Bride for a Knight (9781460344804)

by Moore, Margaret

  True to her word, she had left at first light the day after getting her father’s message. Surprisingly, she had found Sweetling already saddled, and the escort waiting in the yard.

  “Sir Roland’s orders,” Arnhelm had explained.

  In spite of that positive sign, Roland hadn’t come to bid her farewell, nor had he returned to their chamber the night before. She had waited all night for him, both dreading and wishing he would come. That he would see that she was right about Gerrard needing to leave, or at least concede that she might be. That he would refute Gerrard’s claim that he’d married her only to make his brother jealous. That he cared about her and her opinions.

  But her worry and her hope proved to be for naught, because she didn’t see him. Nor did she ask where he was before they rode out of the gates. If he didn’t wish to say goodbye, she would not look for him.

  “My wife will be most delighted to see you again!” Sir Melvin exclaimed. “Of course you must stay the night.” His smile faded. “Going back to DeLac to see your father, I suppose? We’ve heard he’s not well. Not well at all.” He reached up to help her dismount and went on without giving her a chance to reply. “Still, we’re happy to have you break your journey here. See how well the repairs to the stable are coming along? They’ll be done in no time. And that ox you gave us—marvelous strong fella, I must say. But you look tired, my dear. Perhaps you should stay a day or two.”

  “Thank you for your kind offer, Sir Melvin,” she said when he paused to breathe, “and I appreciate your hospitality once again. However, a single night is all I ask. I must get to DeLac as quickly as possible.”

  “If you must, you must, I suppose. Ah, here is my good wife!” he cried as Lady Viola appeared in the doorway of their manor. “Look, Viola, here she is, safe and sound!”

  When Mavis met her at the door, Lady Viola tucked her arm in hers and led her toward the hearth, where a warm fire crackled merrily. The scent of spiced wine was welcome, too, but not as much as the drink itself when Lady Viola offered her a goblet after she’d handed her cloak to a servant. “My dear, how tired you must be! Such a journey and in this cold weather, too!”

  “We’ve been fortunate, really,” Mavis replied, although in truth, the days had been cold, and the roads hard with frost and ice. At least it hadn’t rained. Or snowed.

  “What a lovely gown!” Lady Viola exclaimed as Mavis wrapped her hands around the stem of the goblet and sipped the welcome drink.

  “Thank you,” Mavis replied as her chilled limbs relaxed.

  “We shall see that all your men have some mulled wine,” Sir Melvin declared, “and we’ve a hearty meal coming, too, eh, Viola?”

  “My cook makes excellent stew and bread,” she replied. “Would you like to lie down and rest before the evening meal?”

  “Yes, please.” Mavis was more tired than she could remember being in her life.

  “Come, then, to the chamber. Bring the wine with you, of course,” Lady Viola said, rising to lead the way.

  Mavis got up slowly and carefully. She had found that lately, if she rose too swiftly, she got dizzy.

  “I’ll attend to your escort,” Sir Melvin called out as the women made their way to the stairs leading to the upper chambers.

  When the women were gone, Sir Melvin drew his chair up close to Arnhelm and Verdan, who were seated a little distance from the soldiers of Dunborough. They had little in common with the men from Yorkshire and could barely understand half the things they said.

  “Well, now, lads, here we are again, eh?” Sir Melvin said as he refilled their goblets. “We didn’t think she’d be coming back this way so soon.”

  “She’s a dutiful daughter,” Arnhelm replied.

  “More’n the old goat deserves,” Verdan muttered.

  Arnhelm shot him a look. “He’s still our lord, so watch yer tongue.”

  “Not for long, I don’t think.”

  “He’s that sick, is he?” Sir Melvin asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

  Arnhelm nodded. “Aye, he’s bad off.”

  Sir Melvin glanced at the Yorkshiremen, then back at Arnhelm and Verdan. “Not that I’m doubting your ability to protect Lady Mavis, but I would have thought her husband would come with her.”

