by Lynsay Sands
“Aye. So it is, Eadsele,” Michel agreed, vaguely amused by the boy’s excitement. No doubt he was getting sick of traveling after these last two weeks trudging through the snowy landscape of England. Michel really should have collected the lad in early autumn, but had been kept busy at Suthtun, the impoverished estate he had inherited this summer. He’d had little time to think much about his new squire, let alone chase down to southern England to collect him. If Eadsele’s father hadn’t been a friend and asked him to train the boy as a favor—
“Do you think they will have room for us?”
“I do not see why not. I have never met Lord Roswald, but I have heard that he does not entertain much.” Michel frowned to himself as he tried to recall what else he had heard.
His neighbor was wealthy, he had known that, but even if he hadn’t, he would have realized it rather quickly as they rode through Roswald’s main gates a moment later. Prosperity showed in the round rosy cheeks of the children, and their pets. Poorer castles and their attending villages often could not afford pets, or had ragged hungry-looking animals—not the shiny-coated, muscular beasts at play in the courtyard.
A hollow sound drew his attention to the keep’s main stairs as the cloaked figure of a woman exited the great hall. As she closed the door behind her, she turned. Her face was hidden by a fur-lined hood, but a scarlet gown peeked out from under her cloak with each step she took. She briskly descended the snow-laden steps.
Was this Lord Roswald’s wife, his daughter, or merely a guest? Michel wondered as his horse came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Realizing he would have to ask to find out, he dismounted, moving inadvertently into her path.
“Excuse me, my lady,” Michel began politely. He found his words waved away impatiently as the woman did her best to move around him.
“Just leave your horse with the servants and go on in,” she instructed without even a glance. “Vlaster will show you to your room.”
“Ah,” Michel turned as she hurried past him, his confusion plain on his face if she had bothered to look. “Are you—”
“Aye, my lord. I am Lady Roswald. And I will surely be pleased to make your acquaintance later. In the meantime, Vlaster will see to your comfort.”
“Thank you, but I think you may have mistaken me for someone else. I am—”
“I know, my lord,” she interrupted again. At last, heaving a sigh, she stopped and whirled to face him. The impatient twist to her lips was all he could see beneath her cloak’s hood as she spoke. “There are twenty more just like you inside. And no doubt, just like them, you are eager to inform me that you are the wealthiest, most handsome man for three counties. You find me beyond beautiful and exceedingly charming and want to vow you would willingly die a horrid and painful death if only I would smile in your general direction.” Her words were a weary recitation.
Michel blinked, then shook his head, a wry smile plucking at his lips. “Well, if you are comparing me to the village swineherd, I suppose I am all of those things. But I really had no plans to die today—not even for one of your undoubtedly beautiful smiles.”
The woman stood still for a moment, then reached up to pull back her hood and peer at him. He suspected, by the way her eyes widened, that it was the first real look she had taken at him. Just as this was his first real glimpse of her.
Her hair was a deep brown, shot through with strands of fiery red. Her skin was pale and smooth, her nose straight, her eyes a pretty blue, and her lips were not too full, nor thin. She was pleasant to look on, but not so lovely that a man would die for a mere smile—at least not this man.
Michel had too much to do and too little time to be bothered with the needs and demands of a woman. He would leave off having to burden himself with one until he had Suthtun up to snuff. Then, he supposed, he would have to take a wife to make an heir, but he really wasn’t looking forward to the chore. In his experience, wives were more trouble than they were worth. His own mother had practically sent her husband, his father, to the grave with her demands for rich fabrics and glorious jewels. The man had died in battle, one of many battles he had hired himself out for in an effort to appease her. Nay. There would be no spoiled, demanding wife for him.
STARTLED OUT OF her annoyance by his nonchalance, Odel lifted her hood off to peer at the man. Now she stared at him with some amazement. When she had first come outside, she had thought him yet another of the suitors Matilda had invited. They had, after all, been arriving one after the other all day.
Fair-haired men, dark-haired men, tall men, and not-so-tall men, they had paraded into Roswald like baby peacocks. Every single one of them was single, exceedingly handsome, and at least comfortably wealthy.
