“Where you off to then, so late, ladies?” he asked in a faintly mocking tone. He was a good-looking young man, and rather pleased with himself, thought Lenora. Not to mention officious. None of the other guards seemed remotely curious about them after listening to Orde’s explanation.
“We be off to the country,” she supplied, doing her best imitation of Berta’s accent. “To my master’s estate at Cofton Warren.”
He made no comment, peering into one of the hessian sacks. “Who’s that?” he asked, glancing up at Berta. “Cat got her tongue?”
“This is my old mum,” Lenora told him confidingly. “But she’s quite deaf, poor old thing. Did you want her to speak?” She turned to Berta. “Mum?” she said loudly. “Tell the nice guard how we’re going back home to the country.”
Berta started. “That’s right, dearie,” she said loudly. “And don’t you be bothering my girl. She’s a good girl, she is, not one of your city slatterns!” She eyed the soldier cantankerously.
He snorted, glancing back at Lenora. “Why in the midst of night? Seems a funny sort of time to be setting off.”
Lenora leant forward. “Well, we thought so too,” she said, lowering her voice. “I reckon the master had a bad day in the lists. Gone into a proper fit of the sulks, he has.”
The guard’s gaze flickered over to Garman who sat stony-faced and glaring at them, though Lenora didn’t think it likely he could hear a word of their exchange.
“These knights and the notions they do get,” she added with a sigh. “Some days a poor maid doesn’t know her own arse from her elbow!” She winked and to her surprise watched a faint blush cover the soldier’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I—er—can imagine.”
“What the hell is this delay?” Garman barked. “I fail to see why I’m stood waiting here while you importune my servant!”
The guard stood back smartly, his face flaming now. “Carry on,” he said in a hoarse voice. Lenora beamed at him, but he seemed unable now to meet her eye.
6
Five hours later, they sat outside a small inn at a backwater village, having left the main road out of Caer-Lyoness as soon as was possible. Garman had put in an order for ale and oatcakes and now joined Lenora and Berta who were sat at a rough-hewn wooden table. The old servant shifted to the far end of the bench and turned her face in contemplation of the fields opposite in what he could only surmise was a tactful retreat to give them some privacy. He wondered briefly if Lenora had confided in the old woman, that he had been bribed to run away with her? He fancied she had not, as the servant seemed to think they might desire private speech with one another. He found himself lowering his voice, accordingly.
“For your information,” he started grimly. “I was successful yesterday in the joust.” For some reason, he had been smarting the entire journey at her ridiculous sallies with that impudent guard.
“Oh, you heard that, did you?” she responded, without Garman thought, any noticeable discomfort.
“Yes, I did. Unlike ‘your old mum’, I’m not deaf.” His tone was biting, but whatever reason his words tickled Lenora Montmayne’s fancy and she went off into a peal of laughter. He stared at her.
“What did you think of my accent?” she asked.
“It was execrable,” he answered bluntly. “I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be Aphranian or Somerlow.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, but that’s good!” she said. “For Berta was originally from Aphrany but has lived this past twenty years in Caer-Lyoness! And I was doing an impression of her, you see. So, it must have been pretty accurate.”
He grunted. The delight she clearly took in this surprised him. Watching her through narrowed lids, he began slowly revising his impression of Lenora Montmayne. From his glimpses of her about court these past three years, he had thought her a bloodless, limpid type; pure of feature, and somewhat dim.
Then there was the fact he had never heard even a smidgeon of scandal about her fair name. He had thought her virtuous but very likely vacuous with it. Her favored suitors permitted to squire her to events usually had one foot in the grave or else were pompous bores like Colfax whose favorite topic of conversation was himself. Either that, or wet dishrags like Emworth who wanted to simply sit and gaze at her in silent worship. He supposed he had assumed that, at the end of the day, she had very little to say for herself. It appeared that was not the case.
Which was probably why seeing the way she had flirted with that guard had shocked the holy hells out of him! Could it be that Lenora Montmayne was not the blameless bore he had always imagined her? He stole another sideways look at her. She was leaning back against the table, her elbows resting on its surface as she lifted her face to the late September sun. She had a smile on her lips, that he could swear he had never seen her wear before. It was not the usual vacant simper at all. Her eyes were closed to the sun. Her eyelids looked pink and mottled, he wondered if they were sore.
“Who did you award the tourney crown to?” she asked suddenly, surprising him as her eyes were still shut.
“What?”
“You said you won the joust,” she reminded him. “So, I wondered which lady you bestowed the crown on.”
He cast his mind back. “Lady Helen Cecil,” he said abruptly, naming the King’s current paramour.
“Oh, of course you did.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, feeling unaccountably annoyed.
She opened her eyes, looking mildly surprised. “Just that it was the obvious choice.”
“Now you’re out of the running, you mean?” he said sharply.
She nodded. “Yes,” she agreed without rancor and he felt a prickle of something he could not quite identify. “I did not mean anything particularly by it. Just that most knights give very little thought to who they bestow the honor.” She smiled at him. “They just plump for the prettiest girl present.”
Which means you will never receive the crown again, he thought, but for some reason did not voice. He was not usually so reticent.
