The Maiden and Her Knight Page 2

  “Who is that seated beside the earl of Montclair?”

  “Oh, that’s Baron DeFrouchette,” she replied, coy and helpful. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”

  “I do not recognize him from court.”

  “Not getting there much these past few years. His estate borders Montclair and he’s stayed close by to help Lord Montclair. A very kind neighbor, the baron.”

  “I could tell he is an honored guest.”

  “As well he should be. Who knows what might have happened to the estate if he hadn’t been such a good friend?”

  And no wonder he was so interested in the earl’s daughter. He would surely be enlarging his own estate if he married her, as well as obtaining a very beautiful and desirable bride—provided he could overcome the lady’s animosity.

  “I gather his reward will not be long in coming.”

  “Reward?”

  “Lord Montclair’s daughter.”

  Merva grinned. “And ain’t she the lucky one? I tell you, I would have married him years ago if I were in her shoes.” She gave him a wink. “I’d have hopped into his bed years ago, too, if he’d ever asked me.”

  He didn’t doubt it. “I am surprised, then, that they are not already wed. Was there another man she preferred?”

  “No, and not likely to be, neither. Any woman with eyes and a brain in her head would see that DeFrouchette’s a prize—rich, handsome and a baron to boot. She’s just been waiting for her father to get better.”

  “What ails him?”

  “He’s grief-stricken over his wife’s death.”

  “That was recent, then?”

  Merva grew grave and shook her head. “Six years ago. He loved her dear—we all did—but we thought his grief would pass eventually.” She glanced at the high table and sighed. “Not rallying and getting worse, I fear. It will be better for the whole family when Lady Allis marries.”

  Better for the whole family indeed—if that was what she wanted.

  As Merva prepared to refill his goblet, he covered it with his hand and shook his head.

  “What, no more wine?”

  Her surprised exclamation drew the attention of the young knights, who were giggling like sots well in their cups.

  “No. I prefer to keep my wits sharp, and drink will only befuddle them. And tempting though other things may be, I am saving my vitality to use against my opponents on the field.”

  Merva brayed a raucous guffaw, then made an exaggerated pout. “If you say so. A serious competitor, are you?”

  “Very.”

  The young men stopped laughing.

  “He has to be. He’s got nothing else,” one of them sneered.

  Connor’s good humor disintegrated as he glared at the young man barely past his youth. His dark brown hair was trimmed around his head in the Norman style and he wore a long velvet tunic of rather bilious green stained with dribbled wine, and he was very drunk.

  “You know me?” Connor inquired evenly, in a tone that would have served as a warning to a sober man.

  “You are Sir Connor of Llanstephan, are you not?” The young knight turned to his companions. “That’s in Wales.”

  His tone implied that Wales was a dung heap.

  “I am,” Connor calmly admitted. “And you are?”

  “I am Sir Auberan de Beaumartre, eldest son of the earl of Beaumartre. You were sent home in disgrace from the Holy Land by King Richard himself. You have no land, and no honor.”

  Smiling a smile that had struck fear into men’s hearts for many a time before this, Connor slowly got to his feet.

  “Yes, I am Sir Connor of Llanstephan,” he declared, “whose forebears were Welsh kings, whose mother was a princess. I am the second son of a Norman baron, a knight of the realm and formerly of the king’s retinue, one who went with him to try to wrest Jerusalem from the hands of the infidel. You must forgive me if I cannot recall seeing you among my fellow crusaders.”

  Auberan flushed.

  “Oh, you did not take up the Cross and accompany your sovereign lord? You did not rush to fight against the Saracens? You chose to pay the scutage to the king’s coffers and stayed safely here at home to drink another man’s wine and chase another man’s servants, to be warm and well fed while other, better men were dying in a sacred cause?”

