by Lynn Kurland
And an even more horrifying thought had been the one which had come to him upon his arrival to the lists: he would likely have to ask Hamlet for help in comporting himself so as to win his lady. And if that wasn’t enough to bring a body to its knees, Richard didn’t know what was.
Richard shook his head and drew his sword. Perhaps if he concentrated on the tasks at hand, he would spare himself any more foolish thoughts, at least for the morn.
He engaged his squire and tried to summon up the patience necessary to train the lad. ’Twas only after a handful of strokes that Richard realized he was not equal to the task. He sidestepped Gilbert’s thrust, brought his arm around his squire’s neck, and pulled him back against his chest.
“Nay!” Richard exclaimed. “How many times must you hear the same instruction, Gilbert? Do not lunge thusly. You become off-balanced and then what happens?”
“I know not,” Gilbert mumbled.
“You die,” Richard said curtly. He released his squire and pushed him away. “Again, child. Spend some of your precious anger on a desire to perfect your skill instead of fueling it all into your displeasure at being here. I cannot make you into a knight unless you will it so.”
“Don’t wanna be a knight,” Gilbert muttered, taking up a stance.
That much was obvious.
“Then what do you want to be?” Richard asked, though he could not have been less interested in Gilbert’s response.
“Priest,” Gilbert said, looking at his sword with extreme disfavor. “This is too much work.”
As if being a man of the cloth wouldn’t be. Richard waved Gilbert away in disgust and looked for his brother, who had been hovering nearby, watching. Richard stared at his youngest sibling and shook his head. He never could understand the hunger in Warren’s eyes.
Or couldn’t he? He was beginning to wonder if it was akin to the feelings he had while watching Jessica. By the saints, he didn’t want just her body. He craved her soul. He wanted her unswerving attentions. Even sharing her with the peasants who made up her building crew rankled. They saw more of her than he did. They received her smiles, rejoiced in her praise, were showered with her sweet laughter. What did he have? An hour or two at the end of the day and by then he was too tired to do aught but try to stay awake long enough to work on her windows. It was a pitiful life he led.
“Come, brother,” he said, beckoning to Warren. “Let us work for a time, aye?”
“Truly?”
Warren’s face lit up. Richard wished he knew how to smile easily. It might have encouraged his sibling. Instead, all he could muster was a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Aye, truly. It will likely take me a handful of years to rid you of all your bad habits, but ’tis a task I take gladly.”
“Oh, Richard,” Warren said, grinning madly. “I’ll unlearn them all, I vow it! Think you I’ll be your equal? Think you?”
“Not if you’re more interested in talk than swordplay. Draw your blade, little brother, and let me see how you wield it.”
A half hour later Richard saw that his labors would be long and heavy indeed with this young one. Warren’s instincts were poor, his timing terrible, and his technique nonexistent. He wished suddenly that he could send Gilbert home. The one and only time he’d let himself be swayed by politics and Gilbert had been the reward. It was a lesson well learned.
Well, he would cut his time with Gilbert by half and devote that time to Warren. At least Warren would appreciate the effort. Only he didn’t seem to be appreciating the effort now. Richard watched his brother’s sword drop point down in the dirt.
“Warren,” Richard began in irritation.
Warren pointed toward the gate. “Look you who comes!”
Richard shielded his eyes against the sun and made out a pair of riders just arriving inside the gates. He could scarce tell the colors they bore, but apparently Warren could.
“’Tis Artane!” Warren exclaimed. “Think you ’tis Lord Robin himself?”
“Sweet Mary, I hope not,” Richard muttered. Robin of Artane was far too shrewd for his tastes. Richard hadn’t meant to wind up at Artane when he’d left home at the age of twelve. He’d been hoping for Blackmour. Lord Christopher was rumored to be a warlock, which had suited Richard perfectly. The more mystery surrounding the man, the less likely his father would have been to come after him.
