The Bride Gift

by Sarah Hegger

  “You and Guy are twins?” Helena lowered her needlework to stare at him.

  “Aye, you can barely tell us apart.”

  Helena laughed and his smile broadened. “I was a great disappointment to our father, a sickly child without the strength to raise a sword. Our father was determined Guy would not be as I am. He tried to beat any trace of me out of Guy from the first moment he noticed the differences betwixt us.”

  She lost any desire to laugh. Guy seemed such an impregnable tower of strength. It was hard to think of him at the mercy of someone bigger. She leaned forward, her attention caught. Here were answers to her many questions. She would, for certain, not hear them from Guy. He parcelled out words like a miser with his coins.

  “Guy shielded me,” Crispin explained. “He took the brunt for both of us. He always said it was because he was the stronger one and it was something he could do.” He quirked a brow at her. “You are wondering why I am telling you this.” He smiled when her face heated guiltily. “I tell you because Guy is always one to protect those whom he cares about. Rosalind found herself in difficulty and Guy took her under his wing. He spent his childhood shielding a weaker brother. What more would he do for a woman he loved?”

  He climbed gracefully to his feet. “Think on it, my lady.”

  “You are a sly one,” she rejoined tartly.

  He gave a shout of laughter and turned to look at her. “Aye, we have to be, those of us who lack the brute strength to make our presence felt. Do we not, my lady?”

  Helena opened her mouth and shut it again. He understood, this brother of Guy’s.

  “There you are at last.” The voice held a sweet trill.

  Rosalind. Just what her day needed to make it perfect.

  “Good morrow.” Lady Rosalind seemed to have many faces. The one she was wearing this morning was as blameless as an infant.

  “You have been introduced to Lady Rosalind?” Crispin smoothed over the awkwardness.

  “Oh, Helena and I have moved beyond the ‘lady’ status.” The dark beauty beamed. “It seems rather silly, considering.”

  “Can I do aught for you, Rosalind?” Helena cast her attention to the stitchery she still held.

  “I meant to ask, Helena.” Rosalind’s dimples flashed, and Helena had no doubt that since infancy, the woman charmed men of every age with that look. “I dabble in herbs and healing.” She made a dismissive little gesture with her hands. “Do you have an herb garden? Mayhap a good spot about for harvesting?”

  Rosalind hardly seemed the sort to dabble in healing. Poisons, possibly, but herbs that soothed and mended? She couldn’t see it.

  “Rosalind is very adept with her tisanes and herbals,” Crispin noted.

  Helena struggled to keep the surprise from her expression.

  “How is your cheek?” Rosalind asked innocently.

  “Bridget can tell you where the best places are to gather plants and there is a small herb garden beside the kitchen garden,” she finally offered.

  “Wonderful.” Rosalind bestowed another of her glittering smiles. “As my time draws near, I find I must collect what I will need.”

  “When is your time?” When that baby was strong enough to travel, Helena would enjoy shutting Lystanwold’s gates behind Lady Rosalind. She might even work the winch herself.

  “Not long now.” Rosalind gave her belly a proprietary stroke. “Babies do not bother to divulge anything more exact than that. My last was late and the one before a trifle early.” She shrugged helplessly. “Who can tell but the babe?”

  “Excuse me.” Crispin turned on his heel sharply.

  “All this discussion of children giving you discomfort, Father?” Rosalind asked with a sweetness that made Helena cringe.

  “Nay.” Crispin’s face was carefully devoid of expression. “But I find myself needing to breathe the fresh air outside the keep. The air in here grows tired and stale.”

  Chapter 14

  Ranulf’s hand connected with a satisfying crack against the side of the serf’s head. The man grimaced and waited for the next blow. This time Ranulf drew blood as the man’s lip split under the force of his fist.

  He hadn’t expected this. It wasn’t in the plan. Ranulf spun away from the cringing churl of a messenger and paced the length of the hall. Serving drudges leapt out of the way with the deftness of long practice.

