“‘Tis frequented by some rough types if my memory serves me, but do not fear, you will come to no harm under my care,” he whispered to her as they stepped into the inn.
“I am not scared,” she told him archly.
“You should be. You are a beautiful woman and there are lonely men within these walls.”
Madeline flushed as Tristan’s eyes glinted and he ushered her in, his hand on the small of her back. Torn between wrenching herself away from his touch and nestling into it, she held herself rigid while attempting a look of detachment.
The inn reeked of stale sweat and ale, and its rushes squashed repellently under her feet, most likely soaked in a combination of drink and decayed food. Scarred wooden trestle tables sat beside one another with worn benches to match. Its occupants fared no better, weather beaten and threadbare men watched their entrance with undisguised interest.
An unlit central hearth sat between the tables, light streaming down upon it from the opening in the roof, and the rafters were stained black above. Several flea bitten dogs sat around the fire, as if waiting for it to be lit.
Madeline ignored the patrons - the stares of men held no weight with her any longer - and settled herself near the end of a table. Her stomach growled at the scent of food, just perceivable above the more repugnant odours. She watched as Tristan conversed briefly with the innkeeper – a great bear of a man, with thick arms matted with dark hair and a countenance to match. Tristan grinned and Madeline was once again struck by how beautiful he was.
She had always revered him as Godlike and, amongst the coarse inhabitants of the inn, he appeared even more so. Her eyes travelled along his simple surcoat to the contours of his profile. His hauberk increased his bulk and he carried himself with a confident air of superiority. It was not pride, however, that caused his demeanour, just a simple self-assurance.
As he settled opposite her, he turned his smile to her – a flash of white amongst full lips – and her belly flipped. A vegetable pottage and a jug of ale was dumped unceremoniously in front of them with little more than a grunt and Madeline tried to remind herself that she was no longer a lovesick girl as she watched those lips sup at his ale. A blush rose in her cheeks and she took a healthy swig of her own ale to try and disguise her discomfort.
“We should reach Ashford within the hour if we ride hard.”
Madeline’s brow knitted in confusion. “Cariad will not tolerate being pressed so.”
“‘Tis my intention to leave her stabled here for the night. I will send a hand on for her in the morrow.”
She shook her head. “I cannot leave her here.”
“I have spoken with the innkeeper; she will be well cared for. You need not fear for her safety, no-one would dare touch a Dumont mount.”
A scowl came across her face. She did not like his high handed manner and she had spent far too long looking after herself to appreciate people making decisions for her.
“You should have asked me before making such a decision,” she snapped.
Tristan looked genuinely taken aback by her annoyance. “Forgive me, Madeline, I was merely thinking of Cariad. ‘Twould not do to push her any further, for I fear she may come to further harm, and I have seen that you are greatly attached.”
Madeline resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Trust him to make her feel guilty for her angry reaction. Tristan’s thoughtfulness was always without equal and she felt selfish and childlike under his sincere gaze. She was deeply devoted to Cariad, who had taken her, unharmed, through many trials and she did not wish her to ail further.
“Is there another mount I can ride?”
“Nay, you shall ride with me.”
She coughed, spluttering on her pottage, and Tristan reached around to slap her soundly on the back. Taking a mouthful of stale ale, she recovered herself. God’s blood, a goodly distance spent pressed against Tristan! It would do little for her resolve to refrain from any more desirous thoughts of him.
“‘Twould be easier to walk that rest of the way, surely?”
“Nay, ‘twill take three times as long and I’m weary of travelling.”
Madeline looked him over. Indeed, by his own admission he had not slept but to her eyes he still looked as hale as ever. She was weary herself, the aches from her night on the forest floor having not yet eased, but was she tired enough to submit to sharing a mount with Tristan?
“I could stay with Cariad. I am sure there are rooms to be had here.”
“Do not even suggest such folly, Madeline. I would sooner abandon you to the forest than leave you in the company of drunkards and ruffians.”
