A Warrior's Bride Page 8

  “God’s wounds, I’m glad!” George cried with a mixture of relief and joy. He gestured helplessly at the parchment. “I need help.”

  Elma smiled genially.

  “Go to the kitchen and bring us some wine in the hall. I’ll meet them in the courtyard.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Elma replied, dipping a curtsy. George hurried past her, running lightly down the stairs. Now that both his estate steward and his household steward were here, he could ignore that part of the daily business and concern himself with more important matters, like impressing Sir Thomas. And Aileas.

  A swift survey of his hall showed him that everything was as he had ordered it to be, so by the time Richard and Herbert and their entourage entered the gate, George had once more achieved his usual state of unruffled tranquillity.

  Indeed, George looked so calm as he strolled to greet his stewards, one would believe he had nothing more pressing on his mind than how to say hello. “Greetings, Richard!” he called out merrily as the older man dismounted. “I trust all went well in London?”

  “Excellently so, my lord,” Sir Richard replied. “We shall have to pay a few more marks, but nothing you will miss greatly.”

  “No doubt I have you to thank for keeping the amount so small,” George said. “I suppose your brother has told you the news.”

  George glanced at Herbert, who was dismounting awkwardly. That was not so surprising, for he rarely rode a horse or ventured far from the castle or village.

  “Indeed, my lord!” Richard replied, smiling broadly as he bowed to George. “My best wishes.”

  George put an affronted look on his face. “You don’t sound at all surprised, and here I had been hoping to astonish you.”

  Richard, who knew his master well, continued to smile.

  “Indeed, I was sure Herbert had gone mad when he told me,” he said.

  “He was quite taken aback, my lord, as, I confess, we all were,” Herbert replied gravely.

  “No more so than myself, I daresay,” George remarked as he led the way toward the hall, wondering, as he often did, how two men who were brothers could be outwardly so different. Richard was all jolly affability, where Herbert was usually as dour as a penitent with many crosses to bear.

  Together they entered the large, well-appointed hall. It was nearly fifty yards long, with a high roof and the innovation of a large fireplace near the dais. Clean, brightly colored tapestries covered most of the walls. The rushes on the floor were freshly laid, and the smell of the herbs sprinkled on them pleasant. Three tall, narrow windows that faced into the courtyard provided illumination.

  As it was not yet time for a meal, the unassembled trestle tables leaned against the walls, the benches in front of them. On the dais, the chairs for the highestranking guests were set, and there was a small table bearing wine goblets.

  George threw himself in his chair and reached for a goblet. “You find it surprising that any woman would consent to marry me? You wound me, Richard!” He frowned mournfully and laid one hand over his heart as his estate steward sat nearby. Herbert also took a chair, albeit farther off.

  “I’m surprised you found a woman to meet your exalted standards,” Richard replied, likewise taking a goblet. “I was beginning to despair that such a creature existed.”

  “Ah!” George slipped down further in his chair and sipped his wine contentedly, happy to be in his steward’s company again. “Well, she was conveniently to hand.”

  Richard shook his head. “My lord, are you never serious?”

  “Not unless it is completely unavoidable.”

  “Well, she is a lovely woman.”

  A genuine frown crossed George’s face for the briefest of moments. Aileas lovely? As he considered her features, he had to admit she wasn’t conventionally beautiful. She was too sun-brown, and her features lacked the symmetry of true beauty.

  But no other woman had such sparkle in her eyes or a countenance more fascinating, at least to him. “Yes, she is.”

  Richard’s fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet and he cleared his throat. “A good portion of my surprise, my lord, comes from the fact that you made this arrangement without my assistance.”

  George suddenly felt like a child being scolded for a mistake and took a sip of wine to hide his annoyance. Yet he couldn’t deny that his steward had a point. “It wasn’t a complicated contract,” he said by way of explanation: “I knew Sir Thomas would not part with any land.”

  “Not even a portion of his wood?”

  “Not a yard.”

  “You did ask, my lord?” Richard cautiously inquired.

  This time, it was George who cleared his throat. “No. Considering that Sir Thomas has six sons, I didn’t think it necessary.”

  Richard sighed but said nothing.

  “Her dowry is movable goods, worth five hundred marks,” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “That was more than I expected,” he finished honestly.

  “What kind of movable goods?” Herbert asked, reminding George that the household steward was there.

  “I assume the usual items—plate, linen, fabric, that sort of thing.”

  “You...you didn’t ask?” Herbert’s voice was pitched so high he squeaked.

  Richard gave him a sharp look, while George waved his goblet dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. He is my neighbor, and the alliance is a good one.”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right, my lord,” Richard agreed quickly. “As long as you stay on his good side, you will be sure of an excellent ally, should you ever have need of one. I look forward to meeting Lady Aileas again. I’m sure she will not act the peasant maid on your wedding day!”

  George could not begin to guess what Richard would think of Aileas when next they met, especially if she wore her usual attire. -

  Then he decided he was worried about nothing. Her father would ensure she was properly dressed when she arrived at the castle of her betrothed. “Tell me all the news of the court, Richard. Is Hubert de Burgh in or out of favor?”

