The Troubadour's Romance

by Robyn Carr

  “Never mind, Sir Hewe. Do as I’ve asked; do it well and you will find a handsome reward for yourself. Just don’t ask me what that reward is, yet.”

  When Hewe had gone, Royce filled his cup again, sitting back in his favorite chair. He could view the blazing hearth over his table. For the first time since his meeting at Windsor he felt a certain peace. He wished there was some way to share the feeling, but he knew no one, save some old ghosts in Segeland keep, who would clearly understand.

  The demons gave him brief rest. He soothed himself with the knowledge that he had always managed to survive with some measure of dignity. If he returned to find that Felise was gone, no living person would witness the pain it caused him. That his soul would weep would not show on his face. Or in his step. Or voice.

  Somehow, some way, he would be the master of his life.

  Deep in the darkness, the wine nearly gone, Royce listened to the melodious humming of a woman. His head, which was about to fall onto his chest in drunken slumber, rose slightly the better to hear the music.

  He felt himself smile, though his brain was sodden and he could not appreciate half of the beautiful sounds. Yet he imagined her, wondering if he actually heard her sing, or if he was experiencing another rapturous dream in which she seduced him.

  It was a song of love lost, he realized, though the words were muffled to his ears. The woman had longed for her man and he had gone off to a distant place and forgotten her. In her loneliness she wept every day and sang to the stars and the moon every night.

  “We shall see, fair lady,” he mused quietly, his speech slurred with an overindulgence of wine. “Who is the love gone far away? Will it be your husband? Or has some other caught your heart?” But though the question came, he did not worry. He smiled and let the beauty of her voice soothe him, and soon he fell onto his bed and found badly needed sleep.

  ***

  There were no more bolts or bars, and her chamber was only a room, not a prison. But Felise wondered at the strange invisible wall that had somehow been erected where no barrier had separated Royce from her before.

  She had ignored every well-intentioned interference, retreating to the gloom of this haunted room to be alone. Her brothers, she reasoned, might thoroughly wish her well-being as much as they would follow their father’s instructions to the letter, but she’d had far enough of their meddling. It was fair of them to ask Royce for permission to dispose of those accoutrements that had made this lady’s chamber a cell, but Maelwine demanded roughly rather than making a request. And her brother had shown no sympathy for the small boy who’d watched his mother’s madness in this room.

  Vespera intended great comfort with her simple wisdom about sweet submission winning the masterful heart in good time, but Felise missed the feeling of his hands on her. And Daria could not be tolerated, with her giggles whenever he so much as glanced her way. So she sat alone, comfortable that the spirits haunting the room were not interested in her. She wore a dressing gown and sang an old troubadour’s love song as she worked a braid into her hair.

  He was leaving in the morning and had bidden her a sober good-bye in the company of many others. Unless she had misread his eyes, he was relieved by this obligation; his mood was lighter and the tension around his mouth had eased.

  In some ways Felise shared this relief. It was time for their parting, time for her to rise to the challenge of healing some of these old wounds. She hoped and prayed that he would consider her loyalty now and then on his journey. Perhaps if he returned to Segeland to find some rough edges about the hall and town smoothed, he would be more inclined to stay.

  She held onto the single hope that on some future day she would attend to him, and not just to his house, again.

  On impulse, thinking perhaps that whispering these tender thoughts might soften his feelings toward her and bring him back more quickly, she rose and tapped at the door that joined their chambers. There was no answer from within and she knew he had long since retired. She had heard him speaking with one of his men, heard him moving around inside. Her hand pushed against the door, which seemed to float open; her brothers had done their job well, for not only was it impossible to lock, it did not even properly close.

  From the doorframe she gazed at his sleeping body, sprawled facedown across the bed. An empty chalice lay tipped on the floor and his arm dangled toward it. He had probably taken a full skin of wine, he slept so peacefully. He had never rested so at her side, but always rigidly flat on his back.

  In spite of herself she ventured a step closer, then two. She wished herself brazen enough to let her gown drop to the floor and creep onto the bed beside him. The truth was stronger. She became wanton at his touch, but shamed by her own lack of control in the cool light of morning. Someday, she thought, when I know you well, I shall take measured actions to seduce you, sir knight.

  As she studied him it became more clear that the wine had brought him sleep, for his shirt lay on a chair by his table and he was still garbed from the waist down in chausses. What problem, she thought, made natural sleep so hard to find that only heavy drink would bring rest? The fire had burned low and there was a chill in the air, but he was yet uncovered. The cold would rouse him, sober him soon enough, and he would rise to cover himself. The candle was burned only halfway down, and she moved toward the bed to blow it out, for only a few had been purchased in Coventry and she wished to conserve it.

  Before she could bring herself to darken the room, she simply stood staring down at the broad, muscular expanse of his back. His skin was so pale against the tan of his hands it almost looked as though he wore gloves. She became more courageous, sensing that his sleep was profound from the wine and he would not sense her presence. She reveled in the unhindered chance to view him, perhaps even touch him.

