Oh. “Three days.” Then feeling he had been ungracious, he added, “It’s near a village called Cofton Warren. I’ve a farm there.” He narrowed his eyes in anticipation of her response to this, but she made no reaction to the fact he was proposing to take her, the daughter of a noble family to a mere farmhouse.
“Then, this time tomorrow night?” she suggested, her voice high, betraying her nerves. “I could meet you in the courtyard by the west gate.”
He looked her over again. Was he really going to do this? It would mean withdrawing from the Challenge to Arms, which was a blow. He had a good chance of winning in that event. Still, at least he could participate in tomorrow’s jousting. He nodded swiftly and released her wrist. For a moment he thought she would topple off the chair, she looked so suddenly drained. Then she seemed to collect herself, pulled the veils down over her face and tottered from the room. A nobler man than he would have seen she made her way back safely, but she had made it plain that she expected no better from him. He smiled grimly to himself. Well, well, well. The Flower of all Karadok, begging for his hand. Even if the flower was now quite spoiled and had lost its bloom.
4
“Berta?” It was the third time she had called for the servant’s attention, only to lose her nerve when she looked up and give some lame excuse for her interruption.
The old woman looked up and eyed Lenora with faint impatience. She was busily picking yarn from her distaff and did not appreciate the distraction. “Whatever is it, miss?” she huffed. She never had got used to calling Lenora my lady. In truth, she’d never even tried.
Lenora bit her lip. “Have you any ties here in Caer-Lyoness?”
“Ties?”
“Family or… people you’re fond of.” Lenora frowned. “Do you live here in the servant’s quarters or in the city center?” She should know really the answer to these things. Being ill made you self-centered, she thought uneasily, but knew deep down that was just an excuse. Many a time, her cousin Eden had urged Lenora to take more interest in the people around her, and still she struggled to take that advice on board. She needed to try harder.
Berta eyed her beadily. “Well, you’re definitely on the road to recovery,” she muttered sourly. “You’re that restless today, you’re giving me the twitches!”
Lenora hid a smile. “Well, have you?”
“None,” Berta snapped. “Three sons and none of them with a consideration for their poor old mother! The last one moved out—leaving me for some red-headed trollop,” she muttered. “And now I’ve to shoulder the burden of the rent by myself! I’m working two jobs these days, just to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly.”
Lenora nodded thoughtfully. Without fail, Berta disappeared for a few hours at midday to undertake her washer-woman duties. “You should have had daughters,” Lenora told her impulsively.
“Daughters?” Berta squawked. “What’s the good of daughters? They belongs to their husbands as soon as they marries them. No, it’s sons that’s supposed to provide for their old mothers.” She shook her head, her jaw working angrily. “Only there’s some as neglects their duty!”
“You have a house, in Caer-Lyoness?”
“A house? Chance would be a fine thing! I rents two rooms,” Berta admitted grudgingly. “At an outrageous price. Goes up every year it do. And that scoundrel Will Bilford is waiting on this month’s rent like a vulture. I told him I’d give it him,” she complained bitterly. “As soon as it was in my hand.”
Lenora took a deep breath. “How do you feel about skipping out on Bilford? And throwing your lot in with mine?”
Berta’s jaw slackened. “Do what?” she uttered in astonishment.
“I’m eloping,” Lenora told her calmly. “Tonight.”
“Eloping?” Berta stared at her. “Where you off to?”
“Some place called Cofton Warren.”
“Never heard of it!”
“No more have I,” admitted Lenora. “Apparently it lies three days from here.”
“Who you going with?”
Lenora hesitated. “You would not betray me, Berta?” she asked.
Berta stared back at her blankly. “Who would I betray you to?”
“My father.”
Berta snorted. “He made it plain last night that my services wouldn’t be needed for much longer,” she said grimly. “I’m not grand enough to wait on his living daughter, only his half-dead one!” She darted a sharp look at Lenora, who gazed back at her.
“So then, you owe him nothing.”
“No, but he owes me!” Berta fired up. “He ain’t paid me yet for this week!”
