L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  “As you say, milord.” Ruthlessly suppressing the urge to smile, she nodded and slipped past him toward the table. “Please, sirs, sit and be comfortable,” she said, motioning toward chairs on opposite sides of the long, narrow board. Lord Connor pulled out the stool at the end for her, and remained standing until she’d seated herself. Sir Ivor followed his example, surprising her. Not since before her husband’s mortal injury—when he was forced to take to his bed for his final, lingering illness—had his man honored her with the simplest of courtesies.

  Considering that Sir Ivor d’Athée prided himself on his fine manners and knightly ways, that lack had shown as clearly as any words he might have tossed her way what he thought of her.

  Perhaps he wasn’t bold enough to slight her in Lord Connor’s presence—not yet, at least.

  She slid a platter of meat toward Lord Connor. “I thought you might want a substantial meal to break your fast, milord. You must be hungry after your exertions this morning, especially since I doubt anyone thought to feed you and your men last night. Tis my province, and I know the maids were busy with me as well.” Her face heated with shame. “I trust that you were at least lodged comfortably.”

  She served them both and poured ale into their mugs, taking only a small portion of bread for herself. She’d eaten a hearty meal the night before—possibly too hearty. Perhaps she should blame the pains that had felled her on a surfeit of spiced frumenty, and not on the child.

  Once he’d cleared his trencher, Lord Connor pushed it away and poured himself more ale. “I’ve scant knowledge of your situation here. Rannulf explained the terms under which your husband, God rest him, held Gerald’s Keep for our family, but he could tell me little about the men who’ve caused you trouble.”

  Before Moira could answer, Sir Ivor made a sound of disgust and tossed a chicken bone onto his trencher. “The damned MacCarthys.” His hand shook when he reached for his drink. “Bloody Irish bastards, just like all their kind. Think they can just come along and steal away what an honest man labored hard to hold. Too lazy to work for what they want.” He looked at Moira, and it was a wonder the enmity in his gaze didn’t slay her where she sat. “But they’re not beyond using any weak slut they can find to get them what they’re after.” The hatred burning in his eyes held Moira motionless, stunned. “Isn’t that the way of it, milady?”

  Chapter Three

  Moira, shocked already by Sir Ivor’s words, gasped as Lord Connor rose and, reaching across the table, grabbed the knight by the front of his tunic with one hand and picked him up out of his chair. “How dare you?” he growled, holding the other man suspended with apparent ease. “You owe your lady an apology at once,” he said in a more temperate voice, though he tightened his grip and raised Sir Ivor higher still. “Though it could scarce make up for the offense.”

  She’d never seen Sir Ivor so pale, nor his manner shift from arrogant to obsequious so swiftly. “P-p-pardon, milord.” He squirmed, then stopped when it became clear that his efforts to free himself would accomplish naught. “My words were rash, ill-advised,” he mumbled, eyes lowered. “Forgive me, milady, I pray you.”

  “′Tisn’t much, but it’s a start.” Lord Connor opened his hand and let Sir Ivor drop into his chair with a thump. “What say you, Lady Moira?” he asked, straightening. “Is his apology—such as it was—acceptable to you?”

  The sight of Sir Ivor so easily routed gave her great satisfaction, a pleasure difficult to suppress. But she tore her gaze from the man nigh cowering in his seat to focus on the warrior who had so swiftly and effectively subdued him. Lord Connor stood tall and relaxed by his chair, neither his stance or expression betraying the slightest hint of anger or impatience. He’d been angry—nay, more than that, he’d been enraged—scarce a moment before. How had he changed so swiftly, hidden his emotions with such ease?

  She had never known a man who could do so. She turned her attention to picking up her cup, sipping at the ale while she considered this strange turn.

  How would she manage herself in Lord Connor’s presence if she had no notion how to read him, how to react according to his moods?

  She’d worries enough already without having to contend with that as well.

  “Milady?” Glancing up, she saw that he stood ready to reach for Sir Ivor again.