  Connor splayed his strong, callused hands upon the table and leaned closer, making his opponent flinch. “Tell me, then, sir knight, how it is that I, who did those things and who suffered for them, that I, who fought the infidel at my king’s side and yes, was sent home because I could not countenance his command to massacre prisoners at Acre, how is it that I have no honor? I shall see you on the tourney field tomorrow, Sir Lickspittle, and we shall decide which provides the better education in the arts of war, battle against the infidel or charming tournaments at home.”

  With that, Connor turned and strode from the hall, not caring a whit if people stared at him.

  Let them. Let them all stare. This was nothing compared to his departure from the king’s presence. That silence had seemed eternal, his shame likewise.

  But it was as Connor had said, and he would still say the same should Richard appear before him now. To kill unarmed prisoners, even Saracens, was unchivalrous, the action of a barbarian and not a Christian king.

  He hurried out into the cool night air, away from the noise and the smoke from the candles and torches, and especially those preening, bragging young fools as once again the screams of the unarmed, dying Saracens—twenty-seven hundred of them all roped together like animals—filled his ears. The glorious Crusade, fought in the name of God.

  He spit the bile from his mouth and leaned against the cool stones of the inner curtain wall. His eyes closed, he waited for the sick feeling to pass.

  He was in England, not the Holy Land. He had a job to do. He would think of the tournament, not the past.

  He slowly climbed the stone steps to the wall walk. Paying no heed to the sentry, he surveyed the field where the melee would take place tomorrow, a seemingly level field of grass kept short by sheep. Two lines of men, determined by their loyalties, the location of their lands and, in his case, by who he wished to capture, would face each other. Then, at a given signal, they would fight until some were captured and others the victors.

  At dawn, while the rest of the participants still slumbered, he would make a foray onto this field. He would find out if the ground was soft or hard. There might be small rises and gullies, or even holes that would cause a charging horse to stumble with disastrous results for beast and rider.

  He sniffed the air for signs of rain, but caught no scent of damp on the wind. That was a pity. Rain would likely disgruntle and upset his fine opponents, whereas it didn’t trouble him a bit. Nor did it bother his horse.

  The moonlight shone on the river flowing through the valley and illuminated the road leading through the village to the bridge over the moat and the well-fortified barbican, the gatehouse in the outer curtain wall. He had ridden beneath a giant portcullis, the grille made of wood cut into points at the bottom. It slid through grooves cut in the stone, ready to crash down to prevent invaders from entering. Further inside the barbican was the solid, bossed oaken door, with a smaller door for foot traffic called a wicket, cut into it. Above these two gates was the murder hole. If enemies became trapped between the outer portcullis and inner door, defenders could pour boiling oil or hurl stones from above to kill them.

  Square towers dominated each corner of the massive walls and overlooked the whole of the castle, village and valley. From their tops there was probably not a foot of Lord Montclair’s land that could not be watched.

  He looked past the village to a small plateau, where a large cathedral was being built. Now it was little more than a pile of stones and masons’ materials, but the foundation was sufficiently finished to tell him it would be a most impressive building.

  Hopefully there would be true men of God to lead it, men who were more concern
ed with men’s souls than enriching their purses.

  His gaze roved over the outer curtain wall and the large, grass-covered outer ward, where he was encamped along with many of the guests and their pages and squires, then the inner curtain wall and enormous courtyard befitting a lord of power and considerable personal wealth which came from being overlord to a prosperous valley. He noted the huge, round donjon, the keep which would have been the first fortification the lord of Montclair built when he took this land from the Saxons the century before.

  All in all, rarely had he seen such an impregnable, impressive fortress in England. It made his family’s castle overlooking a Welsh valley seem like a hovel. As for their land, it supported sheep and cattle, but little else.

  With a sigh, Connor trotted down the steps to the courtyard. He would retire and sleep, to wake early and refreshed tomorrow.

  As he headed toward the gate in the inner wall, a door suddenly banged open, the sound making him instinctively shrink back into the nearest shadowed alcove. He was just realizing his back was against a door when Merva came into view, walking in his direction and looking about as if searching for someone.

