by Shari Anton
Where outsiders tended either to ignore or pointedly shun the disfigured maid, Timothy made himself both available and agreeable, a tribute to whomever had a hand in shaping his deportment. Roland? Not likely. Probably a woman.
The always mannerly squire sketched her a bow. “You must come up, my lady, bid his lordship Godspeed.”
She absorbed his words, but not quite his meaning. “His lordship?”
“William, earl of Kenworth, is readying to depart. ’Twould be a sight worth seeing, methinks.”
“Now?”
“If you do not hurry you will miss it.”
Eloise shoved the torch into her guard’s hands and took the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. She sped through the hallways until she reached the great hall. Deserted, except for Isolde, who shuffled toward her.
“Did ye hear, milady? The earl departs.”
“So Timothy told me. Has he gone already?”
“Might be. All I know is everyone headed for the gates. Ye had best hurry if you wish to watch him go.”
Hurry Eloise did, making her way downhill through the inner bailey until she passed into the outer. From the high vantage point she saw the crowd surrounding the earl, his knights, their squires and horses, the carts loaded down with belongings.
She caught a glimpse of Brother Walter, seated on one of the carts already headed toward the rising portcullis. How lovely that the earl took his spy with him.
Oh, glorious day!
But as she rushed forward, gained ground on her destination, she wondered why everyone didn’t share her joy. The crowd was eerily quiet, the only noise that of the departing retinue.
Simon and Marcus scowled. Even Roland looked grim.
She’d allowed her elation to overshadow her common sense, so happy Kenworth was leaving she hadn’t given a thought to why.
Had her father been captured?
Dread clutched her innards. Slowing her pace, she looked for signs of her father’s presence, or Edgar’s. Seeing neither, her dread eased, until she realized that, perhaps, the earl held both in the field beyond the gate.
She eased into the small space between Marcus and Simon, neither man so much as acknowledging her presence, both too intent on Kenworth as he swung up into the saddle. From that great height the earl peered down at Roland.
“ ’Tis my fondest wish my first message to you is of our success. If our prey eludes us, then ’twill inform you of my whereabouts should the traitor be so foolish as to return here.”
Eloise’s knees went weak. Her father hadn’t yet been captured.
“Godspeed, my lord,” Roland uttered.
Without further comment, Kenworth wheeled his horse and made for the gate, his knights following suit, raising a cloud of dust as the company picked up speed.
Eloise tugged on Marcus’s sleeve. “What happened?”
“The trackers found what they believe is Sir John’s trail. The earl has decided to follow it.”
“Are the trackers right?”
Marcus sighed. “Likely.”
Eloise fought the urge to call to the earl, invite him back into the keep, and lavish him with whatever attention he required to keep him contentedly lounging by the hearth. A foolish thought. He’d laugh in her face.
Simon huffed. “If the trail is so clear, then Sir John wanted Kenworth to follow. I would not despair of his lordship’s fate yet, my lady.”
“Nor should she hold false hope for his freedom,” Roland said. “Sir John will eventually have to answer to the charge of treason, whether he is taken prisoner by the earl or whether he turns himself in on his own terms.”
Heart heavy, Eloise left the men behind and made her way to the tower stairs and up to the wall walk.
A crisp wind tugged at her garments and blew her veil around, impeding her view of the fields surrounding the castle. She wrapped the sheer white silk around her neck, leaned against the cold, thick stone, and watched the last of Kenworth’s knights cross the drawbridge.
Good riddance to them all.
Yet, ’twas such a helpless feeling, knowing her father was out there somewhere and naught she could do might help him. She’d felt a shadow of despair from the moment he’d left her alone and frightened in his accounting room. She’d fought it as best she knew how, tried to banish it with anger.
Now the shadow loomed as an insurmountable wall she could neither batter down nor go around. Tears welled up. She didn’t stop them from falling, couldn’t have if she tried.
“Godspeed, Father,” she whispered, wishing beyond reason he could somehow hear.
He couldn’t, of course. Too far away. Too involved in his problems to hear a daughter’s voice or heed her worries.
Heavy boots pounding on stone steps alerted her to an intruder. With the heel of her hand she wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
To her dismay, Roland appeared at the top of the stairs.
What did the man want of her now? She wanted to rail at him, send him away with the earl. Except she couldn’t trust her voice not to break or her tears not to flow again. Besides, he rarely listened to her anyway.
He might not listen well, but he always seemed to be near during her worst emotional upheavals. Did he sense she’d come up here to be alone until she could control her heartache? Could he know that with the slightest invitation she’d curl into him, cling and cry like a babe? She dared not. ’Twould give him too much advantage, especially now that he had sole rule over Lelleford.
One did not give ground to the enemy.
Unfortunately, thinking of Roland as the enemy became harder each day. She hated his control over her home, but the man, the knight whose power didn’t diminish a whit when he chose to be gentle, intrigued her.
He gave her a slight, beguiling smile before he leaned on the wall beside her, their shoulders nearly touching, and bent forward to observe the men-at-arms break camp.