Unfortunately, hunger had left him faint and in the hands of sisters who had carried him to the abbey at Seakirk, where visiting folk from Artane had come to buy a few prayers. Richard had found himself in the care of Lord Robin’s wife and his fate had been sealed. Though she had asked him only a few questions, she had spoken long with her husband once he’d arrived to fetch her home. Richard had been ever grateful for what she’d said, for Robin of Artane had taken Richard in without question and given him a place in his house as if he’d truly been the favored son of a noble lord. He’d asked no details and Richard had given him none. But Lord Robin had been there every night he’d woken with nightmares for the first year. Richard hadn’t questioned the private bed in an alcove next to Lord Robin’s chamber; he’d simply been grateful none of the other lads would hear his screams. How much of the tale he’d babbled aloud in his terrifying dreams he didn’t know, but Lord Robin had never said aught.
Richard squinted against the glare of the sun. Nay, that could not be Robin of Artane. He would never have traveled with so few.
“’Tis the second son,” Warren said. “See you the mark above the lion on his shield?”
“’Tis Kendrick,” Richard said, rolling his eyes heavenward. Not that he and Kendrick weren’t close. They’d roamed the continent for nigh onto seven years together. If Richard trusted anyone with his life, it would have been Kendrick of Artane. But trust Kendrick with his woman?
Not a chance in hell.
He strode across the lists, intent on intercepting Artane’s lad before he spotted Jessica. He put himself in the middle of the road and folded his arms over his chest. Leave it to the man to travel with no guard. Richard looked behind his friend to make certain there weren’t two dozen of his men just loitering at the outer barbican, ready to deplete Richard’s larder.
Kendrick drew to a halt before him and leaned on the pommel of his saddle.
“De Galtres,” he said curtly.
“De Piaget,” Richard replied, just as curtly.
Kendrick swung down from the saddle and strode up until he was nose to nose with Richard. Richard stood his ground, not flinching. Suddenly Kendrick smiled his infamous, sunny smile.
“Well met, friend,” he said, laughing and embracing Richard heartily.
Richard patted Kendrick on the back and pulled away hastily. Those Artane lads and their unpredictable shows of affection. Richard had never become accustomed to keeping his emotions so close to the surface. Kendrick and his brothers thought nothing of it. Richard rarely permitted himself smiles; how could he manage embraces?
“Congratulate me,” Kendrick grinned.
“Why should I? Another conquest?”
Kendrick laughed and clapped Richard on the shoulder. “Aye, of the monarchical kind. I’ve just been awarded Seakirk.”
Richard blinked. “Seakirk? Why would you want it?”
“And Matilda of Seakirk,” Kendrick added.
“Don’t let me spoil it for you, Kendrick, but I understand Richard of York frequents the keep quite often,” Richard said seriously. Actually, he’d heard Matilda and Richard were lovers. Oh, and Matilda was a witch. Christopher of Blackmour was rumored to be a warlock; there was no doubt about it in Matilda’s case.
Kendrick waved aside Richard’s words. “She’s a fetching wench. Seakirk needs work, but I’ve gold to spare.”
“You’ll need it,” Richard said darkly.
“And here I came for a bit of good cheer. And to bring you a present from my father.”
“What?” Richard asked suspiciously.
“A priest,” Kendrick said with a grin, w
aving expansively at the other man. “Fresh-scrubbed and unsuspecting. Father thought you might appreciate a bit of spiritual ministration.”
Richard glanced at the young man of the cloth sitting on a horse, looking as terrified as if he faced the very gates of hell. He swiped at his nose with his sleeve, blinked several times in fear, and emitted a squeak when Richard glared at him.
Wonderful, Richard thought sourly. That was Jessica’s favorite word and he had come to appreciate all the nuances of it.
“What your sire thought,” Richard said to Kendrick, “was that my soul would rot in Hell long before I could find anyone to come serve here.”
Kendrick only laughed. “Come, Richard, can you say nothing pleasant at all?”
“Many thanks for the lad of the cloth. As for the other, I’m exceedingly glad you’re going to be wed. I’m sure all the sires of unwed daughters in England are drinking toasts to your future situation along with me.”
