Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride

by Gail Ranstrom

  Her happiness hung upon it, as well. Every waking moment for ten long years, she had thought of nothing but this wonderful man and their making a life together.

  John realized he had rarely given the girl a thought.

  Alys of Camoy might as well have been one of the lovely tapestries his mother made to lend beauty to Hetherston’s hall. Or a silver goblet his father purchased to set out on special occasions. She had only been part and parcel of the estate in the mind of a young knight anticipating lifelong adventure in service to the king’s son, Lancaster. However, now the parcel had a voice. And she also possessed a presence he could not ignore. What was he to do with her?

  “You gave the lady grave insult with every word,” Simon Ferrell muttered. “Especially the ones you did not say.”

  “She will learn quickly enough that I have no plan to marry her. As soon as I am able, fitted for new armor and in possession of a decent mount, it is back to France to join Prince Edward’s campaign against Trastamere.”

  “What care you which Spaniard rules Spain?”

  “It is enough the king cares, that the duke has a vested interest,” John reminded him. “Not to mention my own need for revenge.”

  Simon blew out a breath between his teeth. “Suppose you do not survive? Why not wed and sire an heir while you are here?” Simon suggested.

  John sighed. “What do I know of being a lord? I fight. That is what I do and all I know. What use is a wife? Or an heir, for that matter.” He winced as he stretched his arms wide to loosen his muscles. “After ignoring Alys of Camoy all these years, should I now wed her, put a babe in her belly and leave her to fend for herself? Fair treatment that would be, eh? Let her have her freedom and the title end with me, it’s no matter.”

  “It might matter to the people here. Especially her.”

  “Nonsense. This is her third betrothal. The king will find her another man.”

  Simon drew off John’s dusty surcoat, then tackled the heavy mail John had borrowed for the journey. With practiced effort, he removed it and laid it aside to be cleaned. “She is a beautiful woman. I have yet to see you ignore one of those.”

  “This one, I will.” John sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in one hand. “I am so devilish weary, Simon. And my stomach is afire. Go and tell her—”

  Ferrell unbuckled the padded gambeson. “Tell her yourself. I hate to see a woman mistreated just because your belly burns.”

  “Mistreated?” John asked with a huff, shoving Simon aside. He shrugged out of the garment himself and threw it down. “You do not know the meaning of that word.”

  Simon issued a grunt and rolled his eyes. “And you do, of course, languishing at the mercy of the Spanish, lo, this long, long year past. Are we lapsing into misery again?”

  “Again?” John asked with a bitter half laugh. “Have I left it yet? My parents are dead. My strength is but that of a newborn calf. And I have wasted a decade of that poor girl’s youth. Give me one good reason I should not feel miserable.”

  “I will give you reasons.” Simon tugged off one of John’s boots and dropped it to the floor. “You escaped those heathens. You are alive with no lasting damage to your person. And you have a winsome lass eager to become your bride.” Simon paused but an instant, then added, “I’ll give another for good measure. Self-pity does not become you.”

  “’Tis not self-pity, Simon, only grief and regret.” And guilt and anger, John did not add.

  “Those wear the same face then,” Simon said.

  John collapsed back upon the mattress, covering his eyes with his forearm. He could trust the ever-blunt Simon in all things, especially to spit out the ugly truth when necessary. “You are right, of course. I did behave badly. I will sleep for a few hours and then be charming.”

  Simon grunted again. “That would be worth a year’s pay to see.”

  A year’s pay was roughly what was owed the man in any case. That, and possibly John’s very life. Simon, a farrier’s son chosen six years ago from Lancaster’s ranks to become his squire, had made his way alone to Spain after John’s capture. Loyal to the core and practical as the day was long, Simon had done all in his power to aid John while supporting himself as a smithy and living near the castle where John had been held. Without him, there could have been no escape. “I applied to the king, Simon. I plan to knight you as soon as—”

  “Meanwhile, let’s get you settled.”

  John stuck out his other boot and waited for Simon to finish his chore. Then he muttered, “Leave me now. Let me rest.”

  “As you will, my lord.”

  My lord. John could not get used to the title any more than he could accept the fact that his father was gone, buried in the crypt within the chapel. And his mother, dead just over a year, lying there beside her beloved.

  He should have come home long ago, at least for a short visit. How he wished he had, even if it had involved going against the duke’s wishes. Even if it had meant wedding that infant they had chosen for him. Now he had a choice in that, having left it so long undone, but at what cost?

  The news of his mother’s death had come on the eve of the worst battle of John’s life. Surrounded by the stench of death and the cries of the wounded, he had received the last missive he was to get before his capture the month following.

  The brief letter had been penned for and signed by little Lady Alys. No fault of the messenger, but he resented her still.

  How did this orphan whose very existence was owed to his father’s mercy and the king’s favor, think it her place to write of such a weighty matter?

  He had not heard of his father’s more recent death until he reached London. That grief was still raw as an open wound. How he wished he had returned to England during the decade past.

  Had he not been so keenly intent on keeping, and even surpassing the Greycourt tradition of valor, he might have avoided the capture that now blighted his service. The Spanish had confiscated his costly destrier, armor and weapons and starved away his strength. Thankfully, they had not believed him capable of escape there at the end.