  “I beg your pardon, milord. Aye, ′tis acceptable.” She braced her hands on the edge of the table and levered herself up from her seat. “I should not have called for this meeting so soon. I know we must discuss our situation, but I fear I’ve not yet recovered from last night, and must seek my bed for a little longer,” she told him, cringing inside at the thought of beating so cowardly a retreat—and lying in the bargain. But she simply could not face more problems, more questions—not now. “Please stay, finish your meal. Perhaps once I’ve rested . . . ”

  Though she kept her gaze lowered, she dared to peer at him through her lashes. He believed her falsehood, it seemed, for he nodded, the concern in his eyes making her feel more ashamed of her deception. “Shall I send for your maid?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nay, milord. I can manage.” She crossed to the door leading to her bedchamber.

  “Lady Moira.” Lord Connor’s voice stopped her with her hand on the latch. “Send for me as soon as you’re feeling better. We’ve much left to resolve here, and we cannot delay for long.”

  She glanced back at him. He’d moved to stand at the head of the table; though his attention appeared fixed upon her, she could see that he’d not abandoned his vigilance over Sir Ivor, who still sat crumpled in his chair. “Of course, milord.” His sympathetic gaze made her want to squirm with guilt. But when she looked past him and caught a glimpse of the hatred still burning in Sir Ivor’s eyes, a chill skittered over her spine to lodge, heavy and frightening, deep within her belly.

  Refusing to back down beneath the force of his rancor, she met his gaze until he looked away. But she knew his submission was only temporary. She dared not permit Sir Ivor to have his say before she had her own chance to tell Lord Connor the details of what had brought them to this position.

  No matter how painful the telling.

  One hand resting upon her child for reassurance, she slowly turned and made her way back to the table. “We’ve waited long enough already, though I know you came to us as quickly as you could,” she said. Lord Connor took her hand to steady her as she lowered her bulk back onto the stool, gifting her with a nod of approval. “I’ll not be responsible for delaying things any further now that you’re here.”

  “I thank you.” He resumed his place across from Sir Ivor, though he remained standing. “But first I must finish this ‘discussion.’ ” He rested his hands on the table, leaning toward Sir Ivor. “Let me warn you now, d’Athée, you’d best guard your tongue in your lady’s presence. Should you ever again choose to deride those with Irish blood flowing in their veins, within my presence or without, be certain I shall hear of it.

  “And you will feel the bite of my anger yet again.” Lord Connor picked up his goblet and drained it. “′Tis a wise man who keeps his silence when he’s wandered into unfamiliar territory,” he remarked. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived here so long, given your opinion of your companions. Unfortunately for you, sirrah, you’ve exposed your ignorance one too many times in my presence.” His even gaze appeared to weigh the other man and find him wanting. “You’ll pay for your insolence soon enough.”

  “My lord?” Sir Ivor rose slowly to his feet, staring up at Lord Connor, his eyes stark with fear.

  Lord Connor’s smile held not a jot of humor that Moira could see. “Your error was greater than you intended, I’m sure. You not only cast grievous insult on your lord’s wife, but also upon myself. My mother is Irish, Sir Ivor,” he said smoothly. “Gerald’s Keep was one of her dower lands.” The scar on his cheek stood out, stark and pale, against his tanned skin. “I will permit no one to insult my mother, in any way. Ever.”

  Sir Ivor’
s mouth moved, but made no sound. Moira felt not a whit of pity for the man—indeed, the pleasure that filled her as she witnessed his well-deserved comeuppance did her no credit, but was enjoyable nonetheless. She’d suffered more than enough of his sly insinuations, his veiled comments outside her husband’s presence.

  And since Lord Brien’s injury and fingering illness, Sir Ivor had become nigh unbearable.

  Perhaps she’d gained a champion in Lord Connor …

  Nay! She’d let no man stand between her and any threat.

  Never again.

  Lord Connor rose, crossed the room and opened the door, calling to a maid sweeping the corridor. “Send a manservant to the barracks to bring my lieutenant, Will, to me at once,” he told her. Bobbing a curtsy, she left to do as he bid.

  Leaving the door ajar, he rejoined them at the table. “I believe we’ll accomplish more, milady, without d’Athée here to distract us.”