  Stephen, the usurping bastard, had betrayed him.

  His actions at Malmesbury should have bought him more loyalty. They had not won the day against Empress Maude’s forces, led by her whelp, Henry. The king had returned to London with his tail betwixt his legs, but Ranulf had thrown good men at Malmesbury’s walls and good men were hard to come by.

  Stephen had no loyalty and for him, Ranulf had damaged his standing with that stupid bitch, Maude. Not a reply to his missive, not even an explanation, just the sudden, inexplicable appearance of Guy of Helston.

  Now the king was journeying to Lystanwold to bless this accursed union. The earldom was sure to follow. Ranulf had spent his adult life with that earldom as his prize. The skin about his face tightened to think on it.

  Roger was behind this. Always Roger, standing betwixt him and what he wanted. Even in exile, the man threw his long arm over his niece.

  Ranulf spun back to vent his anger on the messenger, but the man was already gone. Left without a convenient target, he grabbed the edge of a trestle table and hurled it across the hall. It went over with a tremendous clatter and the crack of breaking wood. It did nothing to appease Ranulf’s growing rage.

  “She is mine!” he bellowed to the hall at large. People scurried to get out of his sight. “Mine!” he roared at the vaulted ceiling.

  Sir Guy at Lystanwold, taking possession of Ranulf’s castle, sitting on Ranulf’s chair before the hearth, eating Ranulf’s food and swiving Ranulf’s woman . . . The picture rose up in his mind to infuriate him further. Helena with her thighs splayed like a whore, her breasts bouncing as that sod drove his rod into her again and again.

  The rage rose bilious in his throat until it choked him. He had waited all this time for her. He had asked for her years ago, but instead been given Bess in her stead. Helena was too valuable a piece to pledge to Ranulf of Dartmoore. So, he played the humble vassal. It had all gone well until Bess, the mewling bitch, had died.

  Even then, he had not despaired. Roger would not live forever and Helena would be vulnerable once he was gone. And Colin? Helena thought to marry that weakling. Ranulf sneered and shoved a bench out of his way. It scraped across the floor to crash and splinter against the wall.

  Then, his chance had come. Roger was gone and Ranulf had received a warm welcome from the king.

  Now, Guy of Helston had arrived to take what was Ranulf’s. The rage seared through his vitals.

  Sweet Jesu, Lystanwold. So fertile and so rich and carrying the title of earl to whomever was man enough to take her.

  The air choked within his chest until Ranulf could no longer breathe. He tore his tunic away from his neck as he strode from the hall, his heels echoing against the stone. For years he had writhed on his knees before Lystanwold, sworn his fealty, promised his life and his soul, all with the earldom in sight. It had been so close.

  Ranulf threw back his head and bellowed anew. The sound reverberated through the stairwell. He could all but feel the mantle of earl about his shoulders. Stephen had promised him as much. Anything, the lying whoreson had said, any way to repay his act of service. This, then, was his payment.

  Betrayal was bitter as ashes in his mouth. If he could make it so, Stephen would die for this. Guy would die for this, too.

  And Helena. Bitch.

  Ranulf pressed his fists to his eyes to block out the picture of the rutting pig on top of her. That untouched cunt was his for the taking
and Guy would pay most dearly for his pernicious thievery.

  The inner bailey was deserted. Cowards, all of them. Running and hiding because they feared his wrath. He stalked to the practice fields. The quintain hung low in his path, hovering like a mocking face. Ranulf punched at it. It swung, but he ducked and hit it again. The pain was sweet and he raised his fist, the contact of his knuckles against the wood feeding his rage. He hit it again and again.

  Ranulf poured his anger into it. He kept pounding the quintain until the sweat streamed from him and the pain in his hand brought him to a stop.

  His knuckles were split and swollen. Blood covered his fist where bone had broken through the skin. The pain was good. He revelled in the fiery ache that spread up from his injured hand through his body. The pain was his strength.

  Ranulf lifted his fist and hit the quintain again.