  Little Lady Alys had waited all this time. Why, when it would have behooved her to set aside their betrothal and wed elsewhere? He always assumed she would. He had, in truth, counted on it. The betrothal had been but a formality, the price for his parents’ entertaining the duke and his huge retinue at John’s knighting.

  Now that he bothered to look back, he vaguely recalled how Alys had looked then, a rosy, smiling tow-haired cherub who fairly danced in place throughout their short ceremony. Everything had amused him that day, even her. He hoped he had been kind to her, but could not remember exchanging a single sentence with the child after scratching his name on the contract.

  Though she had grown taller and older—much, much older at one and twenty—she had not lost her youthful exuberance and eagerness to please. While it might have been endearing in the child, it troubled him now.

  She was a beautiful woman despite her obvious lack of vanity. But where were her sense of caution, her dignity and righteous anger? What female with any good sense smiled so heartily at insults? Was she simpleminded?

  Perhaps a lack of wit excused the fact that she had not ransomed him when the need arose. He hoped there was no other reason she had left him to his fate. Though he could hardly blame her if she believed she had cause not to save him. John had abandoned her first. The thought ate at him.

  He owed her freedom. If he misliked being betrothed to gain wealth and property, how must she feel? What woman of sound wit truly accepted what amounted to being sold? Now there was an even better reason not to marry her. But would she be free to choose her life if they set aside their contract? Could he arrange something to give her some voice in her future?

  Sleep tugged at him insistently and he embraced it like a welcome mistress. It provided his only escape from the devils that plagued him. And from thoughts of Alys, who stoked his guilt with her eager and blameless acceptance.
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br />   Chapter Two

  “No one dared approach him, did you see?” Thomasine said.

  Alys inspected the table set for supper, wishing all the while that her cousin would leave her alone and stop trotting out the obvious.

  She lifted a wine cup, checked the rim for damage, then replaced it. “You put too much stock in rumor and have apparently spread it far and wide since coming here. You are the one who made everyone hesitate to greet John as they should.”

  “I did no such thing!” Thomasine declared, pressing a long-fingered hand to her chest. “Well, perhaps I did repeat a few tales I heard. But they were from very reliable witnesses and true.” She took a deep breath and let it go in a sigh. “They say he refused an audience with the duke. Can you believe it? ’Tis said the king humored him, but only to avoid a scene. Everyone knows Greycourt is a savage. The Scots blood, no doubt.”

  “You should return to court,” Alys suggested. “Whatever will they do there without you to stir the gossip pots?”

  “I had to come and warn you he was arriving soon.” Her cousin scoffed. “You will rue the day if you marry that man.”

  Alys turned on her, barely controlling the anger that welled up inside. “Then what would you suggest I do, cousin, ask the king for yet another? How do you think that would set with him when he has already given me three?”

  “So, do not trouble the king. Cry off first, and then elope! There is Sir Ronci. He asked after you constantly.”

  After her wealth, more likely. Ronci would be Thomasine’s own choice if she had a dowery. They were already lovers.

  “Come with me to London. An elopement would be forgiven, all things considered,” Thomasine assured her.

  What was her cousin thinking? Ronci had nothing to offer either of them. Then it came clear without much deduction and Alys suddenly realized what was afoot. If Ronci were granted Alys’s hand and lands—highly unlikely without an elopement for which she surely would be fined—Thomasine’s future would be assured. Even as husband to Alys, Ronci conveniently could keep Thomasine as mistress and support her. Thomasine would be willing to share that man for the security the arrangement would offer her. Now her cousin’s strong objection to Alys’s marriage to John made sense.

  For the first time in memory, Alys had needed to stand back and examine someone’s reasons for a nefarious plan. What a protected life she had led at Hetherston.

  She could only scoff and shake her head. Thomasine must be quite desperate. “So you say I should abandon my vows and the promises I made to Lady Greycourt on her deathbed?”

  Thomasine shrugged. “She is dead and gone. Who would know? Who would care? She was nothing but a stolen Scottish bride who was never accepted by anyone who matters.”

  “I would know and she certainly mattered to me.” Alys pitied her cousin’s lack of honor. How could she make her understand? “When I was six and the plague took my father and my first betrothed, I was sent directly to Earl Hernsby’s household to await my coming of age to marry him. After he declined, I spent five years wondering who would have care of me next. Certainly not your kin! That was made clear at the outset. Then the king saw fit to bestow me and my holdings upon the Greycourts. This is my home now. Lord and Lady Greycourt were the saving of me, and John will come to love me, too, you will see.”

  Thomasine raised a perfectly arched brow. “Love you? What a foolish dreamer you are, Alys. Can you not see how he has avoided marriage to you all these years? Why do you think he never came home to claim you?”

  Trust Thomasine to raise the question that troubled Alys most.

  She turned away from her cousin and remained silent for a long while, thinking, intensifying her inspection of the table.

  “Forget anyone else. We must marry,” she said firmly, more to herself than to Thomasine. She carefully straightened a finger bowl, wishing she dared fling it against the wall. “No matter what has gone before or what might come next, the contract is made and the marriage required. There is no setting that aside.”

