Duncan frowned and said not a word.
“She is always so admiring of Esmeraude and of Esmeraude’s boldness.” A lump rose in Eglantine’s throat. “Even this afternoon, she spoke of how marvelous ’twas to have knights lingering at Ceinn-beithe. God in heaven, we could not lose them both to such folly! Could we?”
Duncan swore, then a gleam lit his eyes. “I fear that your instincts are right. But we can wrest security from this circumstance.”
“How?”
Duncan caught her hands in his, his words falling fast. “By challenging those knights who remained to compete for Mhairi’s hand. They have complained that they came to tourney, not to chase a damsel through the wilderness.”
“But I would have her wed for love!”
“Mhairi is so enthralled with them that I am certain one will win her heart in truth. Think of it, Eglantine! The pageantry will delight all, and it might even ease your worries. And ’twill ensure that these knights do not feel they have traveled so far for naught, which would be diplomatically astute.”
“And then Mhairi might have both spouse and champion. Duncan, ’tis a wondrous idea!”
The pair shared a long embrace, then Eglantine pulled back to regard her spouse warmly. “You are a most clever man, and by far the finest father for my children I have had the good fortune to wed.” Duncan arched a brow, a smile beginning to curve his lip. “I think such an idea deserves a celebration.”
“Aye? And have you any thoughts on the manner of celebration?”
Eglantine wound her arms around her husband’s neck, determined to end their talk and end it immediately. She still fretted for Esmeraude, but as always Duncan spoke good sense. There was little she could do now but pray.
And see to it that such folly did not happen again. Aye, Eglantine was more than ready to have the last of her daughters safely wed.
* * *
There was one other displeased soul at Ceinn-beithe, one whom none would have expected to be riled. He was more vexed when Eglantine and Duncan made their announcement in Ceinn-beithe’s hall the morning after Esmeraude’s departure and the knights gathered there cheered at the prospect of a tourney. That Mhairi blushed with evident delight did little to improve his mood.
Well before noon that same day, Finlay MacCormac watched his mother work in their kitchen and brooded. He was typically a cheerful young man, and he thought none noted the change in his mood. He would have been surprised to realize how many commented upon the recent change in him in the village.
But then, he likely would not have cared, for his dissatisfaction consumed him. Finlay lingered at the table, not by deliberate choice, but by some intuitive conviction that Alienor would know what should be done.
If only he knew how to ask for her suggestion without revealing his every thought. ’Twas not easily done with his mother, with her shrewd gaze that seemed most adept at discovering a young man’s every secret yearning. He toyed with a mug, driving it across the surface of the heavy table, knowing full well that she flicked more than one interested glance his way.
At thirty-six summers, Alienor was a striking woman, though her son saw none of her charms. No longer the dewy-cheeked maiden she had been upon arriving at Ceinn-beithe, she had been toughened by the life she led here. She was all sinew and lean strength these days, her complexion tanned to a warm gold and her dark hair streaked with bands of silver.
Yet at the same time, Alienor’s manner had been softened by marriage, by gain and loss, by merriment and strife. She was much more difficult to rile than once she had been, she had a smile that could warm the coldest heart, and she saw far more than her children wished she did.
Finlay, for his part, knew only that his mother might as well have the Sight, for never was any secret held long in their household. But he lingered all the same, a part of him wanting to be found out so that she might offer a solution.
He stared into the depths of his cup as his father’s whistling carried from the smithy beyond the house. They lived well, for Iain’s reputation as a silversmith had spread far, and more than one ship that put in at Ceinn-beithe’s harbor sought his wares. Finlay knew that his father could wring magic from his forge, and that the silver work he conjured must be touched by the favor of the fey to be as beauteous as it was.
He also knew that he himself could chop wood in his sleep, so much of it was needed in this household.