Madeline darted a look around her to see if anyone had taken offence, but if they had, they had no intention of taking issue with Tristan. A man at the end of her bench gave her a lascivious look and she narrowed her eyes coolly at him. His ale suddenly became of interest to him and he stared at it studiously. Madeline smirked until she realised it was Tristan’s hard stare that had prompted such a reaction and she turned her narrowed gaze to him.
“I can look after myself.”
“Be that as it may, I have no intention of leaving you here.”
She noted the firm resolution in his eyes and wondered if it was worth pushing him. And she thought herself stubborn! With a reluctant sigh, she nodded. “Oh, as you will then.”
Chapter 4
Tristan had been right and it took them but a short while to reach Ashford Manor. While Madeline breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the stone walls, Tristan quashed down his disappointment that they had made such good time.
He felt almost guilty for the enjoyment he had taken in having Madeline pressed against his back with her arms about his waist. In spite of his thick armour, he was decidedly aware of every part of her flesh upon his. He doubted she was at all conscious of the way his heart soared when she rested her cheek upon his back. This little movement of surrender, though likely unconsciously done, spoke of her slowly growing trust of him.
Ashford Manor was of no mean size and was surrounded almost completely by a curtain wall. The back of the house, where the wall stopped, was protected by means of a steep slope. In his father’s lifetime he had added crenellations to the house so that the original square hall and adjoining buildings were hidden behind structures that gave it the appearance of a castle more than that of a home.
They entered under a small arch in the grey stone wall and Tristan directed his destrier towards the stables. The stable hands greeted him with recognition as Tristan helped Madeline from the saddle, in spite of her obvious reluctance to accept aid. He gave her a smile and she bridled under his attention, sweeping her hair from her face and resuming a regal air.
Ascending the outer stairs, a small doorway brought them directly into the Great Hall. The hall was a hive of activity, servants and animals cloistered in every corner. His mother, Lady Elizabeth, sat in one corner, talking with some of the servant’s children and fussing over a hound. The image brought a smile to his face and he studied Madeline for a brief moment to observe her reaction, but her aloof manner remained. Tristan detected a hint of nervousness behind her tempestuous green eyes and he took her hand, laying it over the top of his own, as he drew her towards his mother.
Whether it was the passing of time or the bustling atmosphere of his family home that caused her apprehension, he was unsure, but she seemed grateful for his hand under hers and she folded her cool fingers around his.
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up when she sighted Tristan and Madeline, and she shooed the children aside so she could stand. Known as a handsome woman, time had done little to diminish her looks. Elizabeth’s fair hair was tinged with only a slight amount of grey and it was currently twisted into an elegant braid, displaying her elegant profile to its best advantage.
Hastening towards them, she ignored her son and took Madeline into an embrace. Madeline could not keep the look of surprise from her face as she awkwardly returned the embrace, and Tristan supressed a chuckle.
Elizabeth pulled away to study her. “Oh, Madeline, ‘tis a joy to see you again. We were heartbroken to hear of your death. Tristan particularly so,” she added in hushed tones.
“Mother-” Tristan warned.
“But ‘twas all vicious a lie! Half of Kent is taken with the news of your miraculous return…”
“Mother-” Tristan growled, noticing Madeline’s growing discomfort.
“And I did not believe it at first but here you are! And you are positively the most handsome woman in all of England. Though I always knew you would be a beauty, even as a child-”
“Mother!” he snapped.
Elizabeth gave him a startled look but softened as she discerned Madeline’s unease. “Oh, forgive me; I am just awash with excitement. You must be weary. Pray sit and I will call for refreshments.”
Madeline offered a shaky smile. “Thank you, Lady Elizabeth.”