  Agony exploded up his arm and almost brought him to his knees. He loved it. He rose and struck again. He was tired and this time he didn’t duck fast enough. The quintain swung about and hit him from behind. If he had been mounted, it would have been a body blow. As it was, it connected hard to the back of his head.

  The merciful black came up to surround him.

  His body crumpled, Ranulf lay in the soft sand around the quintain, blood seeping from the mess he’d made of his hand and staining the ground.

  None approached him to assist.

  “Is he out?” the messenger who had brought the news asked. He touched his bleeding mouth. He had escaped lightly, all things considered. He would do well to make himself scarce for the next few days.

  “Mayhap.” A large woman peered up from her laundry at the broken figure lying in the practice yards. “Will he challenge Sir Guy?”

  The messenger made a rude noise. “Do not be daft, woman. Nobody openly challenges Guy of Helston. He is too cunning for that.” He jerked his chin in Ranulf’s direction. “But if we get lucky, this one will anger Guy enough to get himself gutted like a pig.”

  Chapter 15

  Dawn was just breaking as Guy and his men returned to Lystanwold. He let his tired horse pick its own pace through the forest. Behind him, his men moved stealthily, barely disturbing the undergrowth with their passage. They’d spent three cold, uncomfortable nights in the forest. He was getting soft as Crispin. It wasn’t so long ago, this was his life. A few weeks living the comforts of the keep and already he looked forward to his warm bed. And the warmer woman in it.

  Sweet Jesu. The wanting of her was riding him hard. He might burst from the gnawing ache in his braies, but he’d made up his mind to go carefully, to woo his lady with gentle kisses and soft touches, the very model of restraint. Which wasn’t easy when starting the day with a swollen rod and spending the remainder on the back of a horse with an itch like a lad of sixteen.

  He thought he might have surrendered, and happily, to his lust in the midst of her ‘attending’ him. It had taken all he had to keep his mind off the touch of her hands and focus, instead, on the keen workings of her agile mind. He had no doubt she would run him in circles if he allowed it.

  As for the following morning . . . Verily, there was only so much temptation a man could bear.

  To add to his annoyance, the search had left him frustrated and no clearer as to the identity of the strangers. He didn’t like it. Ewayne had been right to alert him to their presence. Bands of armed men moving about with stealth didn’t augur well in these times. Ambitious men, like Ranulf, grew restless as the king’s attention stayed on his constant battle with Empress Maude.

  Guy had spent most of his life at war. Lystanwold offered him a reprieve sorely longed for. He would fight to keep her.

  They’d found small remnants of a camp, of a certainty the same party from before. The pattern of their camp, however faint, was as distinctive as a footprint. The party of five men had taken considerable effort to conceal all traces of their presence. Disciplined men, accustomed to passing secretly through the land.

  But Ewayne had a sharp eye.

  The sky blushed early light as they cleared the thicket and approached the keep. The soft pink of the rising sun gilded Lystanwold, bedecking her in an enchanted mantle. Behind him, a quiet murmur of approval came from the men. It was a welcoming sight at the end of a long, frustrating search. The graceful keep soared against the pearlescent sky and bid them welcome.

  A sense of belonging surged from deep within him. His. The keep, the demesne surrounding it and the lady within. All he had worked so hard to achieve.

  The feeling of coming home sank into tired bones and even the horses stepped more lively as they clattered across the bridge.

  Geoffrey came running from the practice yards. His wooden sword tangled in his legs and he had to stop a moment to sort it out. Guy rolled his eyes skyward. The only time any of them would be safe was when he taught his squire to wield that weapon with anything approaching competence.

  Ewayne had ridden out with them and drew rein beside him. “Not a graceful stripling, is he?” Ewayne laughed softly. Warmth, not mockery, infused his tone.

  Geoffrey half fell over a pile of lances, righting himself just in time. Guy liked this ungainly lad. His family didn’t believe they would ever see him knighted. Guy meant to prove them wrong. The boy had improved, if ever so slightly.