Lenora pondered this a moment. “Perhaps you should ask him for it,” she suggested. “Tell him you’ve found other employment.”
Berta looked uncertain at this. “What if you takes a worse turn?”
“Well, if I do, I shan’t be here for you to nurse me, Berta. I shall be at Cofton Warren. As I say, you are very welcome to accompany me.”
“In whose employ?”
“Mine,” said Lenora. “And my husband’s.” How odd it sounded to say that! Her voice wavered slightly over it. It was somehow vastly disquieting to think of Garman Orde in those terms, for Lenora harbored no illusions about what manner of man he was. A surly, quarrelsome brute with a nasty temper. Certainly, that was the impression he left you with after seeing him compete in the tournaments. Still, she thought, brightening up. He would not press her hand and sigh over her lost beauty.
She doubted very much she had ever been the sort of woman he admired. Her suitors had agreed she had the face of an angel. She fancied Orde would have little use for anything angelic. She remembered how casually he had spoken of sporting with not one but two wenches in his bedchamber. What was the surplus wench supposed to do while he copulated with the other? she wondered vaguely. Sit on a chair and wait her turn? Lenora frowned. Sadly, she didn’t have anyone to ask. Maybe she could ask him when they were married? No, that was silly, she admonished herself. They weren’t to have that sort of marriage. The sort where they shared confidences.
She had every expectation that Garman would abandon her as soon as her father paid over her dowry. And that was exactly what Lenora wanted. To be settled on a small estate that would be bought with her father’s coin, that she could run as its mistress. Her husband she would barely see hide nor hair of, she was confident of that. He would be off fighting in the tournaments, she thought contentedly. And sporting with wenches, two at a time. When he turned up, mayhap on feast days, they would be perfectly civil to one another, only rather distant.
In this instance, she thought her ruined face would be the card up her sleeve. It ensured she would not be troubled with unwanted attentions from a boorish husband. Garman Orde might not be overly fastidious in his tastes, but she was sure that he did not lack prospective partners to fill that bed of his to capacity. For starters, he was a winner and she had seen how the victors were lauded at tournaments, treated as gods to be fawned over and lavished with attention. She had seen Orde lift the cup on enough occasions to know he was a lethal competitor in the field and more than competent in all areas of the tourney.
Then, she thought, there was the fact that though not conventionally handsome, there was something about him. His dark blond hair was too close-cropped for current fashion, and his muscles far too pronounced. Those light blue eyes were cold and hard, no warmth whatsoever lay in their depths. His lips were full and firm, but almost permanently curled into an unpleasant sneer. He was not so much pleasant to look at, as well, startling. She remembered the spectacle of his naked torso she had been subjected to earlier. He had shown no shame whatsoever at being bared and on display to her. His chest and shoulders were wide, his hips narrow and the muscle and sinew around them strangely delineated. She realized she had never really seen an unclothed man at such close quarters before. The muscles on his stomach had been shockingly defined and there had been a strange trail of dark gold hair that disappeared int
o braies that Lenora had been forced to drag her astonished gaze from for decency’s sake.
No, she would find no piteous solicitude in this bridegroom. He would soon be shunning her company for bonnie wenches with come hither smiles, she thought with satisfaction. Then she noticed the old woman eyeing her sourly.
“Sweet on him, aren’t you?” Berta snorted.
Had she been smiling? Hastily, Lenora rearranged her expression to one of sober reflection. “You don’t understand, Berta.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Berta said loftily. “I’m guessing that’s why you insisted on getting all dressed up last night. Am I right?” A knowing glint flashed in her eye.
“Well… yes,” Lenora admitted after a moment’s pause. “But it’s not what you think.”
“You… er… let him see your face, did you?” Berta asked with feigned casualness.
“Of course,” Lenora replied coolly. “It would hardly be fair not to.”
“Not fair?” The older woman’s eyebrows rose. “All’s fair in love and war, least that’s what I’m told.”
“Neither apply in this case,” Lenora hastened to assure her with some amusement.
“Humph! Why did you bother putting all those layers over your face, then?” asked a clearly skeptical Berta.