  “My brave husband,” she whispered to him. “You would defend me against my own family if need be, arm the walls and bastions with many men ... but can you not take me on your mother’s bed? Is there still so much pain from the truth of your birth that you fear to hold me close?” She felt a tear creep into her eye, in pity for the lad she imagined reaching for love and failing ever to find it, though not in pity for the man who lay sleeping. If he reached, she would open her arms. Her hand seemed to move on its own and gently caress his broad back.

  She paid no mind to the mark. She had first seen it when she’d caught a glimpse of him washing in the stable. A boy from her own village had been born with such a mark on his backside and his mother, a superstitious peasant woman, had shrieked at the sight of it. But Edrea soothed the woman’s fears and simply replaced the old superstition with a different, completely invented, new tale. “Why, woman, would you weep when the sign has been given to you and you alone? Do you know nothing of the stars? When a child is born kissed by the rose of heaven, it means health and prosperity.” The woman then began a ritual of dropping the poor lad’s diaper to brag about the mark. Felise had asked her mother about the superstition, which Edrea had promised the woman was older than creation. “That mark? Tis no more a curiosity than the color of his hair or eyes, but if the woman is fond of deeper meaning, why not give her one that will do some good?”

  The Scelftons had laughed endlessly over Edrea, the spinner of tales. But their people were optimistic and strong, in that main because of the hopefulness that Edrea--hence all her family--inspired. So Royce’s mark had barely moved Felise. She never even considered it to be as interesting as the scar on his face, which was the product of painful memories. She wondered more often at the hidden scars--those that kept Royce so painfully private and distant.

  “Someday, God willing, you will forget these orders and contracts and allow me to be in truth your woman. That is all I long for.” She let her lips fall gently to his cheek, pulled the quilt over his body, and blew out the candle. She found her bed, and rest came more easily for having touched him in that brief moment.

  As she drifted to sleep, it was in her mind to rise before dawn to see h
im safely on his way. And not the slightest ray of sun or sound from the manor urged her. She sensed it was time to rise and did so, to fulfill a function important to her to wish her husband good traveling.

  Six knights and two squires were mounted in the courtyard outside the hall at dawn. Royce walked among them, checking the supplies each carried. No cart or train of servants was included in this mission, for the travel across the Channel would have to be light. Royce would make a full party of nine, which seemed to Felise a modest number indeed.

  She stood outside the door and kept her snood drawn over her head and her cloak closed. She worried with the unpredictable weather, the roughness of the sea, the meager fare they carried. It was a long while before Royce noticed her quiet surveillance.

  He moved toward her with a perplexed look on his face. “My lady, you rise early. I purposely bid you farewell at eventide that your rest would not be interrupted by my leave-taking.”

  She braved a smile for him. “Did you think I would not choose to rise and bid you a safe journey?” she asked him. “Royce, I have been schooled in these wifely duties.”

  He took her hands and warmed them with his own. “I forget that you know obligation as well as I.”

  “I worry that you take too few men with you, Royce. What if there is trouble on the road?”

  “Between Segeland and Hastings the roads are wide and safe,” he said. “I travel through London, where I will gather the papers and maps to find these new lands.”

  Felise felt her heart jump. Celeste was probably still in London and she couldn’t help but wonder if Royce would take time to give her some apology ... or even to suggest that they somehow manage to go on loving each other in spite of his ill-timed marriage. “Will you visit friends in London?” she asked, looking down at her feet.

  “I think my friends are few, madam. Nay, I shall hasten to France and have the matter of these lands settled to my satisfaction. I have asked my men, Sir Hewe in particular, to see to your needs, and I’ve left money to that end. Hewe manages the sum, but it is yours to use as you see fit. I trust you to make your family welcome for as long as they desire.”

  “You will be gone a long time?” she asked.

  “It shall seem long, whatever happens. I have journeyed to this territory before, and the trip in itself reaches over a fortnight. Do you worry for your safety?”

  “Nay, Royce. But I worry for you. The people in Aquitaine may not relish this new lordship. You should have stronger arms.”

  He chuckled in spite of himself. “That is not my concern. I do not venture there to fight them, but to view what they have. If there is any resistance to my ownership through your hand, I shall return for a larger troop. But I will take your concern for me as a gesture of your goodwill.”

  “Do carry my goodwill, my lord. I shall pray that no harm falls your way.”

  She looked up into his brown eyes with tears in her own, and a moment of tenderness passed between them. She judged the feeling to be much the same as on that morning after their bedding, when she thought he was gone and he then came looking for her. And his hands, gently squeezing and releasing hers, caused a shiver of warm delight to pass through her.

  “Fare thee well,” he said, his voice a soft caress.

  “My lord ... Royce ... will you not ...” She stopped, so unsure of herself and him. She couldn’t form the words, but her eyes darkened to the dull green of an angry sea, and he seemed to understand her needs. He lowered his mouth to hers and brushed her lips with his. The softness turned to fire and she melted to him, her arms rising naturally and her body quivering to be closer. He clutched her tightly, devouring her with his mouth, betraying his own hunger. His large hand pressed the small of her back against him. She gave a thought to maintaining some dignity in front of his troop, amazed that even here, in the cold morning air, he could so easily reduce her to shameless desire. When he released her mouth she sighed in some disappointment.

