by Robyn Carr
“Let us hear from the lady,” Aswin demanded.
Felise inclined her head. “You make me swoon with your quicksilver voice, my lord, but I am a poor lass without my father’s blessing.”
Aswin leaned his face closer to Felise. “Then let us flee him, damsel, and take ourselves away from his brutish wit.”
He made a play as if he would rise, but the leg was stiff and uncooperative and he dropped himself back to his bench, much to the amusement of his dinner companions. “‘Tis useless, maid. I am too late to chase the wenches and must ever endure my loneliness with the company of my horses.” He clicked his tongue, raised one eyebrow, and, smiling, lowered his voice as if he were imparting a secret. “I have taught them to come when I whistle.”
“Oh-ho,” Harlan shouted. “Twould take you a year of new moons to have this maid answer your whistle. She is disinclined to answer any command.”
“How did you gain your injury, my lord?” Edrea politely inquired. “I think I did not hear my lord mention the circumstances.”
“‘Twas for the most part a foolish accident, lady, a result of foolery amongst the men I rode with years ago. We were bored on our campaign in the south and, on the excuse of practicing arms, began a jesting tournament. There was much of jesting,” he said as he shrugged. “For myself, I was commonly the one responsible for pranks and tricks, but this once the trick was on me. Someone loosed the saddle straps and I might have only fallen and bruised my pride, but my horse was frightened and ran out of control, dumping me on sharp rocks. The clumsy mule took his rest atop me. My hip, knee, shoulder, and head were smashed.”
“I’m so grieved to hear it, my lord. And there is no improvement?”
“Nay, but that my disposition is improved. Lady Dulcine was responsible for that. My fellows left me on her stoop, and she a recent widow. They returned to the king, while the good woman nursed me for over a year. When I finally gained enough health to ride--and it took months to relearn that once well-honed skill--I returned to King Henry, only to find that my troop had not imparted my injury, but spun a tale of my courtship of the widow.” He laughed lightly. “There seemed naught to do but return and in truth court Dulcine. She proved a tolerable woman ... and there was naught to keep me from her.”
Edrea smiled at the romantic tale. “Then I would say you gained from your woes ... in good measure.”
The baron’s eyes grew somewhat wistful and he seemed focused for a moment on Felise, contemplating her rare beauty. “I gained in some measure,” he murmured. “But I lost treasures untold.” He shook himself and forced a lighter mood. “I will not make my injury greater in my mind. Yea, I have gained through my trials. When I hear some ungrateful young whelp moan at his light purse or rugged campaign, I set his attitude right with a simple story to show him his good fortune. I find I have more joy in my life even with my lameness than many a cocky young swain finds in perfect health.”
“I know nothing of your lameness,” Harlan professed. “It happens your wit was not bruised. You lay me low even now with your tongue.”
“I but remind you of true events,” Aswin argued happily. “Someone must, when you are wont to spin tales of glory.” He nodded once. “Tell me of this young woman’s plight. Why is she yet unmarried?”
“That will be taken care of with haste,” Harlan informed him. “An old family demesne in Aquitaine dangles before the eyes of these roving studs, and I have gifted her dower lands in England. Henry presses for her company at court to appease some whim of Eleanor’s, and already the young men pant at my doorstep begging an introduction.” He shrugged. “‘Tis just a matter of days before we settle on a husband for her.”
Aswin whistled low. “So it is she,” he said knowingly. “You are right, Harlan, the word is well out. Even my son speaks of her.”
“Your son?” Harlan asked, suddenly interested. Even Felise’s ears perked up, for she genuinely liked this gentleman. “I wasn’t aware--”
“My stepson, if you please. Dulcine gave over to my care her two children, Boltof, a knight of Henry, and Celeste. You might do well to consider Boltof, my lord. He is strong and able.”
“And I will,” Harlan said, happier about his daughter’s situation than he had been since it all began. ‘“Twould balm my hurts to have a man who is closer to the family than those strangers seeking riches alone. I would rest easier, finding someone I could trust.”
“The tale is that the king will influence your choice of husband,” Aswin remarked.
