His to Keep: A Medieval Romance

by Sherrinda Ketchersid

  “What is along the north border?”

  “All the land from the road to the northern border but east of the stream is pastureland. After we cross the stream, there are more fields and the tenant homes.”

  “Take me there.”

  Claire quickly led him along the northern border, across the stream, and then to the fields. She pulled up at the edge of the fallow land and pointed further west. “Do you spy the tree line way in the distance? That is Kelder Woods. The western merestone is there. We have a good amount of wooded area on the land. It comes up close to Whitfield’s outer walls.”

  “Aye, ’tis where I hid while I devised a plan to steal into my castle.”

  Her face heated, remembering her bold stance against him. She cleared her throat. “From here to the castle lies fallow farmland.”

  “And the tenant homes?”

  “Just south of here. Not far.” Claire pushed her horse to a trot, and Ian joined her.

  It wasn’t long before a small group of buildings appeared in the distance. Ten homes, all in sad disrepair. No chinking between the stone walls, thatched roofs bare in places, and chimneys crumbling.

  ’Twas disheartening, and she could understand the grimace on the Scot’s face.

  “Let’s dismount. I would see the inside of the houses.” Ian guided them to a grassy area nearby. He dismounted, dropping the reins in the grass so his horse could graze.

  Claire also dismounted but began to fall as she landed on her wounded foot. Strong hands slid around her waist and broke her fall. She stiffened under his touch. “I need no help.”

  “So you keep saying.” Ian dropped his hands and stepped back.

  Claire faced him, one hand still on her mount. “My foot is much better. You need not continue coming to my aid.”

  “’Tis my understanding that chivalry to a lady is always necessary.”

  “I am not a noble lady, as you are well aware, and I do not need assistance from you or any man.” She walked around him and moved toward the houses. “At least, not to dismount from a horse.”

  “How about taking the arm of a man to walk across the uneven ground?” Ian offered his arm to Claire, his mouth curving into a broad smile.

  Claire wasn’t sure she wanted help from him, but his open expression, the gleam of his smile and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes spoke a welcome she was not willing to rebuff. So much for holding on to her anger. She placed her hand on his arm and they slowly walked to the houses.

  “I believe you misspoke when you said you are not a lady. You are a distant relation to the King of Scotland’s wife, and your parents were relatives to Lord Whitfield, which makes you genteel.”

  “A very poor relation, with a few unsavory characters in the family line. I would hardly classify myself as a noblewoman.”

  A clatter issued forth from the house nearest them. Possibly an animal had made the ruins into a home. Ian walked to the front of the house, and she stopped while he cautiously opened the door. The rusty hinges creaked in protest.

  Claire stepped to the side should a wild beast try to escape. She watched Ian disappear into the dark room. A cry sounded, and she heard the scrape of steel. Claire wanted to run but stood her ground, not sure if Ian needed aid—not that she had any desire to come close to a dangerous animal.

  “Don’t hurt us! Please, my lord!”

  “Who are you, and what are you doing on Whitfield land?”

  Claire stepped through the doorway, straining to peer through the darkness as dust filtered through the broken slats of the window. Ian lowered his sword. In the corner stood a man, woman, and two small children, poorly dressed and thin as nails. The mother tried to comfort the younger of the two, who began to cry.

  “I am Silas, and this is my family.” He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We had nowhere to go. I heard Whitfield had no workers and the homes were vacant. We… we needed shelter—still do.”

  Claire’s heart went out to them. “Of course you may stay here. As long as you need.”

  Ian pressed his lips together before returning his attention to the man. “How long have you been here?”

  Silas glanced at his wife. “Most of the winter.”

  “In truth? All winter?” Ian frowned. “How did you feed yourselves?”

  Silas’s shoulders fell. “I hunted game in your woods and foraged for berries, roots, and the like.”

  Claire placed a hand on Ian’s arm, not wanting him to be harsh in his treatment of the man. Poaching was punishable by cutting off a hand. Ian pulled his arm away.

