Humiliated, Antoinette refused to respond. She busied herself by retrieving the garland from the floor of her daughter’s bower, a bright room smelling of dried rose petals and dust. Fresh boughs littered the floor and a rare and precious woolen rug lay beside the bed. It was the only rug in the entire castle, brought back from Italy by Teodora’s father on his many travels. For his only child, he would permit her to have his prized carpet to protect her feet against the cold.
Feet that were beginning to pace as Antoinette attempted to repair the garland. Regal, her focus drawn away from her daughter, listened to the sounds of shuffling feet.
“Teodora,” she hissed. “Sit down, child. You are making me weary with your pacing.”
Teodora pushed a stray lock of white-blonde hair from her eyes. “I cannot help myself.” She continued to shuffle. “My stomach quivers so that it makes my feet nervous.”
Regal laughed. “Nervous for your new husband, are you? Well, I’d imagine he’s a sight more nervous than you.”
Teodora came to a halt. “What do you mean?”
“Precisely that. Imagine a man of Lord de Lacy’s age taking a young bride. Preposterous!”
Antoinette sighed loudly. “Mother, please.”
Regal tipped her head firmly. “’Tis the truth, Toni. Preston de Lacy has seen almost as many years as I have, I would imagine. The only reason he is fulfilling his nephew’s contract is because, by all rights, he cannot refuse. And besides, there is much to gain by this union. But if the man does not croak upon consummation, I will be damned surprised.”
Antoinette could see what effect this conversation was having on Teodora; her daughter’s sea-colored eyes were anxious. There were times Antoinette wished she could take a needle and thread and sew her mother’s mouth shut.
“Barklestone is a respected man,” she said quietly. “The House of de Lacy owns a great deal of land throughout England and Ireland. This marriage will bond two wealthy families and create a powerful alliance.”
Regal’s milky eyes glimmered. “Marrying Preston is far better than if Teodora had married the de Lacy whelp, the nasty little brute. Preston only has a few good years left in him. With any luck, Teodora will be a widow at an early age and Bradford de Rivington will have control over a sizable wealth.”
For as long as Teodora could remember, Regal had always called Bradford de Rivington by his full Christian name. Never Brafe, as Antoinette called him, or “my lord” as the servants did. And certainly not “father”, as was Teodora’s right. Always Bradford de Rivington, or rarely just Bradford, as if speaking to someone distant and unfamiliar.
It was a cold manner that Antoinette hated. She fixed her mother in her sightless eyes. “Consequently, if Teodora dies any time soon, Barklestone receives control over her dowry lands. That’s one-third of the de Rivington estate.”
Teodora rolled her eyes at the turn the conversation had taken. It wasn’t enough that she was getting married this day, but now they had her dying as well. “Mayhap if fortune favors us, we will both outlive the two of you.” Smoothing the thick, silky hair away from her face, she took the garland from her mother’s hand and tossed it on the bed in a fit of irritation. “I choose not to wear this. ’Tis outdated. In all of the weddings we have attended in the past two years, the brides have left their hair undone. So will I.”
Regal smiled. Antoinette frowned. “’Tis not proper, I tell you,” her mother said.
“Even so, that is my wish.” Teodora was a tall girl, taller than almost all of the women she knew. She drew herself up straight, inspecting her reflection in the precious glass mirror her father had brought all the way from Venice on the same trip that had produced the rug. She studied her wide sea-colored eyes, sweet oval face, and white-gold hair that hung to her buttocks like an impossible waterfall. She wasn’t fine-boned as women were expected to be; she was toned and strong, her cheeks reddened by the sun. She wasn’t as pale and helpless as men preferred, and the thought began to worry her.
“What are you thinking, child?” Regal’s raspy voice cut into her thoughts.
Teodora was still staring at herself. “Nothing, truly. Only…”
“What?”
“Do you think the earl will be pleased with me?”
“As a child on Martinmas.”
“But I am not… not what he will be expecting.”
“Nay, lass. You are much better.”