“Oh, that wasn’t for his benefit,” Lenora explained. “But for casual onlookers. I don’t see why I should be expected to provide a sideshow for them.” Even she could hear the bitterness in the last few words. She strove for a lighter tone. “You see Berta, before the pox, my face used to be quite a sight to behold” The words came out rather dryer than she intended.
Berta shrugged. “I gathered that much from the way your kin carried on,” she admitted. She set her yarn down. “And?” she asked pointedly.
“And?”
“What did he say?” Berta demanded curiously.
“He?” Lenora was momentarily thrown.
“Your sweetheart,” Berta said with clear exasperation.
“Oh!” Lenora struggled a moment with her impulse to protest the term. “He…er… he said my face isn’t so bad.”
“Did he indeed,” Berta spluttered. “That must be that courtly chivalry they talk so much about.”
Lenora shot a suspicious look at the old woman’s bland expression. Was she being sarcastic? “Oh, yes,” she agreed smoothly. After all, it wouldn’t do to explain that Garman was marrying her purely for mercenary reasons. After all, what if Berta didn’t come with them, and repeated the tale for the ears of others? “He—um—said he could live perfectly well with it.”
“Good of him,” sniffed Berta.
“Yes,” Lenora murmured in agreement. “I thought so.”
5
It was the next night when Lenora emerged from the shadows in the dark courtyard for her assignation with Garman Orde. She easily made out his bulk as he moved stealthily along the stables, though he moved with remarkable quiet and a sort of grace which surprised her. He halted on catching sight of her, and she saw he was now leading his own massive charger and her own palfrey behind him. She had seen him dip in and out of the stalls but had not realized he had saddled and collected their horses en route. She was impressed, though of course, they could not ride on two horses. Not when she had Berta and her cats to think of.
“I’m afraid,” she assured him in a loud whisper. “That two horses won’t be enough. I have my things with me and my servant Berta.”
“And I don’t ride,” Berta cut in mutinously. “So, you needn’t think I’m climbing atop one of those brutes!”
Lenora watched his gaze flicker over the basket Berta bore with ill-concealed annoyance. And he hadn’t even seen the two sacks of clothes and things that Lenora had dragged down with her yet.
“Are all these sundries strictly necessary to you?” he asked scathingly. “We’ve a three-day ride and will be slowed down considerably by taking a cart.” He spoke the last word with deepest contempt.
Lenora lifted her veils to stress her point. “Strictly necessary, yes,” she said with emphasis. “And once we are outside the capital, the speed of our progress will not matter overmuch.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I do not anticipate we will be pursued. I have left my father a letter saying I have eloped but giving no clue as to my destination or betrothed.”
Garman’s gaze snapped to hers. “A letter?” he repeated with disgust, shaking his head. “I might have known! Women. You can never have enough fuss made, can you?”
“I could hardly disappear without leaving word for my family,” Lenora pointed out reasonably. “That would have caused great perturbation indeed. This way, father will be alarmed, but will not find it necessary to send out soldiers looking for me. I said I would send him word as soon as I was settled.”
A scornful look still on his face, Garman turned on his heel and marched back to the stables. Lenora watching him, noticed his gait was a little stiff. Of course, he had been competing today. She wondered if his mood had been affected by a crushing defeat, or if he was simply bad-tempered. She suspected the latter.
“Huh!” muttered Berta. “Vastly pretty manners, ain’t he?”
Now that, thought Lenora, was definitely sarcasm. She did not reply, but instead fussed with her head-dress, pulling her veils back down again to conceal her face.
When Orde emerged some ten minutes later, he led a plodding horse and cart behind him. Waiting until they drew level, Lenora turned to take the basket from Berta. “You climb up first, Berta, and then I’ll pass the cats up to you.”
Berta picked up the two sacks of clothes and belongings, flung them into the back of the wagon. Then she clambered up into the seat. Lenora waited until she was comfortable and then passed the basket up.
Berta placed it on the floor at her feet. “Safer down there,” she explained.