This man, though, he was different. He was tall and strong, like the others, but his dark, longish hair framed features too harsh to be considered handsome. Her gaze slid over the rest of him, noting that while his clothes were clean and of good quality, they had obviously seen better days. He clearly wasn’t wealthy like the others. Still, the glint of amusement in his eyes made him somehow charming to look at. Forcing a polite smile, she said, “I am sorry, my lord. Obviously I have made an error. Who did you say you were?”
“The new Lord Suthtun.”
“Oh.” She recognized the name and a feeling of solemnity overtook her. “I was sorry to hear of your uncle’s passing. He used to visit my father on occasion. He was a very nice man.”
“Then you are Lord Roswald’s daughter?”
“Aye.”
He nodded briefly. “Aye, well, I am traveling home from collecting Eadsele here.” He gestured to the young lad now dismounting behind him. “I realize ’tis only a couple more hours home to Suthtun and I dislike putting you out, but the horses are tired and I do not like to overtax them in such weather. Do you think your father would mind if we stopped for the night?”
“My father died several days ago,” Odel told him distractedly, glancing over at the castle doors. Were there any rooms left? She suspected there were not. Truly the castle was full to its turrets with prancing dandies and—
“I am sorry.” The man’s words interrupted her thoughts, but when Odel glanced at him questioningly, he added, “For your loss.”
“Oh, aye. Thank you.” She looked away, still not comfortable with her own lack of grief at the loss of the man who for most of her life had treated her no better than a servant. Spying one of the stable boys waiting patiently a few steps away, she waved him forward. “Tend to his lordship’s horses, please, Tommy.” She gave the instructions, then gestured for Lord Suthtun to follow her up the stairs to the castle.
Odel didn’t turn to see if he followed; she didn’t have to, she could hear his footfalls behind her on the steps. This was no tippy-toed dandy who moved as silent as a cat. Nay, his steps were solid and heavy behind her as she led him into the castle.
The noise and heat in the great hall rolled over them in a wave as they entered it, and that reminded Odel of her hope to escape, however briefly, from her suitors. Grimacing at the cacophony of laughing and jesting male voices she had been trying to flee only moments before, Odel sighed and peered about for Matilda or Vlaster. It only took her a moment to find them. In a room full of colorfully dressed men as tall and solid as trees, Matilda’s short rounded figure, encased in another god-awful pink creation, stood out like a plump pink mouse in a room full of large and healthy gray rats. Of course, Vlaster wasn’t far behind. His tall impossibly thin and dour black form was never far away.
Odel was about to raise her arm to catch her aunt’s attention, when suddenly the woman was bustling toward them, Vlaster following her like a tall, dark shadow.
“There you are, my dear,” Tildy cried brightly as she reached them. “I had begun to wonder where you had gotten to. I should have known that one of your handsome suitors had—” Her words died, her mouth opening soundlessly as she turned to peer at the man standing beside Odel. “Oh.” Her gaze slid over his less-than-handsome face and worn c
lothes, her smile wilting like a rose cut from its stem. “Who are you?”
“This is Lord Suthtun, Aunt Matilda,” Odel announced, glaring at the older woman for her rudeness.
“Suthtun?” Matilda’s nose twitched, her forehead wrinkling with concentration. “Suthtun. I don’t recall sending a missive to you, my lord,” she announced unhappily, then turned to Vlaster. “Did I, Vlaster?”
“I do not recall one, madam,” the man murmured, a dour look on his face.
“Nay, neither do I. Suthtun. Suth-tun.”
“He is a neighbor to the north,” Odel said through her teeth. “And quite welcome here.”
“To the north?” Matilda questioned with a definite lack of enthusiasm, then she sighed and nodded. “Oh, yes. Suthtun; that poor little holding of that friend of your father’s.” Her face puckered up again with open displeasure. Apparently Tildy had set her sights on wealthier game. Embarrassed by her godmother’s openly rude behavior, Odel hurried to intervene.