She watched the easy affection between Tristan and his mother as she placed herself on one of the benches lining the hall. Elizabeth hugged her son and he tolerated it with a smile, well used to the open temperament of his mother. Madeline felt ill at ease with such displays, feeling like an intruder. It only strengthened the knowledge of how much she had changed for once she had enjoyed the warmth of the Dumont family home.
Adversely, it was easy to see how little Tristan had changed. He still acted with the same self-assurance that he always had, a self-assurance borne of growing up in the knowledge of his parent’s love and support. His parent’s had carefully instilled in him the knowledge of right from wrong and even as a grown man he adhered strictly to such principles.
Tristan spoke in hushed tones and she strained her ears to listen while affecting a look of disinterest. Were they speaking of her? It was more than likely. She was not oblivious to the reaction she garnered from those who had known her as a child, though it was only Tristan who showed more than a passing interest in what had wrought such a change. She hoped his curiosity would die out soon; she had no wish to be an object of pity. Though, truth be told, she did not feel her tale to be a piteous one for it had taught her much of her own strength.
“Madeline?”
His voice resonated through her, drawing her to him. Her blood fairly simmered under his powerful gaze. She eyed the lithe movements of his body as he strode towards her and offered her his hand.
“Come, we shall make you known to the lord.”
With a gulp, she nodded. Well aware that Lord Reginald held her future in his hands, her nervousness made her unusually compliant and she accepted his extended hand. His fingers closed over hers and she suppressed a thrill of excitement.
Tristan led her to the back of the hall and through a small door underneath the minstrel’s gallery, where the small offices sat. An unlit fireplace sat at the back of the small room. Scattered wax candles lit the room, some skewered upon twisted iron spikes. A large carved writing desk dominated the room, behind which Lord Reginald sat.
It was easy to see where Tristan had inherited his dominating size from. Lord Reginald was a large man, even when seated, and age had done little to diminish his strong form. With the same fair hair and bold features, there was no denying their similarity.
Lord Reginald grinned widely upon her entrance and stood as Tristan presented her to his father.
“Dear girl!” he exclaimed as he stepped around his desk, his voice rumbling through the small room.
She dipped humbly. “My lord.”
“No need for formalities! We are practically family after all.”
Madeline frowned but nodded. “As you wish.”
Tristan interjected, “Father, Madeline is here to petition you for the Woodchurch demesne.”
Lord Reginald considered her. “Oh, indeed. I suppose with Tristan at your side, it would prudent to grant you the lands. In truth, I’ve had few satisfactory offers.”
“Aye, my lord…I mean…I would wish for Tristan to continue as steward.”
The lord threw a puzzled glance to his son who showed remained expressionless. “Is this what you wish, Son?”
“Aye, Father. Madeline has expressed a desire that I continue my duties and I am happy to do so.”
“Well, then ‘tis settled!” Lord Reginald clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and continued before Madeline could thank him. “We are feasting in two days, shall you join us?” He turned to Madeline. “‘Tis my wish to feast in your honour, Madeline. Such a miraculous return should indeed be celebrated.”
“Oh, pray there is no need.”
“Nonsense! ‘Tis the least we can do. Now be off with you and entertain my wife. She has been full of excitement since the news of your return has reached our ears.” He looked to Tristan. “I would speak with you, Son.”
***
Lord Reginald waited until Madeline had shut heavy oak door behind her before turning to Tristan.
“So, you wish to continue as steward at Woodchurch?”
“As I said, Father.”
“And not as Lord of the Manor?” The lord raised his brows questioningly as his son.
“It appears not,” Tristan said with a sigh.
“Your mother had hoped we would be celebrating your betrothal with Madeline returned.”
Tristan ran a hand over his jaw. “It seems Madeline does not wish to hold me to my promise.”
“I see.”
Tristan gave his father a determined look. “I will persuade her otherwise, Father.”
“Aye, I hope so. ‘Tis time for you to settle and raise some babes.”
Tristan rolled his eyes, having heard this time and again, as his father considered him.
“She’s not the girl she was, is she?”
