“Yer father would not deny Lady Madeline her lands surely, milord?” Alice turned to Tristan.
“I could not say, Alice.”
Undeterred, Alice moved towards the stairs. “Shall I make up the beds, milord? Ye’ll be staying here won’t ye, milady?”
Madeline looked at Tristan uneasily. “‘Tis not my decision, Alice.”
She had felt so assured, so confident, when she had first rode into Woodchurch. Now, at the sight of Tristan, it had all dissolved.
For so long she had nurtured the belief that Tristan had betrayed her. When he did not come for her, her quietly hopeful mind-set had been shattered. Spurred on by her belief of his pretence, that betrayal had consumed her for the rest of her days. She had convinced herself that he had merely asked for her hand out of duty, knowing full well how much Tristan had liked to play the role of the honourable protector. But now, seeing him stood before her, a weary shadow cast across his face, her thoughts of treachery seemed ridiculous. Had he truly cared for her?
“Aye, of course. ‘Tis still your home, Madeline. Alice, put Lady Madeline in her old room, I will take Sir Edward’s room.”
“Thank you.”
She was grateful not to have to stay in her father’s room, the memories of him were still painful, and she imagined Tristan guessed enough. Observing him as he gave Alice instructions for supper, she realised he was still the same dutiful man that she had left. But, whilst he was no different, she had changed immeasurably. Whether he had asked for her hand out of duty or not, she was no longer that girl and she would not hold him to his vow. She would never place herself so vulnerably again and he would be free of the burden of a broken promise.
***
With heavy hearts both Tristan and Madeline retreated to bed that night, Madeline to her old chambers and Tristan to her father’s. Slumping down onto the curtained bed, she studied the room and realised naught had changed. She wondered why Tristan had chosen to sleep in here while acting as steward for his father.
The room was basic, the only comforts being the bed, a rustic table and clothes chest. A brace of tallow candles smoked happily on the table top and Alice had recently lit a fire to ward of the chill that still lingered at night. The glow suffused the room but could not banish the grim ghosts of another life.
Reminding herself that she was no longer that girl, she gratefully slipped into her bed, the ropes creaking under her slight weight. Much time spent travelling had wearied her and she relished the feel of the mattress dipping underneath her aching body. The sheets smelt of Tristan, assaulting her senses with his masculine aroma. A smell she could still so vividly remember from when he had kissed her all those years ago, in spite of the time passed.
As she drifted into the blissful interval between wakefulness and sleep, the memories of the last night in her room resurfaced, having been deliberately buried in the time since.
Madeline had practically skipped home that night, unafraid of what might be awaiting her. Sir Edward was still angry, his temper no less abated by the sight of his jubilant daughter. His face seemed to Madeline to be in a permanent scowl, deep set lines running across his brow and between his nose. He was practically bald but he kept what little grey hair he had left short, as if it was a deliberate choice to have no hair. Hollow brown eyes, forever watching her, were filled with a hatred that was never warranted.
An argument ensued, one in which he insisted she would still marry Lord Oswald.
“But, Father, Tristan wants to marry me!”
“Have you lost your mind, child?! What would Tristan Dumont want with you?”
“He loves me, Father,” Madeline insisted.
“Pah, your wits are addled by the cold. Stop speaking nonsense, girl. ‘Tis to Lord Oswald you will be betrothed and no other.”
“Father-” Madeline broke off as he loomed over her, his face darkening. Her father was no large man but Madeline was still smaller than he and she knew full well the strength of his fists.
“Even if your fanciful notions were true, I would not see more of our land handed over to the Dumont’s. Lord Oswald is one of the most powerful men in Nottinghamshire.” Sir Edward’s chest began to rise and fall with anger as his daughter shook her head. “You will marry him, do you understand?!”
“Pray I beg of you, Father. I do not wish to marry a man I don’t love.”
“Love?! Love has naught to do with marriage.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the bottom of the stairs, his fingers pressing painfully into her skin. “You will marry who I say and I will not hear another word against it. Get out of my sight! I do not wish to mar you again, for ‘twould not do to present you to the lord looking so, but I will if I have to!” He raised the back of his hand to her in a threatening move and she scurried up the stairs away from him.
Madeline found herself confined to her chambers for the next couple of days, though she forever peeked out of her window hoping for a glimpse of Tristan, knowing that it would not be long before he put her father to rights.
Yet, soon after she found herself waking to a different view. With no recollection as to how she had got there, she awoke in a luxurious room, awash with expensive fabrics and carved furniture. A peek out of her small window and she discovered she was two floors up, looking over a great bailey.
A visit from her father quickly answered her uncertainties and he made it clear that she was to be held here until her wedding day. She listened to him - to his great plans, to his insults of her. She absorbed them all calmly; all the time certain that Tristan would come for her. He would return and find out about her betrothal and all would be as it should.
But the day of the wedding came and still there was no sign of him. Her hope wavered and, when it became clear that no rescue was coming, she took it upon herself to escape. Burying herself under Tristan’s cloak, she took what valuables she could, some trinkets and jewellery, and made her escape.