  “Are you a farmer?” Ian asked the man.

  “I farmed at Glaston’s but had to leave because blight destroyed the crops. We have been traveling, looking for work for half the year. ’Twas too difficult to keep moving around with wee ones, so we came here.”

  Claire once again clutched Ian’s arm. “Might I speak with you outside?”

  Ian put his hand over hers. “Aye, lass, I ken what you seek.”

  Frustration bubbled through Claire. He couldn’t know her heart for those in need. She wanted to let them stay. Forever, if they would. The land and homes were left to rot. The family would not bother them.

  Ian addressed the man. “I am Sir Ian McGowan, new owner of Whitfield. If you agree to work the fields, planting, cultivating, and harvesting, I will allow you to remain here.”

  “Aye, sir, aye!”

  “First, I need your help in repairing these homes. Do you know of any who are in need of work?”

  “Aye, sir. There are some in various villages nearby.”

  “Then I trust you to find me at least five workers. Bring them to Whitfield, and we will figure out the details.”

  Claire’s heart pounded at Ian’s proposition to Silas. She had assumed he would kick the family off the land, but he surprised her with his kindness. He not only let the man stay; he also offered him work. How could he promise such security? She wanted a glimpse of his coin—to reassure herself he’d make good on his promises.

  “Sir McGowan, I thank you. My family thanks you.” The man bowed before Ian.

  “We shall take our leave and inspect the rest of the houses.” Ian turned and motioned Claire out the door.

  The little girl’s cry clutched Claire’s heart, and she wished she could do more. The provisions Alma sent! She made for her horse, walking as fast as her healing foot allowed.

  “Claire!” Ian ran beside her. “Where do you go? Are you ill?”

  “Nay, the food.” She grimaced as a pain shot through her ankle. “For the family.”

  Ian scooped Claire into his arms. “You are a stubborn woman.”

  Claire stiffened in his arms. “I—”

  “You could have asked me to get the food. Instead you run off and strained your foot once more.”

  Claire hadn’t given her injury much thought. She only wanted to get the food for the poor household in need. She’d taken care of herself for so long, it came naturally to fend for herself.

  Ian lifted her upon her mount.

  “Thank you.”

  He cast a glance upward. “Giving thanks to a Scot?”

  Claire bit back a smile. “Do not get used to the like.”

  “No fear of that, I assure you.” He untied the bag of food from Claire’s saddle and led her horse over to the dilapidated house.

  Silas and his family stood outside the door. “My lord?”

  “My lady would see you fed this day.” He held out the sack to the man.

  Claire glanced at Ian. His lady. He made sure the folk knew it was she who offered the food, not himself. Confusion shredded her thoughts. His boorish demands. His kindness. His overturning her commands. His care over her wellbeing. Would she ever understand this man of extremes?

  “We thank you, my lady.” The woman’s words broke through Claire’s muddled mind. ’Tis more than we deserve after taking advantage.”

  “No one should go hungry, especially children. I shall call upon y
ou soon,” she replied. Having tenants would require more work, but if it enabled Whitfield to thrive, then so be it. Who knew? Ian might have enough coin to hire more help inside the keep. Claire let a grin spread wide.

  “I want to look in the rest of the houses before we leave,” Ian said.

  Claire nodded. “I will bring your horse to you.”

  “A thank you and a favor. You surprise me this day, my lady.” He placed a hand over his heart. To mock her? She didn’t know, but the curve of his lips pleased her more than it should have.

  She almost wished he would exhibit some of that boorish behavior so she might stay angry with him. She needed to dislike him. Or did she?

  Claire lifted her chin and left him to his inspection. She walked her horse to the open grass and pulled up beside Ian’s mount. She collected the reins and led the Scot’s mount over to the last house.