Kendrick grinned and slung his arm over Richard’s shoulder. “I’ve no doubt they are.”
Richard scowled at his friend. “Where are all your men? Wreaking havoc in my countryside?”
“They left me here and continued on with my captain. Royce’s mother complains he never returns home to visit her.”
“She may regret the invitation when she sees what arrives at her gates.” Kendrick’s company generally contained several men of fierce character and ready fists. The most notable amongst them was a Saracen warrior Kendrick had acquired in the Holy Land. His two blades were sharp and well used. Royce’s mother would likely faint dead away at the sight.
“Show me your keep,” Kendrick said. “I’m still rather surprised you decided to come back here.”
“Why?” Richard asked sharply.
Kendrick was the picture of innocence. “Richard, if anyone should know your reasons, ’twould be you. You left at ten-and-two. I assumed it wasn’t without cause.”
“Aye, I had cause,” Richard said, then fell silent. Kendrick gave him a final slap on the back, then clasped his hands behind his back and walked with Richard up to the inner gates in silence.
Richard watched Kendrick’s face as they entered the bailey. His friend looked, blinked, and looked again. Then he turned to Richard and gaped.
“What in heaven’s name did you do?”
“I tore it all down.”
“I can see that.”
“With my bare hands.”
Kendrick shut his mouth with a snap. “I see.”
“Do you?”
Kendrick looked Richard square in the eye and smiled gravely. “You talk a great deal in your sleep, my friend.”
Richard found that he had nothing whatsoever to say to that, so he pursed his lips and pretended he hadn’t heard Kendrick’s words.
“Your carpenter needs a shearing, my friend.”
Richard groaned inwardly. Jessica. Kendrick might have been betrothed, but somehow Richard had his doubts that this would keep his lady safe. He’d have to see to it himself. At least Kendrick didn’t realize what he was seeing.
“Would you care for a closer look?” Richard asked, then he almost bit off his own tongue. He could hardly believe the words had left his mouth, but there was no time to call them back now. Then he wondered if what he truly wanted was for Kendrick to see Jessica, desire her, and realize that she had eyes only for Richard.
Assuming she did.
Richard almost sat down in the dirt and dashed his own head against a rock. It would have been the best thing to do, for ’twas a certainty he had lost all his wits.
“I should see how you’re proceeding,” Kendrick said, apparently oblivious to Richard’s torment, “should I need to repair Seakirk.”
Richard watched Kendrick’s face as they approached, then he caught sight of Jessica and his friend was forgotten.
She was dressed, as usual, in one of his tunics and a pair of hose—and one of his finer sets as well. Damn the wench if she hadn’t altered them already—and he was just as certain she hadn’t done it herself. The saints only knew whom she had convinced to aid her in her nefarious labors. He would have stepped forward to vent his displeasure when she laughed. He felt Kendrick stiffen next to him and, by the saints, he was powerless not to do the same himself. He couldn’t have explained it had his life hung in the balance, but the more he saw her, the more he wanted her. The woman was simply enchanting.
She’d bound her hair back, but some of it still fell over into her face. Every time she lifted her arm to push it back, the sleeve fell away and revealed the fair length of her forearm. Richard’s breath caught. He heard Kendrick’s breath catch. She was strength and slender grace and Richard had the insane urge to run over and cover her up with his cloak so Kendrick wouldn’t see any more of her than he already had.
And so Jessica wouldn’t see Kendrick. Artane’s second son was famous for wooing with just a glance. Women took one look at the man and fought amongst themselves for turns in his bed. He could sing. He could dance. He could make that flattering talk that women seemed to love so much. He was merciless on the battlefield and matchless off it. Richard was powerfully fond of Kendrick but he’d never felt him as a threat before.
He felt him as one now.
“Introduce me,” Kendrick said, nudging him.
“You’re betrothed,” Richard growled.
Kendrick looked at him with a wide-eyed expression that fooled Richard not at all. “An introduction, Richard. What harm is there in that?”
“Keep your hands to yourself,” Richard warned.
