Not at all. “Aye”
He laced his fingers through hers. “Ye are going to be the talk of my hall this eve,” he warned with a laugh as he began the circling descent to the hall.
Alais stumbled as his laugh rolled over her. Being the talk of the hall, even one as small and isolated as Warfield, would be her ruin. If his guests carried tales of her to Stephen—or even to the Scottish King—a troop would show up, intent on “escorting” her to safety.
Whatever the destination, she would never arrive.
“Do no’ look like that. Ye are safe.”
Brushing her hand down his chest, she nodded and continued on. He believed she was safe here, but she knew what happened when people trusted someone else to keep them safe. Her father had trusted.
She froze when Grym led her into the great hall. On her way up the stairs, the hall had been a formless space of shadows and echoes. Now, the hearth blazed with a log the size of some homes, throwing light into the farthest corners. Boughs of evergreen hung from the walls, smaller sprigs were underfoot, and everywhere candles illuminated at least a score of people clustered in groups of fours and fives, drinking and laughing and making merry.
“Where did all these people come from?”
“They were hunting when we brought ye here.”
She studied their faces, but none looked familiar. Roundtree was a long way from here, so it was doubtful she’d meet someone who knew her. But Jean de Mont was here. He might recognize her, no matter how meek and mild she pretended.
“Be calm.” His hand slid down her arm, then closed around her hand and turned her around. “Ye are under my protection, and I am armed.”
“Warfield, I have been searching for you,” the tall, lanky nobleman said. A memory tugged at Alais. Something about his voice grated against her ears, pitted her stomach. She knew this de Mont from somewhere before she saw him in the stables.
“I was busy.” Grym put just enough emphasis on the last word to cause de Mont to glance at her, then smirk. A memory caught, then vanished just as she reached for it.
“A Yule gift?”
He fisted the back of her dressed and pulled it so tight she could barely breathe. “My wife,” he said.
De Mont started, then forced a smile. “I had not heard you wed. Congratulations. May God bless you with many children, and an obedient bride.”
“Obedience is boring.”
“You say that now. When the honeymoon is over, you will think differently.” He turned to Alais. “I know all of the noble families in the region, but you…I somehow missed.”
Alais drew herself up to her full height and studied him. Recognition danced just at the edge of her awareness. She knew him…almost as if she’d seen him with her father or brothers… “My family resided…resides farther east, near the old Roman wall. You would not know them.”
“You have no idea who I know or have alliances with.” His eyes narrowed. A memory dug into her thoughts. Surely not…such things did not happen, not to her. She would never be so fortunate.
“Who was your father?” de Mont demanded.
Certain now, she lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “My father was Richard Fitz Henry, Earl of Roundtree, as you well know.”
Grym’s grip on her tightened. She ignored the need to breathe to watch de Mont. A moment’s terror passed over de Mont’s face. Memory crashed over her, shattering everything. She’d seen him once before. Outside the gates of Roundtree. Riding with the Earl of Mowbray’s men. He’d been more youth than man then, his features round, his hair greasy, but he had been there the day her brothers died.
Tremors started at her knees and worked their way up. Air dammed in her chest. Her heart beat as if it was trying to burst free of her ribs, and all she wanted was to run.
Grym pulled her against him, his solidness a comfort in the sudden swirl of anger and fear. Breathe, she ordered herself. But breath wouldn’t come. Her body refused to work. She felt like she had that day: bound, helpless. Mowbray had told de Mont to guard her. But, he had led her away—she thought to freedom. Instead…
Her eyes caught the scar on his face. She’d almost blinded him that day.
She was jerked off her feet. Slammed against Grym’s chest. Locked into place. He twisted slightly to shield her from the rest of the hall as his hand slipped over hers. He pulled the knife from her fingers, then kissed the side of her neck.
“Do not move or say another word.”
De Mont recovered first. “This is the woman who killed your brother.” His voice was reed thin. “If she is your wife, then she has betrayed you, my friend.”
“I am no’ your friend, and if my wife wants to kill ye, I want to know why.”
“He—”
“No’ ye, my sweet.” He bent a hard gaze on de Mont. “Talk.”
De Mont took a step back. “The Earl of Roundtree and his sons were killed in fighting three years ago.”
“De Mowbray—”
Grym cinched his arm tighter around her chest. His hand at her waist still held the knife. “Not ye,” he whispered in her ear.
“He had no daughter,” de Mont said. “At least, not one he acknowledged.”
“I know better.” Grym loosened his grip and stepped forward, putting himself between her and de Mont. “Our marriage was made when we were but children. He had no reason to put her before the likes of ye.”
When he talked like that, Alais could almost believe she was indeed his wife.
“She is mine,” he said to de Mont. “Harm her, touch her, look at her…and I will end ye.”
“How hospitable.”
Grym’s shoulders went down and back. “Then do no’ to violate it.”
“I would not. Without rules, our society would be in chaos.”
Every inch of Grym relaxed. Alais could feel his spine loosen. He slipped the knife into the back of his belt, then turned to her as a minstrel struck a merry tune. “Come wife. ’Tis time to feast and make merry.”