“He will influence us away from alliances with the duke.” Harlan shrugged. “How can I blame him for that? Has he not already battled with his wife and his own sons to keep his crown? And with all the trouble in their family, those Englishmen who would not give Richard aid are not easy to discover. Henry has but a few he can trust. Those knights of Henry who sympathize with the duke are cautious.”
“Where are the fathers and sons who serve each other’s purpose?” Aswin mused. Then his attention was drawn away to a young man standing alongside their table. He returned his amused gaze to Harlan, murmuring, “A young stag in rut seeks a kindness from us.”
Harlan returned the smile knowingly and rose, Aswin rising with more difficulty. The young man approached with a gleeful light in his eyes. He bowed before the elder lords and ladies.
“I would present my son, Sir Boltof,” Aswin said. “Lord Scelfton and Lady Edrea.” Then he sighed heavily. “The woman whose acquaintance you have anticipated, Lady Felise.”
Boltof postured over her hand for a long moment, seemingly finding the proper words difficult. Aswin finally urged the younger man onto the bench that he might be eased by conversation. Felise looked at him with a puzzled frown. She thought she had seen him before, but he was difficult to place.
“Have we been introduced before, sir?” she asked.
“Nay, lady, I would have remembered.”
“But your face is familiar to me.”
“I have watched you from afar, in this very hall.”
“That must be when I saw you,” she said, but she was unsure, for many stared at her but she was usually unable to meet their eyes.
Boltof made every attempt at impressing her, telling her about his many travels, the home he shared with Aswin, his prowess in battle, and his frequency at court. Felise was entertained, but more so by Aswin. And since her encounter earlier in the day with Sir Royce, she had been feeling even more strange about this entire marriage problem.
“‘Twas in Anjou with Royce that I ...”
“Royce,” she breathed unconsciously, startled by the mention of his name. “You ride with Royce?”
Boltof stiffened slightly. “He is a good friend, but we each command our own arms, madam. I am not a vassal of his.”
“Nay, I did not mean ... that is, I have twice met this Sir Royce and I may have seen you with him.” She immediately flushed, thinking Boltof might have been in Royce’s company the afternoon she had so brazenly leaned out of her window and toyed with the knights. “But then, perhaps not ...”
“I couldn’t say when, lady, but I’ve been about these last two days, and mayhap we passed in the courtyard or halls.”
“I suppose we have ...”
“So you’ve made the acquaintance of my future son, Sir Royce,” Aswin broke in, leaving Felise startled once again. “Aye, the lad will wed my Celeste early in the new year. Harlan, you know Sir Royce Leighton, do you not?”
“Nay,” he frowned. “The name--”
“For his father, long dead. He is the son and namesake of Royce Leighton of Segeland. You would remember. The old Leighton had a dreary reputation.”
Harlan frowned. “There is sour talk of Segeland--”
“Babble,” Aswin blustered. “Royce is as fine a man as I’ve ever known. But truth, many men prefer rumors, especially those of the darkest nature, to knowing the real man. I will vouch for Royce. He is an honorable man and a fine knight.”
“His family was none too fi
ne. There were many ill-concealed battles,” Harlan continued.
“Years ago,” Aswin allowed. “But all that is buried, for Royce is the only one left. Aye, there were family battles that rival the king’s own, but they are laid away with Royce in possession of Segeland Castle and the town. He has courted Celeste for many years, and ‘tis my hope the wedding will be soon--before she is past childbearing. His work for Henry has left Segeland to crumbling, for he spends little of his time there. Indeed,” Aswin laughed, “I can’t doubt the lad’s intentions for Celeste, he is more in my home than his.”
Felise began to feel warm and flushed listening to this talk. She observed the narrowing of her father’s eyes when Royce’s family was discussed. Yet, Lord Orrick defended him, perhaps because of Royce’s claim on his daughter or his friendship with Aswin’s son. But it was always the same: no one laid criminal charges to him, but there was some strange suspicion surrounding him. And other peculiar feelings arose in her upon hearing of his betrothal. Would a man soon to be wed kiss another woman with such passion? A chill possessed her suddenly and she trembled.