Kendrick’s eyes widened and his lips formed an “oh,” as if he were truly surprised by something. “I see.”
“You see nothing, you fool,” Richard snapped. “Jessica! Jessica, damn you, come over here immediately!”
Jessica turned, held up her hand against the brightness of the sun, then smiled. She walked over immediately and stopped in front of them.
“I didn’t see you—”
“I know that,” Richard ground out. “This is Kendrick de Piaget of Artane. Kendrick, this is Jessica Blakely. You’re introduced. Jessie, go back to work.”
Jessie, hmm? Kendrick’s speculative glance seemed to say. He then transferred the potency of those dusty green eyes on Jessica, took her hand, and made a low bow over it. At least he hadn’t kissed it, Richard noted. Kendrick had spared himself being run through.
“Jessica,” Kendrick purred. “A lovely name for an even more beautiful woman.”
Jessica laughed as she pulled her hand away. “That’s pretty good. Would it be rude to label you a womanizer right now?”
Richard almost gasped at her cheek but Kendrick laughed.
“Astute and beautiful. Tell me, Lady Jessica. Whence do you hail?”
“’Tis on no map you’ll ever see,” Richard interrupted with a grumble.
Jessica smiled serenely. “It is rather far away.”
“Then it will obviously require a great deal of time to explain where it is,” Kendrick said delightedly, as if he’d just come up with a brilliant scheme. “Richard, fetch some weak wine and join us in your solar. I’m sure being out in this sun cannot be good for this sweet maid.”
Richard took Jessica’s hand and pulled her away. “This sweet maid, as you call her, has work to do. Go finish my floor, Jessica. I’m sure Kendrick will survive without your attentions for the next little while.”
“How possessive you are, my lord,” Kendrick said, his eyes twinkling. “This is a new side of you, Richard. It’s charming, truly.”
Richard dropped Jessica’s hand immediately. He was mortified to feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. Damnation, he hated feeling off balance.
“Bed her then, if you like,” he snarled. “It matters not to me.”
Jessica took a step back. “I’d love to join you two, but I do have to finish my floor before sunset. Richard, perhaps you’d rather see Lord Kendrick seated comfortably in the gathering chamber while you go upstairs and tidy u
p.”
“Tidy up?” he snapped.
“Last night’s project,” she said, meeting his gaze. “We wouldn’t want our guest to be disturbed by all that mess, would we?”
Richard remembered: his painting. He’d painted before and Kendrick had seen it, but it had been nude harem women. Landscapes with tame rabbits lolling about in spring flowers would likely send Artane into fits of giggles.
“Aye, come on,” Richard said, snagging Kendrick by the sleeve and pulling him.
“Good morrow to you, Jessie,” Kendrick called.
“Jessica,” Richard said, giving Kendrick another jerk. “Her name is Jessica!”
By the time he’d tossed Kendrick into the gathering chamber, then run up the stairs to his own bedchamber, he was in a black mood. Exchanging old tales with a friend while there was nothing else in the chamber but a few bottles of strong drink was one thing; having said friend come and gape at your lady and be unable to do aught about it was another thing entirely—something he wasn’t sure he cared for in the least.
He gave himself a good shake once he was alone. He didn’t care what happened. Jessica could bed Kendrick if she wished. Hell, Kendrick could carry her off and marry both her and Matilda. Aye, life would be better that way. He’d have a very vexing problem off his hands. He didn’t care for Jessica anyway. She was contrary and opinionated and she was a terrible distraction not only to him but to his men. Her and her future foolishness, he reminded himself. Aye, he never truly believed it anyway.
Aye, Burwyck-on-the-Sea as a whole would be better off without her.
He would be better off without her.
He was just sure he could convince himself of that, given the right amount of time.
21
Jessica stared over the chessboard, puzzling out more than her next move. The entire chamber was thick with stratagem. There was Kendrick, who seemed harmless enough, a playboy who was sure of his good looks and wore casualness like a shield. She had the feeling that one day a woman might find that a serious, devoted man lay beneath all that polish, but it would take a while.