Roland’s sheer bulk blocked the bite of the wind, easing the chill, performing a service she doubted he meant to perform. As long as he’d ruined her solitude, she felt no guilt over taking advantage of the bit of shelter he provided.
Below, men scurried to stow their belongings and tents, take up their arms, and form into marching order. So many men were required to accompany one earl, to capture one man, and they hadn’t yet succeeded. Praise be the crops had all been harvested. The field used for the small army’s camping ground was now a quagmire.
With the earl at the head, the front of the column began to move like a long, dark snake slithering through the fields—in the opposite direction than she’d expected.
“They go north?”
“Sir John’s tracks lead north, to the river and beyond. One of Kenworth’s knights suggested he may be headed for Scotland.”
Eloise tamped down a twinge of panic. “That is absurd.”
He took a long breath, as if summoning patience. “I did not say he does, only that some believe he seeks the protection of a laird. Eloise, no matter what your father’s intentions, there is naught we can do to either help or hinder.”
So she’d already surmised.
The last of the line rumbled forward, a dozen or more carts loaded down with baggage and provisions. In one of the carts sat Brother Walter, his hooded brown cloak wrapped tightly around him against the chill. She’d never seen a more forlorn figure, but she couldn’t deny she was happy to see him go.
“I suppose I should be upset that the earl takes his spy with him. Now we shall never know his secrets. Had I known the full measure of his treachery that first morn, I swear, I would have allowed Marcus to hold a sword to his throat to force him to speak.”
“I heard you found him wounded on the accounting-room floor, bleeding and confused.”
She was sure her father and the monk had exchanged harsh words, that perhaps during the argument her father had shoved the monk into the desk, even though the cleric assured her his own clumsiness was at fault.
“He refused to tell m
e how he was injured, refused to reveal what he knew of my father’s disappearance. I should have insisted.” But she hadn’t, and then Kenworth arrived, and between the monk making a dolt of himself and then being ensconced with the earl, she’d barely seen him since.
“He wanted to speak with you before he left. The earl would not allow it. I wonder what changed the monk’s mind.”
She had no notion. “Did the two of them find anything of import in the accounting room?”
“I have my doubts. ’Twouldn’t be like the earl not to gloat if they had.”
A small comfort.
“Perhaps there was nothing to find.”
Kenworth entered the northern woodlands, and the thick forest soon swallowed him up. Gone. Finally gone. At the edge of her awareness, she heard the squeal of the drawbridge being raised, the portcullis lowered.
Roland backed up half a step, allowing the wind to bite her while he turned to face her. He leaned his hip against the wall, his expression thoughtful. Then he grasped her hand and ran his thumb across the knuckles to brush away a smudge of dirt. The tenderness of the gesture plucked a sweet chord that sang to her soul.
“Timothy tells me he found you in the dungeon. A wretched place for a high born lady to roam. To what purpose?”
She couldn’t tell him what she searched for. “Merely an inspection.”
He smiled at that. “So said your guard. I do not think he believed you either. You searched for a hidden passage, did you not?”
How irritating that he guessed her purpose. Reminded of her embarrassment and fright in that horrible place, she answered with silence.
“So I thought.” His grip on her hand tightened. “Eloise, you are not the only one who wondered how your father’s message was delivered. I know what you were looking for because Marcus and I have searched the keep and walls stone by stone, even the dungeon, and found nothing.”
Damn.
“If there is no secret passage, then how?”
“I know not. ’Tis yet a puzzle. Perhaps if we all put our minds to it we can solve it. None of us likes the idea of someone being able to secretly gain entrance.”
He again grazed her knuckles with his thumb, an absent, possessive gesture, as if he had the right with no one to gainsay him. She should pull away, put some space between them, for with Kenworth gone Roland was now completely in charge.
Would he prove fair and honorable in carrying out his responsibility? Or would he choose to wield his power forcefully, holding a giant hammer over their heads?
Everyone at Lelleford seemed willing to accept Roland’s rule over the holding. Simon and Marcus considered him fair and just. She might balk at the breadth of his authority, but she wanted more of the man.
This attraction to Roland was inexcusable. Yet she reveled in the sensation of her hand cradled in his, yearned to explore the depths of the allure further.
The longer he stayed, the more opportunity to make a fool of herself, or worse. If she followed her impulses, she betrayed her father’s trust.
She pulled her hand from his, the warmth immediately giving way to the cold. The shadow threatened to swamp her again. With a will her father would be proud of, she turned her thoughts outward.
“The villagers will be glad to see the gates open again. As soon as they realize the earl has fled, they will flock to the bailey to learn all the news.”
“Their curiosity must wait. The gates remain closed for at least two days. ’Twould not do to have one of the knights ride out to overtake and warn your father.”
Eloise gritted her teeth. With the earl’s leaving, she’d expected a taste of freedom. So quickly Roland had snatched the morsel away.
“So we are still prisoners.”
“Two days, Eloise. Surely you can endure for two days.”
Chapter Eight
ROLAND THOUGHT it a mean twist of fate that on this third morning after Kenworth’s departure, the day dawned with the threat of a downpour. Eloise paced in front of the hearth, her cloak at the ready, eager for release.