Felise leaned close to her mother. “Madam, will you be allowed to visit me in my chamber?”
Edrea frowned slightly. “I think I would not be forbidden. Are you ill?”
“Nay, but I am weary and would go there for quiet. Madam, will you come?”
Edrea studied her daughter closely, failing to find the reason for her sudden withdrawal. Then she turned to her husband and whispered to him. He gave a nod and Edrea stood, drawing her daughter up with her. “I beg your indulgence, my lords, but I would see to my daughter’s retiring. Good eventide.”
“Good eventide, madam,” Aswin quickly replied. “I look forward to our next meeting.”
When Edrea had drawn Felise well away from the hall and into the seclusion of the stairs, she took Felise’s hand in hers as they walked. “What troubles you, dear heart?”
“‘Tis naught, madam. I am weary.”
“Nay, you of all can endure a long day. That is not the problem.”
“It is this hellish business of marriage,” Felise boldly exclaimed, forgetting herself completely. “Beg pardon, madam, but this odd dowry prize frightens me. There is not a man at court who hasn’t heard of some lands in Richard’s Aquitaine and lands in my father’s demesne. Those knaves who would not have plied me with a kind word would today cloak me in silver for my merest smile. I don’t know what to do.”
Edrea smiled tolerantly as they walked. “You might enjoy it,” she replied.
“But madam, the courtly gentleman of the day might be a beast of the morrow, once my dowry is promised.”
“I think not, Felise. You can judge a man’s character better than that. And I beg you remember this is the first time you have been in the company of so many men. You were too protected in your father’s house.”
“Mother, I want to go home,” she said, a small whimpering sound coming from her.
Edrea halted and turned her daughter to face her. “Felise, have done with this childish display. You are a woman now and your time has come. I cannot take you home, nor can your father. If you are frightened, pray for courage; if you are confused, pray for sight. If you find all of this unpleasant, think on this: your father and I can protect you for only a short time longer. After you are given in marriage, you must rely on your husband for protection and guidance or, lacking that, upon yourself. You must find some strength within yourself. You might ask it of God.”
“Oh, madam, do not berate me,” she pleaded. “I would not have you ashamed of me, ‘tis only that I can’t abide these fears I have. I have no strength at all. And how am I to expect any help from God?”
Edrea looked at the glowing beauty before her, remembering with some pain that she had contributed nothing to the lass’s fairness. She reached out a hand and stroked the child’s soft cheek. She couldn’t even be in the company of Felise without thinking on the strange luck the girl had enjoyed all her life--from ward of the queen to daughter in a loving family to a sought-after bride. Any other orphaned girl-child might have been left to starve alone, yet this one grew up in riches and grace. This dowry, however burdensome at this moment, was yet another incredible piece of good fortune. There was no doubt every man who saw her would have asked after her even without the dowry, but this only served to bring the strongest and most noble to the forefront of her consideration.
Edrea worried only slightly about who might be thrust on Felise and thereby forced into their family. It was indeed possible that many adjustments for all of them lay in the future. But a few things were certain if a man were approved by either King Henry or Lord Scelfton: the man would be strong and well fixed in his own right; he would be loyal to the crown; he must be youthful enough to protect his bride from those who would usurp him. Edrea was certain that one day this would all seem a blessed predicament.
“I should think you would be confident of God’s help,” she murmured. “He has surely seen to you all these years.”
Edrea entered Felise’s chamber with her and Felise sat down before her dressing table. Daria rose to the task of taking down her mistress’s hair and unfastening her gown while Edrea stood behind her and watched. As Daria intently focused her attention on the long, wound braid, Felise stretched a trembling hand toward her table. She fingered her prayer beads weakly.
“Daria? You found my beads?” she asked hopefully.
Daria gave an uninterested glance toward the beads. “Nay, mum. But they’re found. You might’ve left them right there all the time.”
Felise knew better. “You were here, in this chamber, all the day?”
“An’ where would I go?” the maid complained. “Aye, I’ve been nowhere else.”