“I expect Lady Helen will receive all the tributes now,” she continued.
“It doesn’t hurt her cause that she’s the King’s current whore,” he found himself adding gruffly. “Doubtless some mean to curry favor with the King by flattering her.”
Lenora arched a brow at him. “I doubt that was why you picked her,” she said mildly.
“Well, no,” he conceded grudgingly.
“Then let us just say that she is extremely beautiful.”
“I don’t think she is beautiful,” he admitted unexpectedly. He felt Lenora turn her surprised gaze on him. “I just think she’s comely. I always preferred comeliness to beauty.”
“I see,” she said. Then after a moment, she asked curiously, “Did you…?” Then hesitated.
“What?”
“Did you think I was beautiful? Before.” She made a gesture twirling her fingers before her face. “This befell me, I mean.”
“Yes,” he said promptly. “Beautiful and dull as ditchwater.”
Instead of protesting or flouncing off, Lenora merely nodded thoughtfully. Silence fell over them a moment, Lenora lost in her thoughts and Garman staring hard at her profile.
“You’re not what I thought you were,” he said after a moment.
“No?”
“Not at all,” he said heavily.
“You mean, because I’m neither beautiful, nor boring?” she asked lightly.
Which was what he meant, but he found himself flushing all the same. He cleared his throat. “You could put it like that.” But only if you wanted bluntness to the point of pain, he thought. Was that what she wanted? She certainly wasn’t flinching away from any hard truths.
Her servant chose that moment to interrupt. “They’re bringing the food over,” she said, shifting down the bench to sit closer to her mistress. Garman felt her eyes on him and looking up saw Berta regarding him with frank animosity. Devoted to her mistress, he thought wryly and proba
bly served her for years. Still, she did not look the type of lady’s attendant he would expect for the likes of a court beauty, and neither did she look like a bygone relic of the nursery. If anything, she looked the sort of sour old crone one saw hanging around the gallows, hawking cheap cures or picking pockets. Remembering how readily Lenora had identified her as her mother, almost had him choking on his dry biscuit.
“I think we should find a priest as soon as we are able,” Lenora told him once she had drained her cup of ale and plunked it down on the tabletop. “We must be married before nightfall. Do you suppose there will be a church anywhere in the vicinity?”
Garman glanced around at the small hamlet they currently found themselves in. A cluster of cottages and a duck-pond was all his eye could see. “I highly doubt it,” he said, taking stock of surroundings.
“No matter, we’ll find somewhere on the road, I’m sure,” Lenora said optimistically, helping herself to an oatcake.
“You think so? On these back roads?” Berta interrupted sharply.
It struck Garman that Berta did not trust him one whit. “We’ll find somewhere,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Before nightfall?”
Perhaps the old woman had been used to think herself defender of her mistress‘s virtue, Garman thought, but it seemed a little redundant now. After all, he was hardly likely to be overtaken with lust. “Either today or tomorrow.” He shrugged.
“Tomorrow won’t do,” Berta insisted. “My lady has her reputation to consider!”
“Berta,” Lenora murmured mildly, and laid a hand on the agitated woman’s arm. “All will be well; you must not fret.” Garman watched their exchange with raised brows. Lenora turned back to him. “I feel sure we will happen upon somewhere.” She crossed her fingers in a superstitious gesture Garman recognized meant ‘if the fates will it’. He rolled his eyes. Superstitious too, that was all he needed.
Seeing a weak-chinned youth trailing out with a tray of ale, Lenora turned impulsively to hail him with her most friendly smile. Garman stared as she cajoled him into bringing her out some fish—any fish she assured him winningly. His Adam’s apple bobbing, the youth disappeared stammering he would see what they had in the kitchen.
Garman stared. As far as he could recall, Lenora Montmayne had never been remotely flirtatious in her manner heretofore. His own impression of her demeanor was that it had been bland in the extreme and somewhat remote. Even her most ardent admirers were known to lament her cool lack of familiarity. Where the hells had all this coaxing and coquetry coming from? he wondered in frowning bewilderment. And why the fuck was it annoying him so much? He gritted his teeth as she exclaimed over the plate of whitebait the fellow presented, as though for all the world he had given her a plate of roasted swan.
“As the price of the fish will be added to my bill,” he said coldly. “I fail to see why you have to gush over him so much.” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he wished he could recall them. Both Berta and Lenora appeared surprised by them, but he fancied Berta’s gaze held a malicious gleam of satisfaction.
“I’m just being polite,” Lenora told him reproachfully, and carried off her prize to the cart. What the hells was she doing? He craned his neck to watch her gracefully climb onto the wagon and stoop over a wicker case there. Was she feeding something? he wondered with misgiving. He shot a look at her maid. “What’s in the basket?”
The old woman gave a humorless smile. “Cats,” she said with malevolent enjoyment.
Cats, Garman turned away from her in disgust. He might have known.
7
It wasn’t until midday that a likely solution came their way. Set up at a sort of crossroads, was a holy shrine and to the side of it, a make-shift sort of hut such as religious hermit used as a retreat. Garman reined in and turned to look over his shoulder at Lenora who was following on along behind. “Perhaps Fate has provided after all,” he said ironically, and nodded toward the hut.