“I want to kill him.”
His smile never dimmed as he dragged her to the high table near the hearth. “No’ in my home.”
“His father killed my family.”
“When this feast is over,” he said softly, “you and I are having a long talk, starting with Prince Richard, your father.”
She shook her head. “Papa was a bastard, not a prince.”
“As if that matters when royal blood is involved.”
Chapter Fourteen
Richard Fitz Henry. Grym leaned back in his chair. He’d met the man once at King David’s court in Carlisle. At the time, Grym had been a boy, and his impressions of the old king’s bastard son hadn’t been kind. In an oversized family filled with abbots, archbishops and earls, the Lord of Roundtree had been content to improve his lands, raise his children, and build a library worthy of a Benedictine monastary.
He glanced at Alais.
Until this night, he thought he was beyond surprise. Indeed, a lifetime of war should have made him immune to shock, but the sudden constriction in his chest made him wonder if her words would be the last he would hear.
And if they didn’t kill him, King David would—if King Stephen didn’t get his troops here first. Jesu, he really needed to start listening to William more and stop bringing home lost cubs and sprites.
Except, she wasn’t a sprite. Nor just a thief.
Alais caught him watching her and pushed away the wine Theo had poured for her.
“I will not go back to that life. Kill me now if that’s your plan.”
“I have no plans for ye,” he said, and that much was true. He had no plans and no idea what he would do next.
“Then you are the only one.” Her expression was one he’d seen before on the faces of men who survived a battle that most did not.
“’Tis not a sin to survive, Alais.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?”
He covered her fingers with his, feeling the mix of softness and strength th
at he was beginning to realize was Alais. If he were thrust outside his castle, beyond the help of his companions and guards and with naught but with the clothes he wore, he wasn’t sure if he would survive as well as she had.
“Everyone is talking about yer wife.” William leaned over his arm and speared a bit of goose on a platter in front of Alais. “I have never known you to lie.”
“’Tis the best way to truly keep her safe.”
In the quick glance William threw him, Grym saw his friend’s anger and worry despite the bright smile. “Only you would take a promise to such extremes. She is a thief, not worth the cost of breaking your relationship with King David.”
“She is the…” Grym shook his head. Jesu, he couldn’t tell anyone who she was, not yet, maybe not ever.
“What of Robbie’s death?”
“The only way de Mont would know of Alais’s involvement is if he were there.”
“True.” William shifted his gaze from his trencher to the young nobleman sitting at the righthand table. “And yet, he lives.”
“He is a guest in my home.”
“Your damn sense of honor will get you killed yet.”
“My wife said the same.”
“She is not your wife, Grym, and just as likely as de Mont to put a knife in your back.”
“Listen to him,” Alais said in an arched voice. “I will be no man’s wife.”
“’Tis too late to protest,” William said with a bitter laugh. “The hall buzzes with the news.”
“I did not expect the lie.” Alais lifted her chin. “’Twill do you no good to wed me. I have no land, no coin, no alliances to bring to a marriage. Surely, once you realize—”
“Richard Fitz Henry was yer father. Ye need no dowry.”
“Hush.”
He drew back in surprise.
She just shushed him. No one had shushed him since…well, probably since he was a toddling child. William snorted, coughed, then laughed, drawing the attention of half the room. “I need answers, Alais.”
“Nay, you need to let me go.”
“’Tis too late for that.”
Steel flashed in her palm. Running a hand along his belt, he realized she’d pinched the sgian he’d taken from her. “Ye are safe. No one will attack ye in my house.”
She glanced toward Jean de Mont. “I would be safer in a wolf’s den.”
“He will not touch ye in my home.”
“He killed your brother while he slept off too much ale. Do you think he is a man to respect hospitality?”
Yes, he almost said, but held his tongue.
“He will come after you next.”
William leaned over Grym’s arm. “Why do you think that?”
“Because that is what I would do if I wanted Warfield,” she said. “That is what my Uncle Robert would say to do because he understood how the world worked. My father did not, and we all suffered for his idealism.”
“Why would ye want Warfield?”
She glanced at William, then met Grym’s gaze. “If I were de Mont?”
“Aye…or anyone. ’Tis not a large holding and few know…” He stopped himself. Few knew of the iron ore pits that pocked his holding.
“De Mont is the youngest son with four older half-brothers, including the earl. The only ways he gets land are by marrying it—or taking it where he thinks no one else will notice.”
Grym laughed. “If he thinks no one would notice, he is a fool. Trust me, I hold Warfield because I can—no’ because no one else wants it.”
He brushed a stray curl out of her eyes. She blew her bangs out away from his touch, suddenly looking very young and very stubborn, a waif in need of several good meals and years of pampering. “Ye resemble yer aunt, Empress Matilda. Has anyone ever told ye that?”
“Papa says I act like her, too.”
“Aye, she is a woman given to ordering a man’s hall regardless of his wishes.”
“She should be queen.”
“Women were no’ made to rule or war.”
“Tell that to Edith who runs this castle as if it were her own.”