Lenora turned to find Garman stood directly behind her. “Oh,” she said in startled tones. He was very light on his feet for such a large male.
“I can’t speak to you,” he said irritably, “when your face is covered like that.”
Lenora whisked up the veils. “What is it?” she asked, surprised that he should desire speech with her at all.
“You intend to take your horse?” he asked, glancing toward Brunnhilde.
“Yes, I’m going to ride her. I’m a fair horse-woman.”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking this through. The west gate is guarded, same as all the other gates to the palace. You need to be up on the cart beside your servant. We can secure your horse to mine and it can follow along behind me.”
“Why?” asked Lenora in startled accents.
“If a lady rides out of the castle at dead of night, on a fine horse like that, wearing a fine dress like yours and a veil, the guards are going to remember it. They may even challenge your leaving.”
Lenora chewed her lip, considering this. “I see,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Then what do you suggest? About my dress, I mean. And my…” she hesitated. “… veil.” He was looking at her now in a speculative fashion she realized. Now why was that?
“I say your servant gives you her cloak to cover up your gown, and you take off the head-dress.” With an effort, Lenora managed to bite back the objections that sprang to her lips. “If challenged, I tell the guards you’re my servants,” Garman said with a shrug. “Accompanying me back home after the tournament.”
“Servants?” Lenora repeated blankly.
“Aye.”
Lenora swiveled around to look up at Berta. “What say you, Berta?” Her servant grimaced but started unfastening her drab wool cloak. Lenora reached up to unfasten her head-dress. Luckily her hair was simply coiled at her nape instead of worn in any of the elaborate styles she had favored before her illness. She removed her coif and unpinned the many veils. “Where shall I put these?”
Garman took them from her and crammed them unceremoniously into one of the saddlebags. Berta passed down her cloak and Lenora swathed he
rself in the dark gray cloak. She looked uncertainly at Garman.
“It’ll have to do,” he said, and to her surprise, seized her by the waist and hefted her up onto the seat beside Berta, with little apparent effort.
Lenora straightened herself. “Thank you,” she said. He did not acknowledge the pleasantry, but instead moved back to his own horse, secured her mount to his, then swung up into the saddle. Seeing Berta had made no move to, Lenora took up the reins and urged the cart horse to follow along behind him as he moved forward. “Do you think we will be challenged at the gate?” Lenora murmured to Berta as the horse hooves struck against the stones in the courtyard.
“Don’t know that I’ve ever tried to pass through ‘em at this hour,” Berta said doubtfully.
“Neither have I.” Lenora grimaced. “I can’t help but think it might look a little strange. Still,” she brightened. “Perhaps he lost today.” At Berta’s blank look, she added. “And did not want to hang around to compete on the third day.”
“Even if that were so,” Berta said heavily. “Would he not have left before all the celebrations, while it was still light?”
Lenora’s face fell. That was probably true enough. Dead of night was hardly ideal travelling conditions. “Or mayhap he was a victor?” she ventured.
“If he’d won, what would be his reason for sneaking away under cover of night?” Berta asked wryly.
“Maybe…” Lenora hesitated, waiting for a plausible reason. “He has a sick relative on his death-bed?” she ventured.
Berta snorted. “You see him rushing to hold their hand?” she asked. “Him?”
Lenora flushed. “Maybe he’s their heir?” she suggested. “And wishes to ensure there is no last-minute change to the will.”
“What an imagination you do have,” Berta retorted. The way she said it was not complimentary.
“Do you think so?” asked Lenora. She spotted lit torches ahead and her heart sank. The gate was manned and the guards milling there looked up with interest at their approach. Oh damn, thought Lenora. She did not imagine that Sir Garman would be at all good at thinking up plausible stories. He looked far too tight-lipped and grim to possess a silver tongue. She steeled herself for a confrontation, watching anxiously as the guards exchanged a few words with Orde. She definitely picked out the words ‘servants’ as he gestured toward them. Lenora watched as one of the guards detached himself from the others and stroll over to their cart. She felt his keen gaze pass over her as he held up a lit torch so he could peer into the back of the cart.
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 3