  As Claire watched, Ian checked the outside and inside of each home. Faith, how her life had changed in the past three days. From worrying about taxes and avoiding Bardsley to becoming handfasted with a hated Scot. While these things were troublesome, the promise of coin to bring Whitfield back from the dead gave her hope amid the turmoil. ’Twould seem her future grew brighter with each passing day. Had God finally looked upon her with favor? Claire sighed. Her thoughts vacillated so quickly, ’twas enough to make her dizzy.

  Ian finished looking through the homes and mounted his horse. “Much work is required. With all the castle needs, plus hiring men, I dinna think I have enough coin for all you desire for Whitfield.”

  And with that, her hopes for Whitfield’s grand future slipped through her fingers.

  Chapter 13

  The next day before the rooster crowed its ungodly squall, Ian made his way downstairs. ’Twas too early for the morning meal, so he headed for the kitchen. Alma was sure to have something to ease his hunger pains. The yeasty aroma of fresh bread teased his nose as he pushed the door open.

  “By the saints, it smells good in here.” He tore a portion off the hot loaf Alma had just set on the worktable. Steam rose before his eyes as he stuffed the warm morsel into his mouth.

  “Alma,” he mumbled, “you make delicious bread.” He ate another piece.

  “Such flattery will serve you well, my lord.” Alma grinned and placed two more loaves in the oven.

  “Might I persuade you to let me have the whole loaf?”

  “You may take whatever you wish, but I’ll have porridge ready soon.”

  “Save me some. I need to meet with Phillip first.” With bread in hand, he left the kitchen and headed toward the small guardhouse. Heavy clouds hid the early morning sun, creating a chill in the air. Blanketed in gray, the castle grounds reminded him of a graveyard, desolate and depressing with its lack of people and livestock. He hoped to change the atmosphere soon.

  Ralph stood atop the battlement over the barbican, keeping watch. A few of the men exited the guardhouse, heading toward the keep to break their fast. Phillip stepped out next and met Ian. “I expected to see you in the hall this morn,” he said.

  “I have a special task for you.” Ian tore off a chunk of bread and handed the remainder of the loaf to Phillip. “I ken you would protest delaying your meal, so I brought you a wee morsel.”

  “You know me well.” Phillip held the bread to his nose and inhaled. “What sort of work do you have in mind?”

  “I need you to hire more guards. Ten, if you can. I’d like more, but I doubt you’ll find enough able bodies.”

  Phillip looked askance. “Where do you suggest I find suitable men?”

  “Anywhere you can. Try the surrounding villages and seek men of stature you consider trainable. I will give you coin to offer. We need more protection, especially with the looming opposition from Bardsley.”

  “I was to accompany you when you meet with him today. You can’t go alone.”

  “James shall accompany me.”

  “Who will guard the castle?”

  “Ralph and the others. While I don’t care to leave her, Claire will be the chatelaine as she has been this past year since Whitfield’s death. I shall not be gone overlong.”

  Phillip nodded. “The woman is fierce.”

  “Aye, ’tis true.” Though yesterday she had been kind, not once, but twice. Three times if he counted giving their food to the poor family.

  Shocking, to be sure. Her stony demeanor seemed to have cracked, and he would chip away and hope the outcome would be worth the effort. The work involved would be tremendous, but building a friendship with his betrothed inspired hope for at least a congenial, if not blissful, marriage.

  “How much coin do you wish me to offer potential guards?”

  “Give them a pence with the promise of more if they arrive at Whitfield within the week. Tell them part of the job will involve helping with the repairs. They need to understand what is involved before reporting here. I do not need men withdrawing their support.” Ian clasped Phillip on the shoulder. “Eat and have Alma fix you food for your journey.”

  “You better offer up prayers for the success of this quest,” said Phillip over his shoulder as he left for the keep.

  Ian pondered Phillip’s words. ’Twould take a miracle to raise up men capable of guarding Whitfield and its people. If he were a praying man, he’d fall to his knees right then and there. Lord Castillon of Ramslea spoke of his faith many times when Ian lived there as head guardsman, and Ian’s curiosity was piqued by his liege’s powerful lordship tempered with grace. So unlike the way his ungodly father led with ruthless abandon. Lord Castillon’s quiet strength and powerful faith caused him to wonder if there might be something to the man’s God.