Teodora thought on that a moment. “Then by tonight, I shall be a countess if my groom does not try to wheedle his way out of the marriage contract.”
“Does that scare you?”
“That he will recant the contract? Of course not. Nothing scares me.”
“Then man your post, lass.” Bradford de Rivington was suddenly in the doorway, his ruddy face grim. He was a big man, even bigger in the well-used armor he wore. He gave off the appearance of a man who hadn’t had a bath in years. As he spoke, he looked straight at his daughter. “We’ve got trouble.”
Antoinette was immediately fearful. “What trouble, Brafe? Not the Dorketts again, not now!”
Bradford eyed is wife. “Aye, ’tis the Dorketts. And why not now?”
Antoinette grunted with frustration, trying to grasp her daughter before the woman swooped past her. “Because today is Teodora’s wedding day.” She snatched her daughter’s arm. “Not today. You do not fight today!”
Teodora could have easily wrenched her arm from her mother’s grip. But she made no move to do so. “I must, Mother. ’Tis my duty.”
Antoinette was firm. “Not today.” She looked at Bradford. “You shall simply have to fend off the raiders without her. I forbid Teddy to aid you this day.”
Bradford grabbed Teodora’s free arm and pulled hard, wrenching her from her mother’s grasp.
“Nonsense, woman. Teddy is a better soldier than most of my men. With her by my side, we’ll make short work of the Dorketts and the wedding can proceed as planned.” He studied his daughter from head to toe, scratching his thinning hair. It was the first time he could remember seeing her so feminine, unlike the usual girl who ran about in brown broadcloth and a leather girdle, riding horses and cleaning weapons. “Christ, lass, you look like some damned court fancy. Is that the dress de Lacy sent you?”
“It is,” Antoinette said righteously. “I forbid her to fight in it.”
Bradford shrugged. “Then take it off and fight in the nude. I care not, so long as she fights.”
Teodora could sense a battle coming, and it had nothing to do with the Dorketts. She raced past her mother, listening to the woman’s shrieks and her father’s low laughter. Gathering her skirts, she took the stairs two at a time, entering the cool dark foyer of Cerenbeau Castle and making haste for the armory near the entrance.
Several men-at-arms were already there, doling out weapons, and Teodora took her customary crossbow and flail. The soldier handing out weapons, a seasoned warrior who had schooled her since childhood, took a second glance at the well-dressed lady.
“Who is this fine lady invading my armory?” Sir Anthony de Vaughn’s brown eyes twinkled. “Dare not a blade nor hilt touch her lest she ruin her finery.”
Teodora cast the man a long glance, her cheeks burning. “I do not wear this by choice. It is a gift from my future husband.”
Anthony grinned. He was a ruggedly handsome man, his face weathered by the years but still retaining his boyish charm. He was not particularly tall, but he was strong and able and had seen many a skirmish with Bradford de Rivington and his lanky, beautiful daughter.
“Take your quills.” He handed Teodora her sling of arrows and snickered as she awkwardly slung it over the bulk of the ermine collar. “Christ, your mother must be having fits. How long has she waited to see you dressed as a lady and not a soldier? Now look at you; you are a mixture of both.”
Teodora ignored him, moving out of the armory burdened with weapons like any seasoned warrior. Anthony followed on her heels, fighting the urge to taunt her.
T
he pair emerged into the spacious bailey of Cerenbeau, a protected area surrounded by ten-foot-thick walls. The day was cool, the sky above a brilliant blue to match the color of Teodora’s dress. There were archers poised on the battlements, firing their weapons into the distance to ward off the incoming marauders. As Teodora was preparing to mount the ladder to the parapet, Bradford suddenly made an appearance and began shouting for the warhorses. He wanted to meet the attackers face to face and be done with it.
Soon, the bailey was filled with the stink of horses and Teodora found it difficult to mount in her heavy gown. Anthony came up beside her to give her a hand and, between the two of them, managed to get her into the saddle. With the warriors finally mounted and armed, the great gates of Cerenbeau cranked open and the war party spilled out into the red-earthed countryside beyond.