“He is traveling home from court and sought shelter here,” she explained quickly. “I assured him that would be fine.”
“Oh. Aye, well of course, it behooves us to help a neighbor, does it not?” she said, but didn’t look pleased at the prospect. In fact, she sounded decidedly annoyed. She turned to Vlaster to ask, “Do we have a room for his lordship? Or shall he have to sleep on the floor?”
“Aunt Tildy!” Odel gasped, giving Lord Suthtun an apologetic look.
“Do not be offended on my account, my lady,” the nobleman murmured with the same good humor he had shown earlier. “I am an unexpected guest and would be pleased for even a spot on the great hall floor by the fire—if it is available.”
Odel blinked at the man, amazed at his claim. Surely, had any of the other lords been asked to consider such a spot, they would have been wroth at the insult. They had all required a room from what she had seen, likely to house all their various clothing and finery. This man, however, appeared to travel light, a small sack dangling from his relaxed hand his only baggage. He also lacked the attendants the other noblemen seemed helpless without. Lord Suthtun had only a young lad with him—his squire, she supposed.
“I am sure that will not be necessary, my lord,” Odel murmured, turning to her aunt. “Surely Lord Beasley and his cousin, Lord Cheshire, could room together for one night.”
“Oh, nay,” Matilda exclaimed at once with horror. “Lord Beasley has more gold than the king—and Lord Cheshire is quite the most handsome of your suitors. They are both most important men; I cannot think they will thank you for the insult.”
Odel grimaced at that. Most handsome and wealthy they might be, but Lord Beasley was vain and Lord Cheshire was arrogant. Doubling them up could only help the two men’s dispositions. “They shall survive the insult, I am sure,” she said with a wry smile. “My neighbor is in need of a bed for the night.”
“Aye,” Matilda agreed reluctantly. “I suppose with the ague coming on his squire, his lordship could indeed use a bed. Very well, I shall see what I can do to smooth this over with the lords Beasley and Cheshire.”
“Thank you,” Odel muttered. She was grateful for her godmother’s acquiescence, but confused by her words. Her gaze had moved to the boy in question. Much to her surprise, the lad did seem quite pale. He was also trembling as if with a chill. She had not noticed that outside. In fact, she thought she recalled him looking quite robust.
“Eadsele, are you not well?” Lord Suthtun asked the boy now, looking as startled as Odel by the boy’s sickly state. Pressing the back of his hand to his squire’s forehead, Lord Suthtun scowled. “You’re on fire. How long have you not been feeling well?”
“I don’t know, my lord. I was cold while we were traveling, but thought it was just the weather,” he answered miserably, swaying where he stood. Lord Suthtun reached out and caught the lad’s arm to steady him.
“Hmph.” Matilda turned away with purpose. “You’d best put the boy to bed before he falls down. I shall send servants up to move Lord Cheshire’s things.”
“If you would follow me, my lord,” Odel said. Suthtun lifted the boy into his arms and followed as she led him to Lord Cheshire’s room, somehow managing to wave away any eager lords who might have slowed their progress.
“I shall have one of the servants arrange a pallet for the boy,” she said as she let him into what had—until a few moments ago—been Lord Cheshire’s chamber.
“Nay. Have them arrange one large enough for me.” Crossing the room, he set the boy gently on the bed and pulled the furs up to cover him.
Odel was still for a moment as she watched him care for the squire. The man seemed extremely kind; his voice was soft and reassuring, his hands gentle. Her own father had never shown her such tenderness. Her thoughts were disturbed a moment later as the door opened behind her and servants began to file into the room. Within moments Lord Cheshire’s things had been removed, and water and a clean cloth had been supplied. Lord Suthtun bathed the lad’s head.
“Is he your son?” The tenderness the man showed was exquisite, and the question burst from Odel’s lips before she had even realized it had come to mind. But Lord Suthtun didn’t seem upset. He hardly seemed to notice, so busy was he with his caretaking.
“Nay, he is my squire, the son of an old friend placed in my care to train and raise.”