  Ian climbed the stairs to the battlement and caught up with Ralph, who walked around the parapet scouting the premises.

  “Ralph, James is going with me to meet Sir Bardsley. You will be in command while I am gone.”

  “Are you taking Mistress Claire, then, Sir?”

  “Nay, she remains. Phillip is leaving us for a time, so you will remain as the lady’s man of arms.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  Toly had Ian’s mount saddled and tied to the paddock fence. James walked out of the stable, leading his horse.

  “You are prompt,” said Ian.

  “As I should be, Sir.” James mounted.

  Ian nodded and then mounted his horse. “Then let’s be off. Lead the way.”

  They galloped through the gate and headed eastward. After passing the border to Bardsley’s land, they rode for several miles before Ian spotted the castle. A large structure at least double the size of Whitfield.

  Ian tamped down his insecurities at the sight. He’d learned long ago to rise above his fear or hurt when faced with persecutions from his family. Push them aside. Stuff them down. One had to show ambivalence toward someone who considered you worthless. He must exhibit courage in the face of an intimidator. Now he had the chance to be lord—to exert his power over his own land. He would not back down.

  Once he and James reached the gate and stated their business, the portcullis rose. They rode through the barbican and into the outer bailey, which bustled with the activity of guards training with blades. A couple of blacksmiths worked in the large smithy, the pounding of their hammers melding with the clang of swords from the lists. Ian and James were led into the inner bailey, where they dismounted. Squires took their horses, while one of the guards led them through the yard to the keep.

  The inner bailey bustled with life. Servants chopped wood, hauled water from the well, and weeded the herb garden. ’Twas impressive, and something Ian desired for Whitfield.

  As they entered the great hall, Ian noted the large tapestries upon the walls, two massive fireplaces on either side of the room, and clean rushes strewn about the floor. The view spoke of wealth and a capable lord who managed his land and household well. He could learn much from his neighbor.

  Sir Bardsley entered through a side door and greeted Ian. “Sir McGowan, I hea
rd you would pay me a visit this day.”

  Ian inclined his head. “I’m glad you were made aware. We need to discuss the grazing of your flocks on my property.”

  “Maid Claire never had cause to complain.”

  Ian stiffened at the use of Claire’s given name, but he let it pass. “As Whitfield belongs to me now, I propose that you lease my pastureland for a fair price.”

  Bardsley’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never had to pay for grazing, so why should I start now?”

  “Because the land is mine, not yours.” Ian stood his ground, giving stare for stare.

  “What if I refuse?”

  “I shall take some of your sheep as payment.”

  “I will just take them back.”

  “Not if I slaughter them for food.” Ian would rather remove the sheep and begin his own herd, but if forced, he would kill them for their food stores.

  Bardsley cursed and put his hand on the hilt of the sword. Ian did the same, as did every man in the room.

  “You would choose to cross me, McGowan? I know the depth of Whitfield’s poverty. ’Twould be easy to overpower you.”

  “And anger the king who is fortifying relations with Scotland? I think not.”

  “The king might applaud one of his trusted lords seeking to guard England from a Scot considering treason.”

  Ian laughed. “’Tis daft, you are, to believe I had the means to overthrow the king or work against him.”

  Bardsley’s face reddened, and he gripped the handle of his sword. “I think you should take your leave.”

  “Very well. You have two days. Either pay ten shillings or remove your sheep from my land.” Ian turned, motioned to James who stood behind him, and the two strode toward the door.

  “I would tread cautiously, were I you,” said Bardsley.

  “But you are not,” said Ian, not glancing back at his neighbor as he walked out the door.

  ’Twas done. He’d stated his demands and hadn’t been speared in the process. They weren’t through the barbican yet, but he felt empowered by the confrontation, nonetheless.