“There they are!” Teodora loaded her crossbow with one hand while still controlling the silver-flanked horse. “There seems to be more than usual.”
Bradford’s gaze was fixed on the group of riders in the green dell below. “Damnable Dorketts,” he muttered. “Of all days to steal my cattle.”
“The Dorketts have never had good timing,” Anthony commented. His eyes squinted in the bright sun. “Christ, there does look to be more of them. Several dozen more.”
“Mayhap we should mount reinforcements, Father.” Teodora looked at Bradford, his red face already sweating with exertion. “They appear to outnumber us.”
Bradford was a proud man; too proud to entertain the possibility that the Dorketts were stronger than the de Rivingtons. His jaw flexed with determination. “They cannot best us,” he said firmly. “We shall make short work of them and be done with it.”
Teodora and Anthony exchanged concerned glances but said nothing.
The cattle were groaning and the raiders shouting as the party from Cerenbeau approached. Teodora pulled back, allowing the men to continue, while taking up her own position from a distance. She was a dead-eye with the crossbow and her father, for all of his praise of her warring skills, refused to allow her to enter close-quarters fighting. Although she could swing a sword as well as a man, he didn’t want to take the chance that someone might actually swing back at her. Especially today; she wore no armor, only the lovely blue dress, and would make an easy target for sharp blades.
She tried not to think about that.
Teodora observed as her father’s group merged with the raiders and the battle began in earnest. Men grunted as sword upon sword sounded, and the cattle panicked at the burst of noise. Bradford was engaged in a tug-of-war with a man dressed in well-made armor and Teodora thought it strange that the normally destitute Dorketts would actually have the money to purchase armor.
Carefully, she lifted her crossbow, taking aim at the soldier doing battle against her father. Bradford was getting too old for this kind of stress and she was prepared to help him. Before she could release the trigger, however, a mailed hand suddenly knocked the weapon from her grip.
“You might hurt someone with that.”
It was a deep, rumbling voice in her ear. Panic surged through Teodora. Reaching for her flail, she spurred her horse forward, away from her attacker. Although she was startled, it wasn’t in her nature to show her feelings. Instead, she came to a halt and turned her steed about. Raising the flail, she charged.
The warrior on the charcoal-gray warhorse lifted his sword in time to ward off a heavy blow. He wasn’t like any knight Teodora had ever seen. His armor was well-made, well-used, and by the pure size of him, she knew that he could easily crush her given the opportunity. Massive black boots and massive gloves covered his feet and hands, and the warhorse he rode was clad in expensive, durable tack.
Teodora charged him again, realizing she did so more from fear than from self-defense. It was stupid, really – given that she wasn’t wearing protection, she was taking a great chance with her wellbeing. But it also wasn’t in her nature to run, so she had little choice when it came to doing battle. She had to gain the advantage first, break him down, if she was to have any chance at all. This knight, she knew, meant to kill her.
Strange how he didn’t react to her other than to defend himself. Teodora charged again and again, striking his sword, his shoulder armor, but hardly managing to make a dent. Frustrated, weary, she swung the flail at his head and lost her grip. It soared through the air and the knight deflected it easily.
Her weapons were gone. Holding her excited steed in check, Teodora debated whether or not to charge him again. Hair askew, she studied him from a distance as she evaluated the possibilities of coming out of this alive. She should have been terrified but, in truth, the knight had made no move against her other than to disarm her. And in all of the passes she had made against him, he had never once taken the offensive.
“Are you finished?” The knight sounded bored.
Teodora regarded him from afar. “Not yet.”
“Aequo animo, wench.”
Teodora paused. Then, she cocked an eyebrow. “What did you say?”
“It is every warrior’s motto. It means calm of mind.”
“Is that so?”
“You fight with your emotions. In this case, it is fear. And emotions are deadly on the field of battle.” He gestured at her. “What did you intend to swing at me next? Fists?”
“If I have to.”
“You might break a finger. Or worse. Aequo animo, lady.”
She regarded him, the seconds ticking by in uncertain silence. Her eyes glittered as she spoke. “Or I might be lucky and break your neck. Audentes fortuna juvat.”