Their house had been the first built of wattle and daub in Ceinn-beithe and Finlay knew his mother was ferociously proud of that fact, no less than of her favored skillet, brought by her half-sister Jacqueline from Crevy-sur-Seine in distant France. She eased that skillet over the fire as he watched and dropped a bit of fat into it, apparently interested overmuch in its sizzle.
“You had best tell me her name,” she said firmly, her back half turned to him. “I shall hear the truth of it soon enough.”
Finlay jumped. “Whose name?”
His mother laughed. “The maid who has you sighing when there is wood to be chopped.” She nodded satisfaction at the heated fat then dropped lumps of batter into the pan. The smell of their cooking filled the house and made Finlay hungry again.
Alienor shook a finger at him, interpreting his expression rightly. “You will chop that wood afore you eat again, young man. I shall have some labor of you before you eat every morsel in this household.”
“Mhairi says ’tis healthy for a man my age to be hungry.”
“Mhairi, is it?” His mother’s dark brows rose. “And what does that young maiden know of growing boys and men?”
Finlay felt a blush rise from the tips of his toes, for he did not doubt that his mother knew he had answered her earlier question as well. “She has cousins.”
“As do you.” Alienor cast a quick, knowing glance across the room. Her son’s face heated yet further, for Mhairi was his cousin by marriage if not by blood. “So, ’tis Mhairi who has stolen your heart, is it?”
Finlay knew he turned crimson. “Mother!”
She laughed. “Oh, I am embarrassing you, am I? Well, then, you had best be about your labor.”
But he did not go and he knew she did not truly expect him to. Indeed, she did not so much as glance over her shoulder before she spoke again.
“I suppose there is no shame in it,” she mused. “Though you and Mhairi have been raised as family, in truth there is no blood between you. She is three summers younger than you. Now, what of Mhairi?”
Finlay was tempted to deflect his mother’s inquiry, yet more tempted to have her advice. “’Tis not fair! ’Tis not fair that she should be compelled to choose from Esmeraude’s leavings! Mhairi is the seed of both Eglantine and Duncan, and as such, she should be the heiress to Ceinn-beithe! ’Tis not right that Duncan should overlook his sole child in favor of the daughter of another man.”
“’Tis only her legacy that troubles you?” Alienor asked mildly, turning each cake over carefully to cook on the other side.
“Aye,” Finlay began, momentarily seeking to hide his feelings, then turned suddenly and pounded his fist upon the table. “Nay! ’Tis more than that! ’Tis not fair to me! I have waited, I have been honorable; I thought her too young to be courted and now, now, all these men from distant lands with riches and fine manners and tales of valiant deeds shall woo her and win her. ’Tis not fair!”
He folded his arms upon the table and dropped his chin upon his fists, defeated. His voice was small when he continued. “And even if I were to court her now, she would not take note of me among such lavish company. She has barely acknowledged me these past days.”
Alienor coaxed the cakes from the skillet in silence, then brought the platter to the table where they steamed before Finlay. She set the skillet carefully aside—though he knew she had more batter—poured another cup of ale, then sat down opposite him.
She smiled as she reached across the board and ran a fingertip down his cheek. “Look at you,” she whispered. “A man, indeed, at seventeen, with l
ovely golden curls and eyes as blue as a summer sky.”
“Mother!”
Undeterred, she touched the dimple in his chin and her smile broadened. “You are the image of your father when he and I first met, and I tell you that he stole my heart fair and true.”
Finlay straightened. “How?”
His mother’s smile turned mysterious. “He made clear his desire for me. He stole a kiss and told me that we were intended for each other. There is naught more tempting to a woman than the love of a man who would honor her above all others.”
“I do not think so. Have you looked upon these men who came?”
“Aye, I have, and there is not a one of them who knows aught of Mhairi. There is not a one of them who is smitten with her for the sake of herself alone, there is not a one of them who loves her as you do. ’Tis a rare advantage you have in this, Finlay, and one you would be a fool not to exploit.”
“But I know not what to do!”