  The conversation turned to matters at the royal court, but just as Richard was delving into some very interesting news concerning the king’s opinion of the French ambassador. Elma came hurrying into the hall. “My lord!” she cried breathlessly.

  “What is it?”

  “It is them!”

  George banged down his goblet and half rose from his seat. “What them?”

  “Sir Thomas and his party! They’re at the gate!”

  “God’s teeth, I knew it!” George cried. “That old—”

  Richard and Herbert set down their goblets while George straightened and tugged his tunic into place before hurrying from the hall.

  Whatever hopes George had harbored about Sir Thomas persuading his daughter to dress appropriately were dashed the moment he laid eyes on the party riding through the inner gate.

  Aileas wore the same bizarre attire as she had during his recent visit. To make matters worse, she rode astride her horse and beside her father, not behind him, as a modest maiden might. Not only that, but she had a bow slung over her shoulder, a quiver on her back and a brace of pheasants tied to her saddle, as if she were a member of a hunting party rather than a wedding procession.

  Behind her came a sizable group of men-at-arms and wagons bearing what had to be the dower goods.

  Sir Thomas held up his hand and all the men in his train halted at once. He nodded at George, then scanned the walls like a conquering hero surveying his prize.

  George forced the scowl he wanted to make into a smile. Indeed, Sir Thomas could look all he liked. He would find nothing amiss with Ravensloft, which had been built during his father’s lifetime and therefore had all the latest innovations in construction. The towers were round, not square, to deflect rocks and arrows and any other missiles, and placed not only at the corners of the walls but at intervals between, too. The outer curtain wall was six-feet thick, the inner three.

  The gate had not just heavy, iron-studded woode
n doors but a portcullis, too, which could trap men between. A murder hole was above that space, to rain down rocks or boiling liquid if necessary. The hall itself was spacious, the apartments roomy, and even the barracks decidedly more comfortable than anything Sir Thomas provided.

  And yet Sir Thomas’s lip began to curl. “Are these walls whitewashed?” he demanded incredulously.

  “With lime,” George replied. “I bid you welcome to Ravensloft, Sir Thomas,.” He made a deep obeisance at the older man, then his daughter. “I bid you welcome, Lady Aileas.”

  Aileas threw her leg over her saddle and jumped down from her horse without waiting for assistance. She quickly removed her bow and quiver, slinging them over the raised front of her saddle. “A most impressive fortress, Sir George. It must have been costly.”

  “A fortress is not something one should be frugal with,” he remarked lightly, “as I’m sure you’ll agree, Sir Thomas. Lady Aileas, Sir Thomas, allow me to present my stewards, Sir Richard Jolliet, my estate steward, and his brother, Herbert, my household steward.”

  Both men bowed, while Aileas stood motionless and Sir Thomas dismounted with more dignity. “I thought coming one day early would give Aileas more time to get settled before the wedding.”

  George was certain that this early visitation had to do with a desire to test Ravensloft’s readiness rather than Aileas’s comfort. “Whatever the reason, naturally I am delighted,” he said, once more bowing politely at his betrothed.

  As he looked at her, Aileas was suddenly reminded of the embraces they had shared, and a fresh, anticipating excitement coursed through her body, along with considerable relief. Despite her misgivings, she was glad she had persuaded her father to journey here sooner than agreed. Fortunately, that had been easy. He always preferred to come upon both friends and enemies unexpectedly.

  In the past several days, she had been thinking—and thinking—about the decision she had made to accept Sir George de Gramercie, and while she could not completely regret it, especially when she recalled Sir George’s kisses in vivid, exciting detail, she couldn’t help wondering if she had been too hasty. What did she know of him, after all? Very little, except that he was not Rufus.

  Fortunately, there had been enough to do to keep her busy during the day. It was only at night, when she tried to sleep, that she would toss and turn and try to convince herself she had been right, and that she would be happy.

  She had not spent much thought on what Sir George’s household would be like until she set eyes on the soaring walls and towers of Ravensloft, gleaming white in the sun, looking as if they had been carved from one single, gigantic rock. She had not anticipated the size of the castle, the prosperity of the village outside it, the perfection of the situation with its view of the river and its valley, or the wealth that could command such impressive stonework and masonry.

  As they had entered the outer gates, she had been as impressed by the troops they encountered as her father had, to judge by the approving expression on his face.

  Inside the inner wall were a number of buildings of more obvious recent construction than her father’s castle. The main ones were of stone and also whitewashed. Others were composed of wattle and daub, with the beams darkened over time. Several soldiers stood outside one of these buildings, watching with interest, while others came out to join them, leading Aileas to suspect she was looking at the garrison barracks. Across the courtyard was a similar building, but with large windows, and the windows contained glass. Probably that building was intended as guest quarters.

  She spotted a stone building nearly hidden by the hall. Smoke billowed out of a chimney—the kitchen, no doubt.

  Besides the soldiers, several servants, both male and female, bustled about the yard, pausing to give the new arrivals a curious glance. A few engaged in whispered conversations, and Aileas couldn’t dismiss the notion that they were whispering about her.