She leant forward in her saddle, her eyes widening. “Is it inhabited?” she asked eagerly. For a moment he was surprised. He had expected her to balk at the idea of being married by some grubby hedge-preacher. You’d think he thought wryly that he would have realized by now that Lenora Montmayne would overturn his every pre-conception. “Wait here and I’ll see,” he said, dismounting.
Pushing aside the strung-up bit of fabric that served as a door, he stood a moment while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. After a few seconds, he made out an austere figure knelt in prayer. For a moment he had thought it a graven image, it sat so still. Certainly, it gave no acknowledgement of his presence. Garman cleared his throat. The slight figure stirred, sighed and then rose stiffly to its feet. When it turned around, Garman found himself surveyed sharply by a pair of watery blue eyes under a thin aquiline nose.
“My son, you have come to worship at the shrine of St. Valmunda?” the hermit asked, sounding aloof and faintly annoyed at the interruption. His gaze was shrewd and swept Garman in a coolly assessing fashion.
“I have not,” Garman told him bluntly. “I come to offer coin for a service I want performed.”
“Prayers for your everlasting soul?” the hermit suggested wryly. “Why, what have you done, I wonder?” He eyed the sword at Garman’s hip. “Run some poor wretch through, more than likely,” he muttered with disapproval.
Garman narrowed his eyes at him. For two pins he’d tell the old fool what he really thought of him.
“Nothing like that,” he answered in curt tones. “I want marrying.”
“Marrying?” For the first time the hermit seemed taken aback. He peered into the gloom of the small space he inhabited as if to seek out the mysterious female. “To whom?”
“She waits outside.”
The old man tutted as he brushed past Garman to make his way out of the hut. “Highly irregular,” he muttered.
Garman followed him outside, his expression grim. He halted abruptly when he saw that Lenora had donned the wretched head-dress again and was completely swathed in veils. He was not the only one taken aback by her appearance, he thought grimly. The hermit was peering at her in some concern.
“This is your bride?” he asked in an uncertain voice. “What is the reason for all this concealment?” Garman rolled his eyes at the querulous note of suspicion in the old man’s voice. He was as fussy and nit-picking as any priest. So much for thinking a wayside-ceremony would be less troublesome.
“There’s no secrecy,” he answered swiftly. “Only the lady is somewhat … shy,” he pronounced dryly.
The old man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I must have some speech with her alone,” he said, drawing himself up stiffly. “To assure myself she has not been coerced into this.”
“Coerced?” Garman repeated, feeling more irritated by the minute.
“But of course, Father,” Lenora said, seeming to realize the hermit was within a hair’s breadth of refusing to oblige them. She threw up her veils and hurried forward to take the hermit’s arm. “Allow me to reassure you on that score.”
Garman watched the old buzzard thaw as Lenora dragged him over to the other side of the shrine and spoke to him in low urgent tones. He watched the quick gestures she made with her hands as she talked. Periodically, she threw quick glances over at him and more than once, the old man turned his hawk-like profile to gaze frigidly at Garman. What the hells was she telling him, he wondered. Whatever it was, it was not softening the old man’s cantankerous attitude toward him one whit!
As he drew closer, the look the holy man favored him with was so blighting that Garman almost took a step back. “What the hells did you say to him?” he hissed at Lenora as the hermit swept past them back into the hut.
“What was necessary to enlist his aid,” she replied serenely. “He was inclined to be unhelpful, so I was forced to be extremely frank about our circumstances.” She smoothed down her skirts.
“Circumstances? What circumstances?” Garman frowned.
�
�That I could not hold you off,” Lenora told him sadly. “And have been performing the duties of wife to you for several weeks now. I begged him to make an honest woman of me before I am utterly disgraced.” Garman stared at her a moment in open astonishment. “At that, he saw his remonstrances were quite useless and he is now willing to perform the ceremony for us.”
“Oh, he is, is he?” Garman glowered at her as his ideas about gently born women underwent a rapid revision. “How fortunate for your honor.”
The hermit reappeared, carrying a quill and a large book. His bearing was stiff with outrage and the eyes he bent on Garman were glacial with disapproval. “I will require your names,” he said. “And those of your parents and your birthplaces,” he said, opening the pages and scratching away with a quill.
It occurred dimly to Garman that this was rather more formal than the roadside hand-fasting he had imagined. In truth, the hermit looked more like a senior cleric than a holy man or lay-preacher. He eyed the sparse iron-gray hair and the hawk-like features with grudging curiosity. “And your name?” Garman asked abruptly, interrupting proceedings. “What is it?”
The hermit fixed a stern eye on him. “My name is Father Udolphus,” he answered in clipped tones and returned to covering his page in spidery writing.
Garman opened his mouth again to pursue his line of questioning, but Lenora chose that moment to reach across and clasp his hand tightly.
“Beloved,” she said in a sweet, syrupy voice that immediately put Garman’s teeth on edge. “Let us remain focused on the task at hand,” she urged. “And not interrupt the dear Father with needless questions.”
The Unlovely Bride (Brides of Karadok Book 2) Page 4