Alienor rolled her eyes. “Then you had best think upon it. There never was a man served his heart’s desire while he sat at his mother’s board and felt such sorrow for his own poor self.” She gave him a hard look, then rose to her feet and returned to her labor. “There are those less fortunate than you in all of Christendom.”
“Aye, aye, those with empty bellies and no roof over their heads,” Finlay said, repeating a familiar litany. “Those whose parents do not labor hard or do not find success in their endeavors, those whose homelands are less blessed than our own.”
“Those who sleep in the churchyard,” his mother said tartly. “’Tis not every child who lives to see his seventeenth summer, and that hale and hearty.”
Finlay met her gaze, knowing full well that she spoke of her third child, the one who would have been his youngest sister. He had been six when that babe came and he had known even then that ’twas not right that its cries did not begin when his mother’s ceased. His mother had never ripened with child again, and oft proclaimed that two children—himself and his younger sister Margaret—were more than enough trouble for her.
“’Tis fine enough to say,” Finlay charged, comforted by her stern talk but still not certain of his path. “But there is now to be a tourney two days hence betwixt those men who would win Mhairi’s hand. I know not how to compete in such an event and I have no armor, even if I would be a contender.”
His mother eyed the fat with concentration but he knew she was deciding what to say to him. When she spoke, her voice was low. “When first we came to Ceinn-beithe, there was an old comrade of Duncan’s, filled to the teeth with proverbs. Gillemore is long gone from this earth, though still I hear his grumbling voice hereabouts. He oft said that if you have only got one eye, then look with the eye you have got.”
“And what is that to mean?”
“You may have no armor, but you have your wits, Finlay.” Alienor flashed him an impish smile. “And from your mother’s side, you have gained wits better than most. You have but to use them, and use them with your father’s rare persistence.”
“Wits are no defense against a knight’s armor!”
“Nay, they are a greater one.” She dropped batter into the sizzling fat. “I daresay you might win against the mightiest foe, should you put your thinking to that end.” She winked at him. “But then, my opinion is biased.”
He smiled back at her, much encouraged, then dared her wrath to take two of the cakes she had set on the board to cool. At her cry of mock outrage, his grin widened. “I have need of my strength to chop that wood.”
“Oh, your father’s audacity and my wits. You are a fearsome foe, indeed, Finlay MacCormac,” she teased. “Get away with you and finish your labor this morn afore you forget it completely.”
Finlay waved cockily as he ducked out the door, then sharpened his axe with purpose, his thoughts spinning.
His mother spoke aright. Somehow, he had to outwit his competitors for Mhairi’s hand, or risk losing her forever. His heart tightened at the prospect of her wedding another.
Nay, he had to do his best to keep her from choosing one of those men. He still might lose her hand, but ’twould be better than losing her for the lack of trying at all.
He made quick work of the woodpile that morn and ’twas not merely his mother’s baking that fueled him to greater speed. Aye, with each blow of the axe, Finlay became more resolute.
He could win Mhairi.
Was it not said that the will would find the way?
Chapter Eight
In other circumstance, Bayard might have been tempted to believe that all was well once again. But his lady had surprised him more than once thus far and he did not believe that she would not do so again.
She was unpredictable, his Esmeraude.
Bayard lay beside her, determined to remain awake even though he was dead tired, and acknowledged that unpredictability was a most intriguing trait. He had always expected marriage to be an obligation, one with its pleasures to be sure, but a duty that would not occupy his thoughts overmuch. He had need of a wife because he had need of sons. ’Twould be a simple arrangement.
And now, he had need of this wife, because he had need of Montvieux, for pledging it to Richard would ensure his family’s safety. Simplicity, again.
But little was simple about Esmeraude. Bayard had certainly never anticipated that a single woman would hold his attention so surely as Esmeraude did, certainly not that any woman would do so for the better part of his life. He had anticipated that the price of his insistence upon not wedding for love—as his parents had done—could well be a lack of passion in his nuptial bed. He had expected to seek passion elsewhere. Bayard slanted a glance to his sleeping betrothed and smiled.