  “Milord!” Sir Ivor cried. Color flooding his face, he leaped to his feet and pounded his fist on the table. “She knows nothing of our defenses, nor of what we’ve already done. Surely my assessment is necessary for you to determine your course of action.”

  “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” Lord Connor told him in a cold voice. “For the nonce, you may go with Will when he arrives, and you’ll do as he commands. You are no longer in charge of the defenses of this keep, nor have you any authority unless I choose to allow it.” The sound of footsteps on the stairs was followed by a rapping at the door. “Enter.”

  A tall young man wearing a man-at-arm’s rough garb—but the sword and spurs of a knight, as well—came in, closing the door behind him. “Milord,” he said, but he bowed to Moira.

  “Milady, this is Sir William Bowman, one of my brother Rannulf s most trusted men,” Lord Connor said. “Will, this is Lady Moira, Lord Brien’s widow, whom we have come here to serve.”

  Sir William bowed again, deeper this time. “My lady, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Moira nodded in acknowledgment and tried to observe him without being obvious about it. He neither sounded like nor had the look of a common soldier, and ′twas clear the FitzCliffords trusted him. His bearing held a confidence she hadn’t expected to see, and something about his face, his eyes, made her think him a man used to laughing.

  Lord Connor moved to stand behind Moira’s chair, frustrating her efforts to watch both men, to study them. “Will, take Sir Ivor out with you to the bailey. He will help you drill the foot soldiers we brought from l’Eau Clair, along with those of Gerald’s Keep. Mayhap a morning’s hard labor will teach him something, though I doubt it.”

  Sir William eyed Sir Ivor, who was standing by the table, his face twisted into its usual near grimace, more closely. “′Twill be my pleasure,” he said, smiling. “We’ll whip our men into shape in no time, Sir Ivor, I have no doubt. I’ve already heard rum—” He cleared his throat, blue eyes bright with humor. “Beg pardon—tales of your training methods. Why, your name comes up in nearly every conversation with the men here. ′Twill be an education to watch you at work.”

  “Indeed.” Sir Ivor looked as though he didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended by what Sir William said, but he had no chance to mull it over.

  “Well then, best get to it,” Sir William said, his smile widening to a grin. He stood aside to allow Sir Ivor to precede him out the door. “By your leave, milady.” He bowed to Moira again. “Milord.”

  “I’ll expect a report from you at dinner, Will,” Lord Connor said. “See that you’ve something positive to report—and that you make Sir Ivor work for his keep.”

  “′Twill be my pleasure, milord,” Sir William said, laughing as he pulled the door shut behind him.

  Connor watched Will leave and resisted the urge to join his laughter. As he’d learned almost as soon as Rannulf had put the new knight under his command, the rogue had an uncanny ability to understand exactly what Connor had in mind. Connor enjoyed outsmarting Will, for it happened so seldom.

  But Lady Moira would likely think him a lunatic should he burst into laughter now. Not to mention the fact that, other than Will’s japes, he’d heard nothing since his arrival at Gerald’s Keep to inspire merriment.

  She sat huddled on her seat, gaze lowered. He’d noticed that she seldom looked at him—or the other men, for that matter—directly. He’d felt her eyes upon him several times since he’d entered this chamber, but surreptitiously, as though she didn’t want to be caught at it.

  As he’d felt her watching him earlier, when he’d been immersed in his morning ritual.

  “Lady Moira.”

  “Milord?” Her glance rose no higher than the middle of his chest, and the way she remained curled upon the low stool made him believe she’d be happy if she could escape him altogether.

  Did she fear him?

  The possibility hadn’t occurred to him before now. He’d brought her the aid she’d asked for, had come to protect her, her unborn child and her people from their enemies. Last night she’d sounded glad of his arrival.

  But his reaction to d’Athée might have frightened her. It had been swift—though not excessive, in his estimation. Indeed, given the provocation—the insult to her—he thought he’d kept his temper well in hand, though the fire of it still burned through his veins.