His answer seemed to suggest that he would tend as kindly to anyone under his charge, and Odel pondered that. This man was an enigma. His clothes were old but well tended; he had claimed to stop for the night simply for the good of his horses; and now he showed dutiful care and even affection for a squire. He did indeed appear to tend well to what was his. What would her life have been like had her father been more like this man? she wondered.
“Might I prevail upon you for some mead, and perhaps some broth for the boy?” he asked suddenly.
Shifting, Odel nodded. Then, realizing that he could not see her nod, she murmured, “I shall have some brought up at once. And for the pallet to be arranged. Would you care for your supper to be brought here as well, or shall you join the table?”
His gaze slid to the window, then he glanced toward her. “I would not wish to trouble the servants any more than I have to. I imagine I can manage joining the table.”
“Then, I shall have one of the servants come and sit with Eadsele when ’tis time for the meal.” Odel slid from the room to see to these things.
Downstairs, she had barely stepped off the landing before she found herself surrounded by suitors. It was as if they had been lying in wait for her return. Compliments, offers to escort her on walks, to play music for her, recite poetry to her, all smothered her like a cloying blanket as she tried to make her way to the kitchens. By the time she broke loose and escaped the great hall, she was thoroughly annoyed. She nearly trampled Matilda as she tried to enter the steaming kitchens.
“Oh, there you are, my dear,” her godmother said, then paused to look at her more closely. “Oh, my, you do look vexed. Is Lord Suthtun’s squire worse?”
“Nay, I just—” She gestured vaguely over her shoulder, then shook her head. “Never mind. I came to arrange for some broth and mead to be taken up for the boy.”
“I already arranged that,” Matilda assured her.
“Oh, good. Well, then, Lord Suthtun asked that a pallet be prepared for him. He wishes the boy to have his bed while he is ill.”
Matilda’s eyes narrowed, her eyebrows arching in displeasure. “Do you mean to say Lord Suthtun forced Lord Cheshire from his bed for a squire?”
Odel frowned at the woman’s expression. “He did not force anyone. I suggested we put Lord Cheshire with Lord Beasley. Besides, I think it is terribly chivalrous of him to give up his bed for a sick child.”
“If you say so,” Matilda agreed irritably. “But I assure you Lord Beasley is smarter than to give up a warm, soft bed for a boy.”
“Well, whether that is smarter is debatable,” Odel snapped, then sighed as the kitc
hen door swung open to reveal one of her many suitors.
Smiling as he spotted her, the man let the door swing closed and hurried forward.
Chapter Three
Would that be Lord Cheshire?”
Odel glanced up from her food to follow Lord Suthtun’s gesture. He had taken a seat at the place she had saved him just as the meal was being carried out. Throughout the supper they had discussed the uncommonly cold weather they were having this winter, his squire’s fever—which was still high—and various and sundry topics of less importance. Odel nodded and answered his question. “Aye, it is. How did you know?”
“Because he is glaring daggers at me,” Michel murmured with that ever-present amusement. “I think he is distressed at my pinching his bed.”
“It wasn’t really his bed to begin with,” Odel pointed out dryly, her gaze moving over the man in question to his cousin, Lord Beasley. The two men sat side by side and neither of them looked pleased. Lord Cheshire looked especially resentful as he glared at Lord Suthtun. In truth, both men had already made their displeasure with the new arrangements known to Odel. When she had stood firm on the arrangements despite their complaints, they had settled into some unsubtle pouting. Odel didn’t know whether to be amused or put out by their behavior, but it was obvious they both felt as her aunt had predicted; they were much too important to be forced to double up.
They had even been making noises about leaving. She guessed she was supposed to be overcome with dismay at the threat, but the only feeling she could work up was a vague relief. Really, having all these men fluttering around was quite wearing. Having a couple of them leave would hardly put her out.
“So?” The drawn-out word drew Odel’s curious gaze and Lord Suthtun grinned. “Which one do you favor?”
Odel stared at him blankly for a moment, then felt herself flush. Apparently he had determined that the lords all gracing her table were suitors. Of course, she remembered, Matilda had said something about suitors when he and his squire had first arrived.