  “We were all once thus,” he said.

  “You?” Ewayne scoffed lightly. “I think not. They say you were birthed with a sword in your hand.”

  “My mother would disagree.”

  “Even here at Lystanwold we have heard tales of the mighty Sir Guy of Helston, ‘Scourge of Faringdon,’” Ewayne continued, undeterred. “Some of the lads were of the opinion your deeds were greatly exaggerated.”

  “They were, were they?”

  “Not me, of course.” The older man’s eyes gleamed. “But the others.”

  “Do I hear a challenge in there, Sir Ewayne?”

  “I argued that there must be truth to the rumours.” Ewayne actually grinned and it took Guy by surprise. Up until that moment, he would have believed the man incapable of such an act.

  “Put up your sword and see for yourself.” Guy accepted the offer of friendship with a grin. These were good men at Lystanwold.

  “Nay, that would be too easy,” Ewayne replied. “I had something else in mind.”

  Guy braced. Here it came.

  Ewayne nodded toward Geoffrey. “I challenge you to teach that youngster to handle a weapon without lopping off a limb.”

  “How much?” Guy dismounted.

  “Ten marks,” Ewayne announced as Geoffrey arrived flushed and apologetic.

  “In gold?” It was a princely sum. A murmur of interest spread amongst the listening men.

  “In gold,” Ewayne confirmed.

  It was a fool’s bet, at best. “Done.” As Geoffrey paled and then flushed with pleasure, Guy added, “Make it twenty and Geoffrey will best any challenger you care to name.”

  Helena had risen this morning to find the other side of her bed empty once again. It hadn’t taken her long to become accustomed to sharing her bed. Bridget brought the news that the men had returned at dawn. Helena had been strangely disappointed Guy didn’t immediately seek her out.

  She attended prayers with Crispin before making her way into the hall. She expected to see Guy at table and a tight kernel of anticipation lodged behind her breast. Would he be pleased to see her?

  Instead, she found the keep abuzz with another sort of excitement.

  “What is amiss?” She motioned Willie to her side.

  “A wager.” The boy’s eyes lit with mischief. “Sir Ewayne bet Sir Guy he could not teach that clodpole of a squire to handle his weapon.” He looked up at her to share his delight.

  The smile froze on her face. Guy was not in the keep at al
l, but out winning a wager. And poor Geoffrey, to be so clumsy and have them make such sport of him. They were picking on the lad.

  Not as long as I have breath. She stalked across the hall.

  Ewayne was seated amongst the men at arms, cheerfully boasting of what he would do with the marks once he won.

  “What did you do?” Helena approached so quietly they didn’t hear her until she was right amongst them. Ewayne scrambled to his feet whilst the other men ducked their heads and returned to their meal.

  “I wagered Sir Guy he could not train Geoffrey to fight with a sword.” Ewayne met her eyes squarely, but discomfort tightened his expression.

  “How very brave of you, to make sport of a young boy.”

  “Beg your pardon, Lady Helena.” Colour mounted his face. “It was merely a jest and the boy is as clumsy as a three legged dog.”

  That remark angered Helena further. She rounded on all the men. “He is only a boy and he will grow into his limbs.” She fervently hoped she was right.

  “Just a jest,” one of the men muttered.

  Helena couldn’t spot the speaker. “Mayhap you big knights have forgotten, I knew most of you when you could not tell your arse from your elbow.”

  She stormed out the keep into the bailey. She would set them all to rights. Including her absent husband. Making cruel wagers when he should have been seeking his wife. Not that she cared. This concerned Geoffrey.

  They had no right to make such mockery of the lad. This was why she wished all fighting men to hell at times. They were a rough, unmannerly, uncouth lot.

  Guy leant against a post in the practice yards. He looked up at her approach.

  A sharp thud resounded through her chest. Her husband. She drank in the small details such as the lines of exhaustion that marked his face and bruised the skin beneath his eyes. Neither dimmed their sparkle as he turned to greet her.