  “Fare thee well,” she whispered to him. “God will watch you.”

  He gave her cheek a light caress and then turned, mounted, and led his men toward the road. She stood watching for a long time. She tried to command him with her thoughts to turn and raise a parting hand to her, but he kept his vision to the front. When he had finally passed out of sight, she went back into the hall.

  She kept her mantle tight around her, but the first chill of morning had left her--or, more likely, had been driven out of her by his searing lips. The hour was so early that she sat on a bench before the blazing hearth alone, this solitude most essential to her thoughts.

  He had gone, she firmly set down in her mind. And she would not judge him by anything but the power of his touch, the desire she tasted in his kiss. She would give no consideration to worries that he would see Celeste or any other woman on the road to France, but let the memory of what his body told her keep her warm and vigilant. Whatever plagued him that he could not freely give himself would pass, and she would stand true to the test of time. There was much to do to secure him to her.

  Hewe ventured through the hall. He poured a cup of milk and Felise watched his averted eyes and wondered at his shyness. “My lord tells me that I should come to you with my needs, Sir Hewe. He has advised you, has he not?”

  “Aye, madam,” he said.

  “He said there is money for my use.”

  Hewe looked at her suspiciously. “Aye, there is some money.”

  “Good,” she said, rising and walking toward him. “We shall have need of it. I suspect Royce may be gone as long as two months.”

  “You have already discovered a use for the money, lady?” he asked.

  She laughed uncomfortably. “I saw the use the day I arrived, Sir Hewe. There is much to be done to make this keep worthy of Royce and his heirs. And the town. Mercy, the town. I doubt he could possibly have left enough, but we will see that he returns to an improved estate. Surely that would please him.”

  Hewe raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked sideways at her.

  She turned her eyes back to the fire and heard Hewe’s voice quiet behind her. “An improved estate would please him well, lady. He deserves better than this.”

  Felise did not turn. She sighed heavily, deep in thought. Finally she rose to face Hewe, her voice low but firm.

  “Aye, he deserves all our labors and loyalty. I am certain I shall be occupied every moment he is gone. Yet if it earns one small smile of pleasure from him, it will be well worth the effort.” She passed Hewe, moving toward the stairs, turning once to look at him with tear-filled eyes. “Have a stout meal, Hewe. I plan to begin at once to attend to matters that will better my husband’s home.”

  Twelve

  To see a large troop of knights pass through Coventry was not unusual, for the road between Worcester and Leicester was woven through the town. Also, many enroute to York would travel through Coventry, which was of some consequence in its travel houses, merchant goods, and food.

  And there was a church, large and rich by the standards of the time. Monseigneur Trothmore, a common son of a merchant craftsman, had risen through the ranks to a position of authority and wealth in this town. He had managed to wield the authority of the church over the local barons and earls, and much conjecture about who ruled the land floated among the common people.

  While the men-at-arms sought a stable for their destriers, Sir Boltof and Sir Wharton lingered within the church for an audience with the priest. As they waited, they quietly conferred.

  “Since Royce is gone now to France, and the weather is not with us in our travels, ‘tis best to await his return and discover what that Aquitaine property holds, rather than rushing into the keep and overthrowing the Scelfton knights,” Boltof said.

  “But then, the woman resides much alone. Would it not be better for you to venture there now?” Wharton asked.

  Boltof smiled wickedly. “What ho! You would allow me a measure of her time alone?”

  “That is not what I meant,” Wha
rton corrected.

  “Never mind, Wharton. I wait in the event she denies me admittance when her man is gone. And remember, I dare not go there alone, but must take Celeste if I am to succeed.”

  “What am I to do while you wait? Sit in this fair shire and count the mares until you deem it time?”

  “Patience, Wharton. The longer we wait, the more assurance to those who would watch that there is no bad blood over this marriage. And ... you do want to know what there is in Aquitaine, do you not?” Wharton nodded, but one of the things he seemed to have little of was patience. He had lost many a contest because he had struck too soon. “Perhaps the Scelfton men will soon be called to their duties and the gate will be easier to open. Remember, I know each and every Leighton knight. I have ridden with Royce.”

  Their attention was drawn by the entrance of Trothmore, and he always made a grand entrance. Never seen in the humble rags of a priest committed to poverty, this self-acclaimed church leader wore robes of rich cloth, jewels, and heavy velvet mantles. His cap, sewn with gems, rose high above his head, and he was tall enough to create a stir when he moved. His position of power was not conferred to him by the church, but came through the attainment of riches. He had managed to impress most of the higher-ranking ecclesiastics so well that they rarely asked how his high title had come about. Very few people knew he was only a priest. Wharton and Boltof bowed and crossed themselves, both knowing this was all a show, for the priest was less religious than the Templars. He was every bit a baron whose keep was a church.

  “Sir knights,” he greeted.

  “I am Boltof, and this is Wharton. I sent you the missive.”

  “How did you know of me?” Trothmore asked.

  “I have had occasion to pass through Coventry more than once, and acquaintances have spoken of you.” He raised an eyebrow. “Was I correct that you would be of service to a humble knight of Henry?”