  Perhaps she was looking for him. Unfortunately—or fortunately, if he was in the mood—women had been wanting him since he was fifteen, and Merva did not seem the sort to let a man go quietly on his way if she was attracted to him.

  He had no desire to be with this woman tonight, or any night. While he had enjoyed her earthy banter in the hall, he wanted to rest, and she didn’t excite him in the least.

  Not like her mistress.

  The moment Lady Allis had first appeared in the hall, lovely and serene, he felt the years, and all their sorrows, drop away. He was again a youthful knight smitten by the sight of a beautiful maiden, one who seemed angelic in her quiet peace.

  But then there had been that moment when he had met her gaze, and he knew that while she might have the form of an angel, a passionate woman inhabited that shapely frame.

  Serene or not, passionate or not, she was still as far above him as the angels.

  Still, he wasn’t pleased that Merva continued to head directly for him. Maybe she could smell a man from fifty paces, like a hound on the scent. Maybe she could see in the dark as well as a cat. Either way, he wasn’t about to be caught.

  Reaching behind for the latch of the door, Connor stealthily made his escape.

  Chapter 2

  “You would all be better off if I were dead,” the earl of Montclair mumbled as Allis tidied up the few articles on the table in his bedchamber.

  “No, we would not be better off without you,” she said gently as she tucked the fine silk coverlet about his chest and fought back the dismay his oft-voiced litany always invoked. “Please, Father, don’t say that.”

  She had helped him to bed after seeing that the chamber at the top of the south tower was prepared for Lord Oswald of Darrelby, an important man in this part of England. Then she had gone to the kitchen for the warm broth her father sometimes drank before he went to sleep.

  Avoiding the baron, she had waited until she was sure her father had retired from the hall and taken the broth to him. Tonight, he had not wanted it, so now she did the few small tasks yet remaining before bidding him good night.

  “I must be a great burden to you all.”

  She patted his hand and smiled to reassure him. Again. “You are not. You are the earl of Montclair, and the people need you. Edmond, Isabelle and I need you.”

  “I am a useless old man.”

  She went to his painted wooden chest and lifted the lid. “What would you like to wear for the tournament tomorrow?”

  He turned his head to face the wall. “I don’t care. Anything.”

  The familiar ache returned. There was a time her father had been so fastidious about his personal appearance, her mother had teased that he was the most vain person in the family. “We wouldn’t want it said the earl of Montclair had become unkempt. Perhaps your fine blue velvet tunic and cloak with ermine trim, if it is cool.”

  “Whatever you think best. I do not want to trouble you. Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t go into the field.”

  “You must, Father,” she insisted, clinging to the hope that this tournament would rally his spirits. “You are the host, and it is your duty to give the signal for the melee to begin.”

  He closed his eyes. “Ah, yes, my duty.”

  “So you will go into the field? Two foot soldiers will be with you. You won’t have to stand. We shall have a chair brought out for you, and if it looks like rain, a canopy will be put over it.” She had tried to think of every contingency, so that he would not be uncomfortable.

  “If it is not too much trouble.”

  “It won’t be, I assure you. You will give the signal?”

  “I will do it.”

  She sighed with relief as she closed the lid to the chest. “Wonderful! And Lord Oswald will be arriving tomorrow, after the noon. You will be happy to see him, I’m sure. You were always great friends.”

  In better spirits herself, she finished tidying, and then realized he had finally fallen asleep. Praying he would have a peaceful night, she softly kissed his forehead and quietly left his chamber.

  Once again avoiding the hall, and the baron, she made her way along a side passage to a door leading into the rose garden her mother had set out before her death. A redbrick walk in a herringbone pattern weaved its way through the beds, and the stalks of climbing roses trailed over a trellis above and the walls around. The scent of the roses, dew-damp ground and fertile earth refreshed her, and was blessedly welcome after the close confines of her father’s chamber, or the smoke of the great hall. A half moon provided enough illumination for her to avoid treading in the beds, or stumbling into the wooden benches set along the walk.