Escaping the castle was relatively easy - it being filled with visiting nobles ready for the celebrations - no-one paid any heed to her. However, escaping the sprawling town was harder for she knew little of the place and had been drugged for her arrival. As she negotiated the winding streets and side-stepped the busy locals, fear and anger consumed her. How could Tristan leave her to such a fate?
When she made it out of the town she found herself walking through several smaller demesnes, unsure of what to do next.
For a young, almost penniless and handsome girl, life should have taken a turn for the worse, but Madeline was lucky for once. Mayhap God had decided to smile down upon her that day. As her thoughts turned from bad memories to good, she drifted off into a deep, luxurious sleep, the smell of Tristan still lingering in her senses.
Chapter 2
The morning meal was a stilted affair, the jubilation of the villagers at mass upon seeing the return of Madeline somewhat at odds with the sombre mood of the manor house. Madeline had borne their blessings with a stoic, but stiff manner, and it did not fail to pass anyone’s notice how little she bore resemblance to the optimistic girl they had all known.
The hall was cold, in spite of the increasing warmth of the weather, the few aged tapestries doing little to ward of the chill of the night air still persisting in the walls. A trestle table, large enough for ten men, stood in the centre while benches patiently awaited guests. A large carved chair sat at one end and would probably never be occupied again, it having belonged to Sir Edward. Tristan had always avoided it, unwilling to seat himself in the same place as a man that he had come to despise.
Sitting opposite Madeline, Tristan watched her with unease as she picked at her food. Alice had been right about her growing into a beauty – her thick red hair begged for him to bury his hands under the tresses and her full lips stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. But her green eyes viewed the world coldly, as if all the joy had been sapped from them. Her eyes flicked briefly to the large chair as it dominated the modest room before staring back down at
her trencher.
For one brief, blissful moment he had thought she had returned to him and all those years spent lamenting his inability to protect her from such a fate suddenly seemed inconsequential, the thought of having her back erasing his sorrow. But whatever had befallen her these past years had scarred her and guilt filled him. He was taunted by the knowledge that if he had but returned from his duties sooner he could have saved her from such pain. He ached to know what she had been doing all this time but he feared the answers she might give, knowing they may well vex him further.
“I will take you to my father today. He will be gladdened to see you returned and you can speak with him about the manor,” he announced abruptly.
The silence being broken so suddenly caused Madeline to look up at him in surprise. “I thank you, but I can make the journey myself.”
“That may be, but if my duties are to no longer include the stewardship of Woodchurch I will need to speak with him myself.”
She chewed nervously on her lip. “I would not see you leave on my account. ‘Tis clear you have done much for Woodchurch. In truth, I did not expect you to be fulfilling such a duty. What happened to Ranulph?”
Ranulph had been her father’s previous steward and was as aged and as inept as her father. He had died shortly before Sir Edward who, in his weakened state, had failed to replace him.
“He died,” Tristan told her simply. “Just before your father.”
Madeline gave a small smile of satisfaction. She obviously had as little love for the man as he did. “No doubt Woodchurch is well rid of them.”
“Aye, ‘tis certainly not suffering in their absence. I have done what I can but there is still much work to be done to see it through the next winter. I confess I do not wish to see the villeins suffer but I will do as you bid.”
Tristan had found he had come to enjoy the role of steward far more than that of a warrior. The horrors of battle would forever linger with him and, while he conceded he was certainly suited to battle, he took far more pleasure in seeing the lands and people of Woodchurch thrive. It was not without its stresses – their stores were woefully low and he was unsure they would survive the next winter – but he had a sharp mind and enjoyed the challenges of managing a fief.
Madeline interrupted his thoughts. “If it pleases you, I would see you stay on.”
“Aye, it would please me.” He released a brilliant smile and she blinked at him with uncertainty.
Tristan would certainly relish the opportunity to stay close to her. He harboured thoughts of how he would garner back her affections.
“Do you really believe the French will come to Dover?”
“I do. ‘Twill not be long before we see Prince Louis’ men on our lands. The French prince has all but conquered the south and he would be a fool to ignore Dover.”
At the behest of the rebel barons, Prince Louis had recently nigh on walked into London and seized the throne. He needed only to secure Dover to ensure his ascension to king. With little support, King John had escaped to Winchester. While John Lackland had been no great king, Tristan feared the uncertainty that the French invasion would bring. His father was a staunch supporter of the King and the Dumont lands would almost certainly be at risk if Prince Louis gained the crown.
“You do not believe there will be danger here, surely?” Madeline asked hesitantly.
Tristan regarded her gravely. “I know not. But we are close enough to Dover to be at risk.” Impulsively he reached across the table and gripped at her hand. “If I remain here, I will not allow you to come to harm, I swear it.”
She looked at his hand, wide eyed, and for an instant a silent victory trilled through him as she failed to withdraw it, the velvety skin begging for the stroke of his lips. Meeting his gaze, he saw her shudder and a smile curved across his lips as he realised he was not the only one affected by their simple touch. Her eyes hardened abruptly and she pulled her hand from his, clenching her fist in her lap.
“Do not make promises you cannot keep. Besides, ‘tis not me I fear for, I have long since learnt to defend myself.”