  “They had a quarrel,” Verdan said. His brother gave him another censorious look. “Well, they did! I had it all from Lizabet. It was about his brother, that Gerrard. S’truth, he’s like a thorn in their boots! That’s why Sir Roland didn’t even come to bid her farewell.”

  Sir Melvin regarded them with distress. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Granted Sir Roland isn’t the most congenial of company, but I would hate to think Lady Mavis is unhappily married.”

  “Could be worse, I suppose,” Verdan mused aloud. “When her father dies, they’ll be even richer. Might smooth things out a bit, eh?”

  “Are you daft or what?” his brother demanded. “Money ain’t goin’ to make her happy.”

  “I didn’t say it would! I said it’d smooth things over.”

  “If you ask me, the only thing that’ll smooth things over is for that Gerrard to go away and never come back.”

  “Is that likely?” Sir Melvin warily inquired.

  Arnhelm and Verdan could only shrug.

  “Well, whatever happens, chaps, make sure your lady knows she’ll always be welcome here,” Sir Melvin said from the fullness of his kind and generous heart.

  * * *

  Two days later, Mavis regarded her bedridden father with a mixture of horror and pity. His breathing was short and raspy, and he appeared to have aged a decade and shrunk to half his size in the time she’d been gone.

  At least his bedchamber was as comfortable as a sick chamber could be. Thick tapestries covered the walls, and braziers kept it well heated. One of the shutters was open a little to allow fresh air. A table stood nearby, the usual carafe of wine and silver goblet replaced with various jars and pots of medicines and ointments. Another table on the other side of the large curtained bed held an oil lamp burning brightly. It had always been a comfortable chamber, well suited to a rich man who liked the finer things his wealth could provide, but never before had it smelled of illness and medicine.

  As she looked down at her father, whatever remained of Mavis’s anger and resentment melted away, leaving only the love of a daughter for a weak and ailing parent.

  “Father?” she said softly, wondering if he could hear her.

  His eyelids fluttered open, to reveal rheumy, bloodshot eyes.

  “Father?” she repeated hopefully, leaning closer.

  He turned his head toward her and reached for her hand.

  “Mavis? You...are...here?” he asked, blinking as if he wasn’t sure he could believe the evidence of his eyes.

  “Yes, Father, I’m here. I’ve come home to take care of you.”

  He blinked and a single tear rolled down his sunken cheek. “You look so much like your mother,” he whispered.

  But not with tenderness, despite the tear. It was as if he were simply stating a fact.

  Confused and worried, she sank down on the side of the bed.

  “I never loved her,” he said, his voice getting stronger even as his breathing grew more hoarse. “I wanted her for her beauty and the dowry, and that was all. If I’d known she was so weak...that she wouldn’t give me sons... And she told tales...spread rumors. I couldn’t find another wife after that... All her fault. Women...useless except to give a man sons.”

  Mavis had to turn away, unable to look at the man who was hurting her even as he lay dying.

  “I should have had sons!” he cried, struggling to sit up. “I would have been a better father to sons.”

  “It’s all right, Father,” she said. She tried to keep him still as he moved to get out of bed. “You must re
st, Father, please!”

  Whether because he was paying heed to her words or was too weak to succeed, he gave up and lay back, panting, his breathing even more labored. “I think I’m dying!”

  “Not yet, Father,” she assured him, certain his burst of energy had to be a good sign.

  His expression altered, as if he saw the gates of heaven opening before him and Saint Peter ready to pass judgment. “I was a terrible brother to my sister, and a worse uncle to her child. I should beg Tamsin’s forgiveness for all the wrongs I’ve done her—and you, too, my daughter.”

  He reached for her hand, grasped it tightly and looked at her with frantic appeal. “Can you forgive me?” he gasped.

  “I can! I do!” she assured him, meaning every word.

  He closed his eyes again, his breathing faster and more shallow, but he seemed quieter and at ease. “I’ll find a good husband for you, Mavis,” he murmured. “You’re so pretty and loving, any man should be glad to have you. I’ll give you a fine dowry, too. And money. Lots of money.”

