The Troubadour's Romance

by Robyn Carr

  It had been more simple than he had predicted. His face averted, he had simply walked in behind a wagon. His step weary, a hoe in his hand, he had moved silently to the stable and into a stall and crouched there. No one even looked at him.

  He judged an hour had passed and allowed himself to stand and stretch. It perked up his pulse and his energy seemed to soar, for he rather liked the creeping darkness. When it was time to brace his lance or draw his broadsword, fear prickled him. He had never admitted this, that he was frightened of battle. But he hated it. Yet here, knowing that he would meet no equal foe, he felt excited.

  The sun was gone and there was no sound but the shuffling of animals as they settled for the night with full bellies. He had watched the hall and village for many nights, though no one knew. Guards were posted on the wall near the gate but did not roam the streets in the dark. Trumble had a bell that he could ring clamorously if he saw trouble from his perch. But Boltof had walked through the keep and town when all slept and no one had stirred. He knew a way to the hall that would not cast a shadow for Trumble to see.

  He used the window in the back of the stable for his exit and sat on the ground, leaning against a wagon wheel, to watch the hall. He could see the whole length of the street from the gate to the front of the hall, where the double doors were closed against the darkness. Another hour passed while he chewed a piece of straw and patiently waited.

  He sat upright at the sound of an opening door. An old woman came out of a cottage and began to walk toward the hall. She used a stick to lean on and her other arm was heavy with folded cloth. Her passage was slow and painful, her back slightly bent. A heavy woolen cloak with a hood that covered her head gave her more than ample protection against the chill of the spring night. Boltof watched her move to the hall, enter, and close the door. Moments later she left empty-handed, taking agonizing steps back to her cottage. He relaxed against the wheel again.

  One by one the cottages darkened as the hour grew late. Boltof couldn’t see the windows on the hall’s second level, but he did not bother much about that. Two bright torches lit the doors on either side, but he wouldn’t use those huge oaken portals for his entrance. There was another way in through the back, where the knights deposited their freshly killed game for the cooks. If he found that residents were still astir in their chambers, he could easily lurk in the stairwells and galleries while he waited.

  When he judged the time to be right, he walked swiftly toward the hall and around the side to the rear, he damned the creaking door when he entered, but no one stirred. Pausing briefly, he could hear a few snores from the main hall as a knight or two slept. He smiled at the sound. These hearties would let an entire band of brigands through. Royce would do better not to work them so hard by day ... but he would not have the luxury to consider that after tonight.

  Boltof worried that Celeste would fail him, but he could get around that. His sister was weakening. He was coming to realize that the depressed spirit he spoke of was fact and not just a ploy he used. She required much encouragement from him to do her part. She whined and fretted and wept, accusing him of causing her despair. A year ago she would have risen to the task of summoning Royce to her chamber, and though she was not clever, she had been capable of simple chores like this. But Royce’s marriage had taken its toll.

  Celeste would not defy him, for she feared him. And he had promised her a beating if she gave the slightest clue to their planned trap. But she might indeed fail to summon Royce. He was a bullheaded man; he might simply refuse her. It didn’t matter. He would simply take another route to his plan. He would peer into the lord’s chamber first to see who slept there, and then he would go to Celeste.

  The hall that joined the sleeping rooms on the second level was dark and quiet. A torch lit the wide gallery at the far end and cast his form as a shadow, but there was no one about. He passed his sister’s chamber, noting with a smile that there was light creeping from under her door. He walked on, his soft cloth shoes making no sound. The poor wool of the peasant garb he wore chafed him, but he was like a cat as he moved and he would not so much as scratch.

  The lord’s chamber was dark and he listened for several moments with his ear pressed against the door. He slowly pushed the door open, again silently cursing the squeak of the leather hinges that announced his entry, but there was no sound within the chamber. He looked toward the high bed and saw the single, small mound under the quilt. So, she slept alone. Celeste had somehow managed to serve him one more time.

  He went back to his sister’s door and paused there, listening to the small whisperings within. She had done well. He could tell that her best whimpering delayed the knight. He felt the handle of the knife in one hand, his other hand lightly touching the door. Two knives were carried in his belt: a thick and sharp hunting knife and his sister’s dainty, silver-handled dagger. He couldn’t trust the lighter weapon to finish Royce, but who would crouch over his body and be assured it was not Celeste’s blade that rent his flesh? A wound was a wound, and as long as the point pierced his back, it could be considered a woman’s crime. There was no way Celeste could take the knight face to face, and it must look the part of jealous rage.

