Aileas would do worse to any man who took liberties.”

  “Naturally,” George replied nonchalantly.

  Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair. Undoubtedly chain mail made that possible. The page boy arrived with a carafe of wine and two plain silver goblets into which he poured the burgundy beverage, his hands trembling all the while. Sir Thomas said nothing, but George smiled with kindness when the boy glanced at him.

  The boy finished his task without any response, then quickly moved to the side of the room, where he proceeded to stare at the men as they drank. George suspected that the lad had absolutely no interest in anything passing before him except the necessity of refilling the goblets when necessary.

  “Pity about your father,” Sir Thomas remarked after taking a gulp of wine.

  George took a sip of the surprisingly fine wine and steeled himself to discuss that particular subject. “Yes. He was a good man.”

  “A good neighbor. Little lax, perhaps, but good for all that.”

  George forced a smile onto his face.

  “Sir Richard Jolliet still the estate steward?”

  “Yes, and his brother, Herbert, is the household steward. Richard has just gone to London to answer some questions about the taxes on my property.”

  “Not trouble with the exchequer, I trust?” the old man asked suspiciously.

  “Not a bit. I may have to pay a little more this year, that’s all. My estate has been doing rather better than expected.”

  “Ah! Glad to hear it. It was a hard winter, but those of us who were prepared weathered it easily enough.”

  George nodded his agreement, although he doubted anybody would ever be as prepared as Sir Thomas for bad times. His father always said that Sir Thomas lived in anticipation of a repetition of the biblical seven years of famine.