  “Since you truly wish out of it, something can be arranged,” a deep voice declared.

  Alys whirled around at the words. Thomasine had gone and in her place stood John, looking much more fit than he had earlier. In fact, he fair stole her breath away, he looked so fine.

  The bruises beneath his eyes were still there, but his gaze seemed clear and full of purpose. Someone, likely his squire, had trimmed his hair and shaved him. He smelled of sandalwood and cedar. She inhaled deeply, loving his scent, adoring him.

  This evening he wore his father’s colors of green and gold rather than Lancaster’s red and black. The clean, rich hues suited him well. His wide shoulders no longer slumped with fatigue or weakness and, apparently, he had arrived in the hall under his own strength. Squire Ferrell was nowhere to be seen.

  She pressed the bodice of her best blue silk kirtle with one hand to calm her racing heart and stretched her lips into a welcoming smile. “You are down early for supper, my lord.”

  “Yet here in good time to hear your lament,” he replied with a wry twist to his lips. “I will release you, Alys. It will be for the best.”

  She met his hard gaze with one of abject sympathy. “Oh no, my lord, do not even think it.”

  “Suppose I insist,” he said, his eyes straying idly to the table. He reached over and shifted the position of a goblet. “I do not want a wife who is reluctant.”

  “You shall not have one. I am more than willing. So were you when we stood here in this hall and pledged our faith,” she reminded him.

  He sighed loud and long, refusing to meet her gaze. “My ears still rang from the buffet declaring me a knight. I felt drunk with success and the prospect of going to war, and would have agreed to anything my father put forth to me that morn.” He finally met her eyes. “Even a weanling too little to wed.”

  “I see,” Alys said, concealing her heartbreak with a merry shrug. “And so you smiled upon a girl who would increase his wealth and provide him with companionship in your planned absence. I thank you for pleasing him then. You were a good son.”

  John stared at her. “Are you ever this damned forgiving? What does it take to raise your hackles, I wonder?”

  She held her smile in place, making sure that it reached her eyes. “More than you have dealt thus far. Never worry, John. I understand and I love you still.”

  “Love?” he repeated with a laugh, shaking his head. “God spare me, you are such a child!”

  Alys bit her bottom lip and refused to be drawn into an argument with him. His bitterness had a cause, but it would disperse when he felt better. He was not like this when he felt well and she knew it.

  After a few moments’ silence, he drew in a deep breath and turned the subject. “Come and sit with me awhile. We must talk.”

  “Aye, and plan our wedding,” she added.

  “Nay, not that.” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “I would speak of my parents. My mother…was her death a quick one?”

  Alys could not lie, even to save him pain. He would find solace in an untruth, but the lady had suffered too much for anyone to deny it. “No, John. She lingered nearly a year, abed and ailing. We kept her as comfortable as we could.”

  He nodded as he guided her to the cushioned settle beside the hearth. They sat together, his knee brushing her skirts. “For that I must thank you,” he said, staring into the fire.

  She could see moisture gathered in his eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper when next he spoke. “And what of my father?”

  She reached out and clutched his forearm, intending to comfort him, taking strength herself from the solid muscles beneath his sleeve. “His lordship seemed hale until he was taken from us one night in his sleep. His last words that evening at supper were of you, John, and how he prayed you were alive and safe. We had only just heard of your capture,” she informed him. “I suspect that did affect his heart.”

  Alys devoured him with her eyes, loving the fine
texture of his skin, the way his hair brushed his brow and curled at his neck. One graceful, long-fingered hand moved restlessly over the arm of the settle as if reclaiming the feel of the home he had missed. His other pressed flat upon his thigh, probably fighting an ache there. What had happened to him? Should she ask or wait until he told her of his own accord?

  He turned to her then, his gaze penetrating. “What of your heart, Alys? Why, with all that love you spoke of so recently, did you not think to ransom me?”

  Shocked into silence, she simply stared at him, aghast. How could he question her loyalty? He must know very well who had paid for his release. She could not help the delay in doing so.

  “Ransom was all I did think of from the moment I learned you were captured,” she told him, quivering with sudden anger as she stood. She dared not meet his eyes lest he see the ire he had raised in hers.

  “Ah,” he said, nodding. “But the thinking overtaxed you, did it?”

  Shocked, Alys could not think of a reply that would not involve a slap. “Excuse me,” she said, just managing to keep the brightness in her voice and her countenance bland. “I must go.” While gritting her teeth till they ached, she flashed what she hoped appeared as a smile.

  She fled quickly, uncertain she could contain herself any longer, though she knew she must make allowances for him.

  On first account, John was grieving and certainly was not himself after languishing at the hands of the Spanish. Also, even if he truly wanted out of their match for reasons she did not yet fathom, she could not afford to let him go. Hetherston was her home, his young brother, her responsibility, and her solemn promise to their mother remained unfulfilled.

  John’s anger vanished as quickly as Alys did. What brain maggot had urged him to say those things to her? He could not fault Alys for what others should have done. She said she had thought of ransom. Perhaps she had not known how to go about offering it.