  Her heart seemed to stop. “Father, I’m already married, to a man you chose for me. A good man, Father, and a kind and generous one.”

  Most of the time.

  Her father’s eyelids fluttered open and she saw a flash of his old temper cross his features. “You are wed? Without my permission?”

  “You gave your permission. You chose the bridegroom—Sir Roland of Dunborough. It was only a short time ago.”

  “Where the devil is Dunborough? And who is this Sir Roland?”

  “The son of Sir Blane from Yorkshire. You made a marriage contract for Tamsin with Sir Blane, but Tamsin...she went away and I was to take her place, but Sir Blane died and—”

  Her father suddenly sat bolt upright and threw off the covers.

  “Father, no!” she protested as she tried to restrain him. With unexpected vigor he pushed her away, put his feet on the floor and stood for one brief moment before he crumpled to the cold stone floor. “Father!” she cried as she knelt down and tried to lift him. “Father! Help, oh, please, someone help!”

  Arnhelm and Verdan came running into the room, then skittered to a halt. Arnhelm came closer and went down on one knee beside her.

  “Help me get him back to bed. Verdan, please go at once for the physician.”

  “It’s too late, my lady,” Arnhelm said, his face full of pity. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “But he was awake! He was talking! He stood without my aid!”

  Arnhelm shook his head, then stood gravely silent, his head bowed like his brother’s. Covering her face, Mavis sank to her knees and wept for the father she had known.

  And the one he might have been.

  * * *

  Gerrard slid onto the bench in the tavern just inside the walls of York and sighed heavily. He’d ridden hard, propelled by the hope that the attorney Audrey had spoken of could help him win his rightful inheritance. He had abandoned any notion of seeking an annulment for his brother’s marriage. Whatever Audrey believed, he knew women, and however it had happened, Roland’s wife genuinely cared for him. With her father’s money and power to back her—and despite her father’s state—any effort to bring about an annulment would likely come to naught. It would be better to use his energy, and Audrey’s wealth and influence, to get Dunborough.

  “Ale!” he called out to a passing serving wench. She wasn’t ugly, but her bustling manner and sharp look didn’t appeal to him. He liked women who were pretty and placid like Esmeralda, who hadn’t had the sense of a goose. Otherwise, she would have left the woods when he didn’t arrive by moonrise. Better yet, she would have realized his suggestion wasn’t serious.

  Just as he should have realized she possessed a spark of boldness and liked him enough to risk a beating from her father. That was all he’d thought she’d risked. If he’d had the slightest inkling that a man like Bern would find her, he would never have proposed that clandestine meeting, and he wouldn’t have gotten drunk.

  He wondered how the convent life suited her. Better, perhaps, than marriage, at least for Esmeralda. The only other girl he knew who’d chosen the convent was Audrey’s sister, Celeste, much to his surprise. She possessed more than a little spark of boldness and a fiery temper, too, as he well remembered. Perhaps the nuns had stamped out those traits, though. Thank God. The world didn’t need bold, tempestuous girls who would tackle a boy three years older and a whole head taller and break his collarbone.

  “Set up in that big house near the high street,” a man said nearby, his voice growing loud enough to interrupt Gerrard’s ruminations, his Yorkshire accent thick, but understandable. “He’s spent a fortune on the furnishings, and her clothes, too. My wife said she’d be tempted to whoredom for half her gowns. I said, if Dalfrid wants you, go ahead!”

  Dalfrid?

  Gerrard shifted closer to the two well-dressed middle-aged men, prosperous merchants by the look of them.

  “Being the steward of Dunborough pays better than I guessed,” his black-bearded companion replied. “Hope my wife doesn’t get a glimpse of those gowns,” he added with a laugh.

  Gerrard rose, picked up his ale and approached them. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he said. “May I join you? You’re natives of Yorkshire, I take it?”

  “Aye,” the older of the two, the one he’d heard first, replied.

  “I’m a stranger here with many questions,” Gerrard lied, “and of course, all the ale will be on me.”