There was a long, long pause. Then, Teodora swore she saw his chest heave with laughter. “Fortune, indeed, favors the bold, my lady,” he murmured. “I see that my opponent is educated.”
“I have been schooled in Latin, among other things.”
He gestured a massive glove in the direction of the castle. “Then if you are educated, you should be smart enough to know that you should be in the keep with the rest of the women. What in God’s name are you doing out here fighting in a fine dress?”
Teodora didn’t want to tell him, embarrassed at the way she was dressed. “I fight with my father.” She regarded him more closely, studying the powerful lines of his armor. “Who are you, Knight?”
The knight didn’t answer. His visor remained lowered but, somehow, Teodora could feel the heat from his stare. There was something intense about him.
“Your father is lord of Cerenbeau?” he asked.
Teodora wasn’t sure she should answer. But she realized, in the same breath, that she had already given him his answer. She reined the warhorse back, putting more distance between them.
“Be gone,” she said, her voice low. “You have no business here. The Dorketts shall be defeated and you with them, so I would suggest taking your leave before my father turns his attention to you.”
“Your father is a great warrior, then.”
“The finest.”
“The de Rivingtons have a history of powerful warriors. And now I find an educated woman added to that list?”
Teodora continued to back away. The knight, seeing that the gap between them was widening, moved forward to close the distance.
“You are not, by chance, Lady Teodora de Rivington?”
Teodora’s answer was to bolt. Digging her heels into the horse’s sides, the great silver beast began a thunderous gallop back toward the fortress. She could hear the knight behind her, gaining ground, and she leaned forward along her horse’s neck, urging him faster. The fortress was still a distance away, however, and she could hear the knight’s horse upon her. His warhorse’s speed was superior and Teodora was not surprised to realize he would soon catch her. Her horse had become more of a pet and his daily fattening treat of honeycakes was coming back to haunt them both.
Teodora knew she would never make it to the fortress in time. There was a small dale and a cluster of trees to her left and she suddenly veered downward, heading i
nto the ravine. The beechwood trees were sparse but it was enough to slow them both down and Teodora wound her way through the foliage, hoping beyond hope that she could lose him. Turning to glance behind her, she saw the knight still in close pursuit. Unfortunately, the trees hadn’t provided much of an obstacle. With a grimace of frustration, she reined her horse sharply to the right in an attempt to outmaneuver him.
There was a sharp incline a few feet away. Teodora prepared to dig her heels into the sides of the horse to encourage him up the hill when she was suddenly hit sidelong. Catapulted off the horse, she landed heavily on the ground. A warm, heavy body wriggled atop her and she immediately began struggling in defense.
A flash of metal caught her eye. In the split second it took for her to tumble from her horse, the knight had already dismounted and even now was leveling his blade at the figure sitting atop Teodora’s chest. Teodora heard a strangled scream, felt a splash of something warm across her chest, and abruptly the weight was removed.
She was stunned and frightened. Running a shaking hand across her chest, it came back wet and red. The sun was blocked from above and she looked up, seeing the outline of the knight silhouetted against the sharp blue sky. A mailed hand reached down, yanking her to her feet.
“Are you hurt?” the knight asked.
Teodora shook her head unsteadily, her gaze moving between the corpse on the ground and the knight. “You… you killed him?”
“Was I not supposed to?”
Teodora didn’t know what to say. She moved to wipe her bloodied hand on the hem of her gown but the knight stopped her.
“Christ, don’t ruin that dress any more than it already is,” he scolded. Holding her by the wrist, he pulled her over to where his horse stood and fumbled into one of his saddlebags. After a moment, he drew forth a wrinkled linen square.
“Here, now.” He wiped her hand off and then he handed her the cloth. “Clean the rest of you. Although the damage has been done, you must be at least somewhat presentable for your groom. Although, in truth, I doubt such a thing is possible in your current state.”
Teodora froze, her eyes wide. “What do you know of my groom?”
Noble Line of de Nerra Complete Set: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 3