“Nay, she has been hurt grievously. Would that I could make amends for such hurt,” Tristan added quietly.
“Would that I could see you two joined.” His father placed a large hand upon his shoulder. “But fair warning, Tristan, I would not see you act in folly. I have been lenient with you in your grief but you cannot play at being a farmer forever. Take her hand in marriage soon or you shall have to resume your duties here.”
Tristan eyed the resolve in his father’s face and nodded. He knew his father spoke only out of love. For too long, he had lived a half-life, trapped by his grief, and his parents had shown him considerable tolerance.
“I will have her hand,” he said with equal resolve. “I will have her hand,” he repeated to himself.
***
Madeline saw little of Tristan the next day and she tried to convince herself that she did not mind. Somehow he had very quickly become the one comforting thing in her life, and her eyes constantly sought him out. The manor, already busy with guests, steadily filled to capacity in anticipation of the feast. Madeline was ensconced in the women’s quarters while most of the men slept in the Great Hall or guards quarters. While the women gossiped and embroidered, the men hunted and hawked, and Madeline found it a tiresome existence. Grateful she would be returning to Woodchurch before long, she suppressed a sigh as she watched the men on horseback leave for a hunt.
A flash of blonde hair caught her eye as they left and she watched, dry mouthed, as Tristan nimbly mounted his destrier, recalling the short time that she had shared the saddle with him. She could still remember the feel of his rolling muscles under her hands, the proximity of his body sending a heat surging to the very core of her.
While she reprimanded herself for such thoughts, Madeline was honest enough to realise that Tristan had worked his way back into her soul, creating an especially real ache within her. In truth, he had probably never really left her thoughts, having only been hidden under a veil of anger and blame.
Her anger still existed. She had nurtured it too carefully to let it go, but it was directed less at Tristan and more at a world in which she had been placed so vulnerably. Madeline feared the effect of letting go of that which had granted her courage throughout the years. She resolved that she would not forget all she ha
d learnt, no matter how tempting it would be to fall into Tristan’s arms once more.
Her resolve was sorely tested that eve when they gathered in the Great Hall after supper. Tristan caught her eye and grinned openly before pushing past several guests to reach her side.
“I have missed you.”
She blinked at him. Sometimes she forgot how forthright he could be. “You tell a fine falsehood. You have been taking much pleasure in your parents’ hospitality.”
Tristan chuckled. “And you have not.”
He didn’t ask, merely stated, and she wondered how obvious her discomfort was.
“I confess I take little pleasure in womanly pursuits.”
He set her with a teasing grin. “I would enjoy the entertainments much more with you by my side.”
Madeline shifted uncomfortably at the promise held in his gaze and she attempted to hide her unease with a mild smile. “You tease so. You would not wish a mere woman to hinder you and make you look foolish in front of your companions.”
Tristan leant into her as if revealing some grave secret, his fingers brushing briefly across her own as they clutched at her cup. “Ah, but you are no ‘mere woman’, Madeline.”
“Wherefore? Because I would choose to hunt rather than sew?”
“You know that is not my meaning…” His eyes bore into hers with an intensity that spoke to her far more than his words could. Then, with a blink it was gone, and he resumed his teasing disposition. “But if you wished to, I would happily lead you on a hunt. ‘Twould be a great pleasure indeed.”
Madeline regarded him with suspicion. Why was he teasing her so? Did he wish to rile her? He seemed determined to provoke a reaction from her.
She tilted her chin. “I can hunt well enough on my own. I need not a man at my side.”
He raised his brow at her as he took a leisurely sip of wine. “Indeed? And pray tell, where did you learn such skills?”
Madeline made a small sound of alarm, realising she had yet again let slip a detail of her time away. The past was in the past and she had no intention of dragging up old memories, let alone giving him insight into the changes wrought within her. She was susceptible enough to this man as it stood.
A Summer Siege (Medieval Romance) Page 4