  Then Sir George himself had hurried out of a doorway across the wide courtyard. How different he looked, here in his own home, and attired in a far more casual manner than she had yet seen. He wore only a plain tunic, albeit of fine fabric, and his breeches and boots were likewise plain. The sleeves of the white shirt he wore were rolled partway up, exposing his lean, sinewy forearms and reminding her again of being held in his arms and not wanting him to let her go.

  Immediately, however, she realized that there was something...different...in George’s manner toward her. The expression in his eyes was not one of unmitigated pleasure.

  While the jovial estate steward smiled, as did his brother, neither man made her feel comfortable or particularly welcome.

  She tried to keep her discomfort from her face, instead blaming her pique on the whole notion of having retainers so intimately involved with one’s financial well-being, which was foreign to her. Despite the size of her father’s estate and the number of men in his household, he had always insisted upon being in control of his money, for he said no one would care about his money the way he did.

  Nor could she deny that the disapproving look on Sir George’s face was responsible for her sudden illhumor, no matter how quickly his expression changed.

  Sir Richard, whose appearance gave every indication that he enjoyed a well-stocked larder, walked toward her. “Allow me to apologize for my behavior when we met before,” the estate steward said deferentially, bowing again. “Had I known who you were, I would have spoken with more respect.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” Aileas replied coldly.

  “Shall we all go to the hall and have some wine?” George asked, looking at Sir Thomas. “Or would you prefer to be shown to your quarters first?”

  “It is early yet,” her father said. “I haven’t been here in years. Seem to be some improvements. I’d like to see them.”

  “Very well, Sir Thomas,” Sir George agreed with a courteous bow. “But I daresay Lady Aileas wishes to change from her traveling garments.”

  “I would rather have some wine,” she said honestly, for the ride had been slow and they had not stopped for anything but the briefest of rests since setting out at dawn. “Those pheasants should go to the kitchen.”

  “As you wish,” Sir George said lightly. He beckoned to one of the idle servants watching them, and the fellow took his time obeying.

  “Fitzgibbon!” Aileas shouted, and her father’s serjeant-at-arms nudged his horse into view. She hurried toward the stocky middle-aged soldier, glad of an excuse to show Sir George how one’s men should obey. “See that the horses are taken care of, and then this man—” she pointed at Herbert Jolliet “—wilt show you where to take our baggage.”

  Fitzgibbon immediately took charge of the rest of the men and Aileas turned back with a smile of smug satisfaction.

  To see her father and Sir Richard looking up at the battlements, obviously in deep discussion, while Sir George was regarding her with a most peculiar expression as he sauntered toward her.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Your orders were audible to the entire castle,” he observed.

  She frowned with displeasure. “At least our men know how to follow orders and be quick about it.”

  She thought she saw a brief flash of annoyance in his eyes, but if she did, it was gone the instant he blinked. “I have asked my cousin, Lady Margot de Pontypoole, to come to help me prepare for your arrival. Unfortunately, you have arrived before she has.”

  “My father likes to travel at first light,” Aileas informed him. “I’m sure everything will be satisfactory.”

  “I hope so, but I fear my home is lacking a woman’s touch.”

  Aileas had to laugh at that. “What, pray tell, is a woman’s touch?”

  “A woman’s touch is a hundred little things one doesn’t notice until they are missing,” he said softly, his melodious voice low and intimate—so intimate her knees felt strangely weak.

  Or perhaps that was only the effect of her tong
ride this morning.

  “I...I...” She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders defiantly, determined not to sound like a blithering fool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m hoping Lady Margot will help you learn.”

  “Since I am a woman, surely I already possess the knack,” she reminded him, bristling slightly at the implication that she needed to be taught anything.

  His immediate response was to raise an eyebrow skeptically. Then he made that slow smile that always completely disarmed her. “She has been a widow for some years and is, unfortunately, childless, with little to occupy her time, poor woman,” he said quietly. “I confess I thought this would be a good excuse to have her visit. Her own home gets very lonely, I think.”

  Aileas suddenly felt very mean and petty. It was kind of him to help his poor old relative this way—although the notion of having to listen to any talk that didn’t concern weapons or horses struck her as exceptionally boring. However, she nodded her head in silent acceptance.

  He looked at her with blatant approval, and she felt as if she’d never been truly appreciated before. “Let us go inside,” Sir George declared, his voice not as loud as hers had been, to be sure, but it carried to the others nonetheless.

  She let him lead her forward, all the while very aware that he was touching her. Then they entered his hall, and for a moment, Aileas was too stunned to notice much beyond that.

  She had expected luxury and plenty, but she felt as if she were in the king’s palace instead of a knight’s hall. The size alone was unexpected, and as for the accoutrements...! The tapestries were as beautiful as anything she had ever seen, the colors delightful, the scenes wonderful. The huge hearth was fascinating as much for the decorations around it as the novelty. The furnishings all appeared to be new. Even the smell of the place, of herbs and freshly hewn wood, was delightful.

  “Welcome to my home,” Sir George said softly, his lips seemingly at her ear, his deep voice low and thrilling. “Soon to be your home, Aileas.”