Esmeraude had a way of holding his eye and Bayard guessed that might never change. To his own surprise, he was untroubled by this. He liked her passion and fire. And the issue of love was resolved between them, he was certain, his own view much more sensible than her own whimsical ideal. She cuddled against him now, disheveled and flushed, her hair tumbling across his arm and his cloak in glorious disarray.
’Twas quiet in the clearing and Bayard felt more at peace than he had in years. Aye, ’twas no doubt due to how well his scheme came together. Bayard leaned back, contented with what he had wrought, and yawned mightily as he stared at the clouds scuttling overhead.
And felt a pang of guilt. There was no evading the fact that he had told his lady a lie. He knew it should not have concerned him to tell one lie to win Montvieux and ensure that the greater good was served.
But still.
But still.
He had no holding, not as yet, not until Esmeraude wedded him and Margaux knew of those nuptials. And in the strictest sense, Montvieux was not his hereditary estate, though it could be argued that it should have been. Worse, he did wed Esmeraude for an estate, though not for humble Ceinn-beithe.
He knew enough of his lady to guess that the distinction would be as naught to her.
Esmeraude need never know the truth of it, Bayard reminded himself firmly. Indeed, they would return to France and she would witness his acceptance of the seal of Montvieux and never know the full tale.
As long as none of his family told her. His heart clenched, though he knew ’twas only the possibility of her spurning him that was worrisome. He stole a glance at her and was less certain of the root of his worry than he might have hoped to be.
Then he had a cheering thought. By the time his family could divulge the truth, Esmeraude might already be ripe with his seed. That deed might have been accomplished this night or last. Though Esmeraude would almost certainly be irked to hear such a revelation, surely no woman would leave her spouse with a babe in her belly.
Would she?
Would any woman leave a life of wealth and comfort such as he could offer at Montvieux for the uncertainty of life beyond its walls? Even if she would do as much herself, surely she would not condemn her child to such a fate?
Bayard eyed his unpredict
able betrothed and was not entirely certain. But what choice had he had? It had been clear how upset Esmeraude was to be wed for whatever holding she might bring to her spouse’s hand—he had understood that whether ’twas Ceinn-beithe or Montvieux would not matter. Bayard knew she had no objections to his suit otherwise, for she welcomed him between her thighs with uncommon gusto, and he would not lose her over such a detail.
His embrace tightened slightly and the lady eased closer, smiling as she did so. Aye, his lie was an insignificantly small detail, a necessity.
Was it not?
Esmeraude’s head placed so trustingly upon his shoulder made Bayard feel like a cur, but he knew he had chosen wisely. They would be wed and they would be wed soon, and they would live happily at Montvieux.
Hopefully. Bayard had best make it a priority to place a babe within his bride’s belly, with no regard for counting fingers and whispers if their first child came in haste. The lady, quite to his delight, seemed as intent upon this course as he was himself.
“What happened next?” Esmeraude murmured and he started at the sound of her voice.
Bayard glanced down to find her eyes just barely open, a sliver of sapphire visible between those luxuriant lashes. She had the look of a well-sated cat and he was pleased to be the one responsible for her contentment. He arched a brow, not understanding her question, and when she smiled, he had the impulse to make her cry out in pleasure again.
She propped herself up on her elbow, evidently unaware of how her unfastened chemise gaped open. His chemise. His surge of possessive pride surprised Bayard. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, her lips were ruddy and slightly swollen from his kisses. Bayard was certain that the sirens could not have looked more tempting than this.
“Tell me what happened to Tristran and Iseut,” Esmeraude said, tapping him with a playful fingertip. “You said that she welcomed him to her bed.”
Bayard smiled. “I suspect what happened was much what happened here. I could show you instead, if you prefer.”
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