She stood, adopting a regal posture, and Tristan could not help but cast his eyes over her form appreciatively. While she wore a simple green bliaut over her chemise, the belted waist served to emphasise her shapely hips and breasts. It was clear that the years had endowed her with a figure that most women would be envious of.
Madeline bristled slightly under his obvious perusal of her. “I have few gowns at my disposal, but I can change if this is not fitting for an audience with Lord Reginald.”
“Nay, I meant no offence, Madeline. You need not change for our visit.” He stood and in the pretence of moving towards the door, he paused in front of her. Her eyes widened as he leant forwards. “Indeed, I am sure my father will appreciate your loveliness just as I do.”
Grinning to himself at her startled expression, he walked swiftly out of the door to the stables. He had discovered that he could coax some kind of emotion from her and resolved that he would continue to do so until he broke through the stony wall she had built around her heart. He would recapture her love.
***
Tristan’s family home lay to the north east of Woodchurch and was but a day’s ride away. Madeline was apprehensive about stepping foot in Ashford Manor once more. As a vassal of Lord Reginald Dumont, her father had been obliged to spend much time in Ashford and Madeline had enjoyed the journeys there. The manor house had always seemed terribly grand to her young eyes but what she had really appreciated was the warmth and hospitality of the family.
Glancing at Tristan, atop his large destrier, it was easy to see how he had matured into such a confident, admirable man. With the love of his mother and father, it would have been difficult to be otherwise. Even the family he had fostered with had cherished him. Aye, Tristan’s upbringing had indeed been blessed.
An upbringing wholly unlike her own.
Her cold and callous father showed little love for anyone, the death of her mother having decimated any warmth in his stony heart. She had heard tale of her father once being a loving person but she had never experienced such a man. The beatings could have been worse, which she supposed she should have been grateful for, but it was the lack of affection that thoroughly saddened Madeline. As a naturally loving child, she struggled to comprehend her father’s remoteness.
And now he was dead.
It struck Madeline how the news of his death had rendered neither tear nor smile. Mayhap she was not so dissimilar to her father after all; mayhap it was just a matter of time before she too became entrenched in an icy vault of indifference. Mayhap she already was.
They travelled rapidly along the forest path, the roads blessedly dry. Light flickered through the leafy canopy causing Madeline to squint intermittently as the sun rose in the sky. Their rapid progress was hindered slightly by Thomas, who was unable to keep up their pace with his smaller mount, but Madeline was grateful for the time to gather herself.
Would Lord Reginald grant her back her family lands? Indeed, it was not unknown for women to inherit from their fathers and she would have Tristan to oversee the management of the lands. However, she suspected that it would be only a matter of time before she was pressured into marrying, particularly when eligible suitors learnt of her ownership of a small, but desirable, fief.
Marriage was certainly not her intent. A wife had destroyed her father, and her stepmother had fared no better. Nay, marriage had done naught for them and she would not allow herself to be bound to any man. She had received a taste of vulnerability and had no wish to repeat the experience. Five summers had taught her of her own independence and she would fight to retain that freedom.
The clatter of chainmail intruded on her thoughts and she studied Tristan’s impressive form. Riding slightly ahead of them, she was afforded an opportunity to scrutinise him at her leisure. He wore a brown leather surcoat over his heavy hauberk, the armour a necessity for travelling through the forests. His be
lt held his sword and dark hose clung to muscular legs. Golden hair curled at the neck of his chainmail, luminous under the flashes of sunlight.
While she acknowledged he looked impressive in his armour, she missed the simple shirt and chausses that she had first seen him in. Glowing under the sun, his shirt adhering to the shape of his powerful torso, he may have looked little like a lord’s son but he looked exquisite nonetheless.
The rustle of leaves caught her attention and, as she looked to the source of the sound, a creature hurtled from the undergrowth, dashing in front of Cariad. The horse reared in surprise, flinging Madeline from her saddle and throwing her down with a thump. Her leg twisted underneath her as she landed roughly with a yelp, and Cariad whinnied and jostled as Tristan grabbed her reins. He dismounted and handed the bridle over to Thomas before striding purposefully over to her.
“Cursed boar,” he muttered. His eyes cast over her with concern. “Madeline, are you hurt?”
Tristan knelt down beside her as she pulled herself up to sitting.
“Nay,” she winced. “See to Cariad, I am well.”
Tristan shook his head. “Nay, she is well enough. Can you stand?”
He held out a hand to help her up but she pushed it aside. “Aye, aye, fret not.”
As she attempted to stand, Madeline fell back to the floor with a small cry. Her ankle throbbed in pain and she cursed, much to Tristan’s amusement.
Tristan’s hand came about her ankle and she recoiled at the touch of his callused fingers, her eyes wide. A frisson resounded through her at this unpretentious touch and his name fell from her lips in surprise. “Tristan!”
“Oh, come now. ‘Twould not be the first time I have inspected your injuries. You were quite the accident prone child remember?”
She scowled at his familiarity. “As were you, but your forget yourself. I am not a child, Tristan.”
Tristan’s brow creased at her sharpness. “Forgive me, Madeline, I intended not to startle you. Will you permit me to see to your injury?”
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 2