Grym paused. She was right. “But a castle and a kingdom are no’ the same.”
“The difference is scale alone.” She leaned closer, brushing against his arm. “And women would do it better. Do you think a woman would disfigure her grandchildren? Do you think a woman would sanction rape and slaughter and the destruction of crops? Do you think a woman would make a vow, then break it because it did not suit her? Women are usually pawns or victims because men force us into that role, not because we cannot be more.”
She pushed him away and rose in a quick, graceful motion. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her flight as everyone in the room turned toward the high table. “Sit. The festivities continue.”
“I am done, even if this meal is not.”
“I did not give ye leave to go.”
“Nor did I ask for it. I outrank you.” Alais twisted her wrist, freeing herself from his grip and left the hall. He started to rise, but William’s laugh stopped him.
“’Tis no’ humorous.”
“Aye, ’tis. Let her go,” William said when Grym started to rise again. “In her present mood, she is as likely to gut you as de Mont.”
Grym scanned the room. De Mont leaned against the opposite wall, talking to the young bride of Eagles Field. His soldiers ringed the hall, each seemingly engaged in festivities, but he could see the alertness behind the cups. He caught John’s attention and gestured with his chin. With a small nod, the man stepped away from a group of young women and followed Alais up the steps.
“Can you put a guard on a woman who outranks you?” William asked.
Grym laughed. “As long as she does no’ know it—”
Screams sounded from down the hall. Grym rose, ready to defend Alais regardless of what she’d just done. De Mont was still in the hall, though.
And the screams were coming from below.
He was halfway across the hall when Theo hit the top step. “Fire, my lord. The kitchen.”
Quiet hung in the air, a single moment suspended.
Kitchen fires were not uncommon, but the winter winds and dryness would aid in its spread. Even the distance separating the kitchens from the main tower would be no gaurantee of safety in this storm. He didn’t need to shout orders or clear the hall. Everyone ran, knowing what had to be done.
By the time he reached the kitchen, smoke curled from beneath the eaves. Ham had organized a line of people to bring water from the mill to toss against the flame, but the water barrel was empty and thick smoke hung close to the ground. “Edith?”
“Over here,” a man called. Grym followed the voice to find the old woman sitting by on bench someone had dragged away from the building.
Grym went down on one knee. “Are ye well?”
“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry. I…”
“Hush. Are ye hurt?” He turned her hands over. “Burned?”
“No, but—”
“Every building in Warfield is in need of repair. Why not the kitchen?” He brushed his thumbs over the knobby joints. “What happened?”
She shook her head. “I donna know. I left dough rising, so it would be ready for the morrow, and when I came to check on it, the kitchen was on fire.”
“Wet wood probably exploded.”
Edith shook her head. “The fire started at the window, as if someone threw a lamp and oil through it.”
The niggling sensation at his neck whispered in his ear. He looked around. His soldiers were all here, except John. William was directing servants to wet the roof over the walkway to keep it from burning and risking the tower. His guests were scattered throughout the crowd, most doing what they could to protect the rest of the castle.
Except de Mont.
Grym ran to the tower. To Alais.
Chapter Fifteen
Alais watched flames stretch around the window, then skip along the eaves. Dark smoke rolled over the wooden shingles, th
en with a whoosh—the roof exploded with heat and light.
Shouts had drawn her to the wall on the other side of the tower. At first, just a few flames licked the edges of the window. Fire next raced along the wall, back toward the door. At once, the whole building seemed to be engulfed.
The urge to help sent her back to the top of the steps, then she stopped. No fire spread like that—not along an outside wall with nothing to feed it. But why would someone set a fire that could potentially…
A ruse. A diversion.
Patric and Richard had been summoned from Roundtree, supposedly to aid an injured neighbor. Instead, Mowbray had attacked within an hour of their departure, and her brothers had likely been ambushed and murdered before they’d reached the village.
Scanning the figures below, she couldn’t find the nobleman in the crowd.
She backed away from the wall. It was possible de Mont was there, hefting buckets, doing the right thing, but she wouldn’t bet her life on it.
Turning, she hurried to the little room Grym had taken her to earlier. Once inside, she pressed her shoulder to the door, groping for the lock. Her fingers skimmed over broken metal pieces. God’s gold, she should have picked it, not destroyed it.
Moving about the room, she found and lit a lamp, then a second. Setting them on the table, she opened Grym’s weapons chest. Her little knife required precision strikes. She needed—
The door banged open.
The silhouette of a man filled the doorway. Too short and too thin to be Grym. She pulled the little knife from her belt.
“So, does Warfield know he married into the most dangerous family in England?” de Mont asked. “Not that I believe for one moment he has actually wed you.”
“If you touch me, I will kill you.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Most women would hide behind their husband.”
“I am not most women.”
“So I have heard.”
Shouts and cries burst through the open doorway. Grym was at the fire, as was anyone else who might help her. She stifled the thought. Knights didn’t ride to the rescue unless land or power lay at the end of the fight. Grym could not help her, even if he wished. She was, as always, on her own.
One Winter Knight Page 39