“Who was here while I was gone?”
Daria sighed impatiently. “No one. Nary a soul. An’ I could’ve used someone to talk with. These castle servants think themselves too important to bother with us country folk.”
“But someone was here,” Felise insisted, her stomach tightening as she had a mental picture of Sir Royce sneaking into her rooms. “Someone returned my prayer beads.”
Edrea stepped closer and began to unfasten the back of Felise’s gown, although she was getting in Dana’s way. “You are more distracted than I’ve ever seen you, Felise. Surely you forgot them and they were here all along.”
“Nay, Mother. I lost them in the gallery and--”
“Come, darling. Let’s get you to bed. You’ve let this visit to Windsor cause you unnatural worry. Forget the beads and have a good rest.”
Felise looked behind her, first at Daria, who was grimacing in impatience, and then at Edrea, who wore a worried frown. “Aye, madam. I will go to bed,” she finally said.
Four
The queen’s tire-woman, Vespera, visited Felise’s chamber every afternoon on brief errands. She brought herbs for the wine on one occasion, combs from Her Majesty on another, and a gift of oils for the bath on yet another. Felise found herself looking forward to the short conversations, for Vespera’s gentleness and comforting tones put her at ease. Yet this woman was never in evidence when there were many people around.
Four days had been spent at Windsor. Felise found herself approached by many men, but Sir Boltof and Sir Wharton were the two most determined. On an afternoon when she relented and allowed Vespera to comb her hair, she spoke of them.
“Sir Wharton is handsome and the wealth he boasts is great,” she said blandly. “Sir Boltof is eager and not as rich, I think, but I have made the acquaintance of his father and he is much to my liking.”
“And of the men themselves, my lady,” Vespera softly inquired. “Who wins your preference?”
Felise sighed. “It matters very little,” she murmured.
Vespera laughed softly. “Surely one has found a place within your heart.”
“Nay, there is no one,” she said, her voice drawing out. “Sir Boltof, I suppose. It would please my father.”
&n
bsp; “Your happiness will please Lord Scelfton, maid Felise,” Vespera whispered, drawing the comb through the long tresses, admiring the shining silkiness.
“Lord Scelfton and Lord Orrick were friends in years gone by and have only recently renewed their friendship. Indeed, Lord Orrick is a fine man, a joy to be near. His son would please me for that reason. I would not be so lonely away from my parents.”
Vespera’s hand froze. Her eyes, usually so composed, betrayed sudden emotion.
“Lord Orrick,” Vespera breathed.
“Aye, do you know of him?”
Gradually Vespera began to move the comb again. “He has a young son?” she asked.
“Sir Boltof,” Felise said absently. “He is a civil host whene’er we meet, and his future is as promising as any knight of Henry, I suppose. But it is the old lord I find pleasurable. Yea, I would not be so grieved to marry close to a family my father approves. At least I am assured Sir Boltof would not keep me from my mother, but would relish the visiting.”
Felise drew her gown up to her knees and picked at the hem, judging the fraying it had suffered. She had not noticed that Vespera’s hand began to move the comb in nervous jerks. Felise dropped the hem and sat erect, sighing. “We would have many children, I suppose, and they would enjoy two very fine grandfathers.”
The comb clattered to the floor. Felise turned to look at Vespera, whose countenance was completely discomposed. “I beg pardon, my lady, I ... I did not mean to ...” She stopped suddenly, retrieving the comb. “I beg pardon,” she said again, bobbing in a fluttering way.
“Tis only a comb,” Felise replied, taking it from Vespera.
“Milady,” the woman said. “You will speak for this Sir Boltof?”
Felise turned away from the maid again, looking at nothing in particular. “If I say naught, Lord Scelfton will choose for me. There are at least some things I know about Boltof.” She shrugged. “Left alone, Lord Scelfton may choose him out of fondness for his father. My brother, Maelwine, may be moved to speak for Wharton; Wharton tells me they are old friends. It will be one of them, I suppose. My father promises there will be an answer before I leave Windsor three days hence.”