  “If you like,” the first one said. “I’m Gordon, from Ripon, and this is Randolph, from Tockwith.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Martin, from Leeds.” He sat down and for a while they spoke of the city, and trade, and finally Gerrard brought the subject around to the sale of wool. “I’ve come to see about purchasing some wool for my weavers. I’ve heard the steward from Dunborough comes to York sometimes to make arrangements for the sale of their wool.”

  “We were just talking about him!” Gordon cried.

  “Aye, he comes here often,” Martin said, chortling.

  “Buys more’n he sells, though,” Gordon added with a snicker.

  Gerrard’s apparently innocent gaze went from one man to the other. “Do you think he might be interested in selling some of the Dunborough wool next spring?”

  “Oh, aye, and he might be here now. I’ll warn you, though, lad, he drives a hard bargain.”

  “’Cept with women!” Martin said, chuckling again.

  “You’ve got to forgive my friend,” Gordon said as he tried to stifle his own laughter. “Taverns make him talk too much.”

  Gerrard laughed easily. “They have a similar effect on me. But that’s how men become friends, isn’t it?” He signaled for the serving wench and called out for more ale. “Now, tell me more about this steward, if you will. One tradesman to another, eh?”

  * * *

  Sometime later, Gerrard left the two wool merchants sleeping in the tavern, their heads upon the table, and made his way to a large, two-storied, half-timbered house near the market square.

  As he got closer, he spotted an alley that ran alongside and ducked into it. Just as he’d hoped, there was a yard at the back and a door leading to the kitchen. Best of all, the door was open and the kitchen momentarily deserted. He crept into the chamber and to the door leading to what was likely the main room of the house. He opened it a crack and was rewarded with the sight of Dalfrid standing near a brazier that lit his face, so there could be no mistake. A woman sat nearby, dressed in a sumptuous gown the like of which Gerrard had never seen, not even on a noblewoman, and with ropes of pearls about her neck. She was no great beauty, but according to those men in the tavern, she possessed certain talents that cost her lovers dear.

  This was all he needed to see to confirm what
he’d come to suspect.

  Dalfrid had been stealing from the coffers of Dunborough, no doubt for years, while claiming there were always more debts and taxes to be paid. It was the only explanation for the woman, this house, that gown and those jewels. To be sure, there were taxes and some debts had been his, but how much more had Dalfrid taken using that excuse?

  “It’s not enough,” the woman whined, her voice high and thin. “I need more for the candle maker and the butcher. I deserve it, don’t I? You don’t want me to starve, do you?”

  “Of course not, my honey,” Dalfrid replied, and never in his life had Gerrard heard the man sound so compliant, not even when his father was alive.

  To think that he’d provided Dalfrid some of his excuses to steal, all the while claiming, like this woman, that he deserved whatever money he took because he was his father’s son.

  He heard a gasp and whirled around. Eua stood just inside the outer door. As she stared at him, dumbfounded, the bucket in her hand slipped and crashed to the floor, water spilling everywhere.

  “Hello, Eua,” Gerrard said calmly, although he was just as surprised. “I wondered where you went. I should have guessed Dalfrid would help you, given that you always were thick as thieves.”

  “What’s happened?” Dalfrid demanded, opening the inner door. “Damn you, Eua—”

  Like Eua, he fell silent and could only stare as Gerrard drew his sword and placed it against Dalfrid’s chest. “Speaking of thievery, Dalfrid, please inform your charming mistress I’ve come to escort you back to Dunborough, whether you wish to go or not.”

  Eua threw herself onto her knees at Gerrard’s feet. “I didn’t know what he was up to, Gerrard! I swear on my life! I didn’t know!”

  “You didn’t know that he was robbing my father and then my brother? That he was saying there were debts and pocketing the money himself to keep a mistress? Where did you think he got his money?”

  “I thought... I thought he was a canny trader, that’s all! Please, Gerrard, let me go! For the love of God, Gerrard, you’ve been like a son to me!”