She hadn’t endured the extended confinement well, not even when he’d given her full freedom of the castle with no guard on her heels.
If only it was the weather that forced him to postpone Eloise’s ride to the village. Perhaps then she might not be hurling bolts of lightning his way.
Roland tossed back a chunk of bread and tried to concentrate on his morning meal, not watching Eloise stew.
Impossible. The woman was magnificent in her pique—mouth pinched, hands clasped behind her back, her impatient strides long and graceful.
She shot him another scathing bolt, singeing him clear through. ’Twas all he could do to not squirm in his seat.
“This is absurd, Roland. I assure you there is not a band of ruffians anywhere near Lelleford. No scoundrel would dare intrude on my father’s lands.”
Judging by what he knew of Sir John Hamelin’s fervor in protecting his holding, she was probably right. The area was regularly patrolled and villains dealt with in swift, harsh fashion. Roland intended to carry on in the same mien.
“The patrols should return soon, and the moment Simon and Marcus assure me no bandits lurk on the road, you can go.”
“How much longer might that be?”
“However long it takes.”
She aimed for a stool near the hearth and sat down with a huff. “If they do not hurry, I shall have to worry more about being drenched than attacked.”
“Then perhaps you should delay your trip to the village until after the rain has ended.”
The suggestion earned him a baleful look.
Roland gathered his patience. “The village will be there this noon as well.”
“Aye, it will. But the villagers have been denied entry to the keep for several days. That has never happened before, and I am sure some of them suffered hardships, or are frightened. They depend upon us for protection and in some cases for their livelihood. ’Tis best I show myself as soon as is possible, reassure them their well-being will not be adversely affected by my father’s troubles.”
Roland knew Marcus intended to ride through the village, a sign to all that despite their lord’s troubles, life would return to near normalcy. He also knew that a visit from their lord’s daughter would do wonders to calm the peasants’ unease.
Still, he knew better than to think her haste completely due to her concern for the villagers.
“You also itch to get back on a horse.”
“Certes. I like to ride as much as you do.”
They’d discovered the common delight in the days before Hugh’s death. Roland remembered seeing Eloise go into the stable, and thinking it a good time to get to know his brother’s bride better, he’d followed her inside.
They’d traded tales of enjoyable hunts, of near misses when jumping logs and long rides on peaceful paths. He went in curious and came out enchanted—and absolutely sure Eloise Hamelin an unsuitable wife for his meek half brother.
He now wished, for several reasons, he’d kept his curiosity to himself, never come to know the woman nor decided to make his observation known to Hugh.
“Do you still ride the chestnut mare?”
Her expression softened slightly. “Aye. Despite her age she is yet eager for a brisk ride, though of necessity not as fast and shorter than of old. And you, the black stallion?”
“Not the same one. He fell in Scotland.”
“Oh, how sad. In battle?”
“Aye. Valiant to the end.”
Roland had mourned the loss of a wondrous horse, but admitted the loss softened by the steed’s replacement. A magnificent young black with impeccable bloodlines and impressive stamina. A gift from a grateful king.
Timothy leaned over Roland’s shoulder to pour more ale into the goblet. “More bread or cheese, milord?”
“Nay, nothing more.” “If you have no further need of me, I am off to the practice yard.”
As far as Roland knew, most of the knights an
d squires were out roaming the countryside, ensuring Lelleford’s security.
“Against whom do you practice?”
“Until the others return, I will content myself with quintain and lance.”
Roland thought it odd his squire would take to the yard alone to challenge the quintain, but wouldn’t question the lad’s diligence in honing a skill at which he was becoming quite proficient.
“Go then. Keep the point up.”
A smile spread across the squire’s face. “I shall strive to keep my seat, too. By your leave, milord.”
Timothy left, and Roland noted that the hall was beginning to empty. Most of the castle folk had finished with their meal and were setting about their daily tasks.
Roland wished he had set tasks to perform.
As he’d hoped everyone fell back into their daily habits with little fuss and no direction needed on his part. That was good.
Except their self-reliance also spawned boredom, which made him restless. Not overly, but there were times he hunted up tasks to keep himself busy—so he wouldn’t be tempted to happen across Eloise’s path, just to see where she was and what she was doing. So he wouldn’t ask her some inane question just to hear the sound of her voice.
Perhaps he should join Timothy in the tiltyard.
The opening door spared him the decision. Simon walked in, removing his mist-sheened cloak.
Eloise immediately rose. “What news?”
The steward bowed slightly. “We seem to have weathered the upheaval in good order, my lady. We found nothing out of the ordinary. I expect Marcus will report the same.”
She spun to face Roland. “Now may I go?”
He shook his head. “Marcus searches the area around the village. We await his report.”
Flinging her hands in the air, she rolled her eyes and plopped back down on the stool, her exasperation acute.
He tried not to smile, noticed Simon doing the same.
’Twasn’t odd, he supposed, that on occasion Simon and Marcus reacted to some comment or action of Eloise’s like tolerant uncles. They adored her, would protect her with their lives without any order or hesitation. Eloise returned their devotion, turning to them for advice, seeking their company of an eve.