  He returned to the table and pulled out his chair, watching Lady Moira as he did so. She turned toward him, but still did not really look at him. “Would you rather I call for your maid?” he asked. He pushed in the chair and rested his hands atop the high, carved back. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, and I can see that something about me does.”

  She drew in a deep breath and released it in a sigh. “It’s not you, milord,” she said, though as he watched her face—what he could see of it—he didn’t believe her. “′Tis this place. I need to get outside, I think, away from these rooms.” She looked up at him, surprising him. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  The turmoil and pain he saw in her deep blue eyes would have made him agree to far more than her simple request, had she asked for more. The power of his reaction, so foreign and unexpected, nigh stopped his mind from forming any reply at all.

  She looked away, turning in upon herself. “It matters naught,” she said, her voice quiet, flat.

  He reached out and covered her hand with his, gently holding hers captive when she tried to slide it free. “Nay, milady. How can I deny so simple a request?” He could see that his touch disturbed her, so he moved his hand away. “We cannot leave the walls, but we could go outside, if you desire.”

  Slowly, like a blossom opening, she faced him again and met his gaze, her cheeks faintly tinged with color. “I would like that, milord. First, I could take you to the parapet, where I can show you how we’ve managed to cultivate the fields this year. Then afterward, if you wish, there’s a place on the headland where we could go to talk. The wind there blows away all the cares of the world. I’ve not been there since . . . ” She closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed and opened them. “In a very long time.”

  “Agreed. You will show me the fields, and then we shall go to the cliffs.” He hurried to help her as she pushed back her seat and rose. “As long as it’s not too far for you to walk.”

  “If you don’t mind helping me over the rough ground, I should have no trouble,” she said, moving away from his touch as soon as she’d found her balance. Despite her words, he doubted she’d ask him for help unless the terrain proved impossible to traverse.

  In which case they’d not chance it, for he had no intention of causing her child—Lord Brien’s heir—the slightest risk.

  Chapter Four

  Connor scanned the area close to the castle’s outer ward, where a small group of crofters, under the protection of several burly, well-armed guards, toiled in the fields. Many of the peasants had sought sanctuary within the walls of the keep in the months leading up to Lord Brien’s death, having been the victims of
fast, devastating raids on their meager holdings. The result had been that Gerald’s Keep had more people to support, and scant means to do so. Lady Moira and the priest, Father Thomas, had worked with Sir Ivor to devise the present system, whereby some fields could be cultivated and the workers kept safe.

  They mounted a guard over the fields at night, as well, though there had been no attempts to destroy them.

  “We cannot risk losing the grain and foodstuffs planted there,” Lady Moira explained. “Our resources are stretched thin now. This way, we’re doing everything possible to provide for everyone, while giving the crofters a chance to earn their keep.”

  Connor couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d expected to find a castle under siege, which evidently was not the case. But they’d apparently been under attack on occasion, enough so that they must remain alert and prepared for every eventuality.

  Lady Moira led the way back through the keep itself and out a postern gate to what amounted to a rough swatch of pasture land. It rose away from the keep toward the sea, providing grazing for cattle and a small flock of sheep.

  A maze of paths meandered through the coarse tussocks of grass, from the gate to where the land dropped away in a steep, rocky cliff. “′Tis dangerous to climb down the hillside,” she told him as they followed a well-worn trail, moving slowly in deference to her condition. “It is nigh impossible to gauge where to go, for much of the rock is loose, and will fall away with the slightest touch.”

  “Yet ′tis clear that someone comes out here,” he said, indicating the paths.

  “Aye, the lads who tend the animals. And ′tis a popular place to escape the confines of the hall and bailey in safety.” She slowed to negotiate a patch strewn with sharp stones, then stopped in the midst of it when her foot slipped. He grabbed her arm and steadied her. “I should have tried going around.” She scanned the area. “Though I doubt it would have mattered.”

  She looked so forlorn, so pale and weary, that he scooped her into his arms and continued along the route before she could protest. “You allowed me to carry you last night,” he said, halting the words she so clearly wished to voice. “I’ll set you down as soon as we reach the end of the path, I promise you.”