  As she drew near the door in the wall leading into the courtyard, she took off her circlet, scarf and barbette, and set them on a nearby bench. She tugged the pin from her hair and let it tumble about her shoulders. Rubbing her scalp and rotating her neck, she sought to lessen the tension.

  “My lady?”

  She jumped and whirled around as the unexpected sound of a deep male voice invaded her peaceful solitude. “Who is it?”

  A man stood in the shadows near the garden gate, as if he were a part of them. Her anxious gaze darted to the surrounding battlements, seeking the sentry who should be patrolling there. “I warn you, I have but to scream—”

  “There is no need to cry out, my lady. Not wishing to cause you any harm, me.”

  His gentle, deep voice seemed a part of the night, and the peace she had found for a few brief moments. He did not sound like a Norman. There was an accent to his words that she thought sounded Welsh. “Then come into the moonlight and show yourself.”

  The handsome stranger from the hall sauntered out of the shadows. The man who knew her heart.

  No, that was impossible. He could know nothing about her except her name and station. “What do you want?”

  “To thank you for a fine meal and your generous hospitality.” He strolled closer, and his movements had that special grace men skilled at arms sometimes possessed, a lithe suppleness of the limbs despite their obvious strength.

  Up close in the moonlight, he was darkly handsome, with his hair black as a crow’s wing waving about his angular face, his eyes pools of mysterious shadow, and his exquisitely shaped lips compelling even in stillness. “You might have done that in the hall, or waited until tomorrow.”

  “The hall was too crowded, and I think you have many cares when you are there.” He smiled that secretive little smile of his and warmth spread along her limbs, a warmth unfamiliar, strange—and yet strangely welcome, too. “Besides, tomorrow, I may be the worse for battle.”

  An alarm sounded in her mind, and in her heart. She must not be alone with him—or any man except her father. “So now you have thanked me and now you may go.”

  “I fear I must prevail upon you a little lo
nger, for I confess I am trying to avoid someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman.”

  It was ridiculous to feel envious. “What woman? As chatelaine of Montclair, I should know if a woman is annoying a guest.”

  “Her name is Merva.”

  Of course. Who else could it be? She should have thought of Merva at once. She was clearly more tired than she supposed.

  “I would not call her attention annoying—simply something I would rather avoid and she seems the persistent sort,” he said with a wry self-mockery in his tone that was very different from the way every other man addressed her. He spoke to her like a companion, not a person seeking to impress or command. “A wise man learns when to stand and when to leave the field, and this time, I thought it better to flee.”

  Alone in the moonlight in her mother’s garden with this smiling stranger, all her duties and responsibilities and worries suddenly seemed far away, and a lighthearted euphoria stole over her. “Merva is not often disappointed. I’m sure she would be heartbroken to discover you are hiding from her.”

  His low laugh sent delicious trills of delight along her spine. “Her disappointment would be short-lived, I think.”

  “Probably. We have many guests.”

  “Not fussy, is she?”

  She frowned. Perhaps she should leave the merry banter to Merva, after all. “I am sorry to wound your feelings.”

  “Oh, you haven’t. It’s a relief.”

  His smile and tone told her he was not offended, and she smiled. “You usually have to hide from women? You are that constantly pursued?”

  He laughed again, a low, delightful chuckle this time that seemed to well up from his broad chest, pleasant and joyful—yet utterly virile. “Not constantly. As I told your maidservant, I am saving myself.”

  “For any particular woman?”

  “No, for the tournament. Mustn’t be too fatigued.”

  The moonlight, the garden, their solitude, his laughter…all combined to embolden her. Why not be like Merva, just this once? “I wondered if you believed you are like Samson and that if you cut your hair, you would lose your strength.”