  He silently pushed at the door, there were no screaming hinges here. He had carefully determined that much before leaving Segeland. His first sight showed him a man’s back in the dim room, and Celeste sitting on a stool before the hearth, weeping into her trembling hands. Royce’s back to his blade was too good to waste. He had earlier thought to enter the room to find them, demand that Royce leave, and slay him as he departed, but this piece of work was handy.

  Boltof rushed through the door, arm raised high. Celeste gave the merest gasp of surprise, for there was no more time. Yet from behind he was struck on the wrist and the knife clattered to the floor. He whirled to face the powerful wrath of the lord of Segeland.

  “It is over, Boltof,” Royce growled.

  Boltof looked in panic at the man he would have slain and watched as he slowly rose, using his staff to help him turn. Orrick eyed him with nothing less than hatred.

  “You,” Boltof whispered.

  Celeste rose from the stool and looked at her brother. She wept no more but faced him with a look of serenity.

  “You’re finished, Boltof. It is chains, or your life,” Royce warned.

  Boltof knew a sudden prickling fear that matched nothing he had ever felt in his life. He would have traded a thousand battles for the towering rage that showed in the dark eyes of Royce. In a moment he would be dead if that one but yielded to his certain desire to strike. He could think of but one chance to escape and threw himself against Royce, knocking him away from the door.

  Boltof gained the passageway and ran toward the lord’s chamber, the dagger now in his hand. He hit the door with his shoulder as Royce clamored somewhere behind him.

  Boltof’s face was twisted in a fierce snarl as he flew into the chamber and made for the bed. The little bitch who called herself lady here would help him make his way out of the keep. If he could but get to his horse, he’d make for Coventry. He was guilty of nothing yet, unless they meant to hang him for wearing farmer’s clothes or walking the hallways and galleries at night. He’d hold the knife at her throat and her life would open every door in Segeland hall and town.

  He tore back the covers on the master’s bed and gasped in stunned surprise. An old hag rested where the lady should lie. He felt a viselike grip take him from behind and at the same time saw Royce come through the chamber door.

  “Hold, Boltof,” Hewe said from behind him. “You are finished here.”

  He squirmed within the young knight’s firm grasp and felt his arms pinned behind him. The knife was taken away and he was clasped and held as if by an army.

  “Well done, Sir Hewe,” Royce said. He walked toward the bed and held out his hand. “My lady?” he beckoned, reaching to help Ulna out of his bed. The old woman laboriously extracted herself and moved toward the door to leave, hump
backed and slow, just as she had walked from her cottage to the hall. Boltof groaned as he saw their trick.

  “Who betrayed me?” he demanded hotly.

  Aswin and Celeste, much slower than Royce, had found the room.

  “You betrayed yourself, Boltof. You were heard as you plotted and you were seen in Coventry with Wharton. And Celeste can abide your plots no longer. You’ve used her too poorly.” Royce glanced over his shoulder at Celeste. “You were foolish to consider her a pawn for your greed. She is wiser than you reckoned and knew you intended her death ... and mine.”

  Boltof looked at the eyes that observed him. Aswin glared at him but held his mouth clamped shut, refusing to speak. Royce’s face held an expression of victory, but his eyes were no less furious. And Celeste, who had always done his will without question, showed only cold contempt. Boltof suddenly began to laugh loudly.

  “Hah! So you’ve caught me. Well and good. What will you do now? Murder me?”

  “Nay, Boltof, but you’ll die for your crimes. By the grace of God you were stopped here, but Aylworth was not so lucky. You’ll pay for his death.”

  “Aylworth? What say you, Royce? You can’t blame me for Aylworth. You said yourself we were together the night he died. No one would believe you. You’re without proof.”

  Celeste moved closer to Royce. “You killed him, Boltof, just as you would have killed Royce and me. Not in a battle worthy of honorable foes, not in a contest between men who stand tall for their differences, but in the dark of night with great advantage.” She shook her head sadly. “Had I known what you would do, I would have found a way to stop you. But I waited too long and let you poison my mind with your ranting and your greed.”

  Boltof gnashed his teeth in frustration, for Hewe held him fast. The manor came to life all around them, and the sound of doors and voices below and the light from the stairway gave proof to the fact that they had all feigned sleep while they waited for him to make his move.

  “Celeste,” he warned, “you will not betray me further!”

  “I have little choice. If I save you, you will only kill me one day. You must pay for your sins, just as I must pay for mine.” She softened her voice but her eyes were still cold. “God’s mercy on your soul, Boltof. You have cost us all much.” She turned her back on him and left the room.

  “Celeste! Nay, you will not!”

  Aswin turned as well. “I’ll be certain she causes us no more trouble,” he said, following his stepdaughter.

  Only Royce faced Boltof. “I should have known,” Royce said. “You trumpeted the madness all around you. The Leightons, you said. Yet I suspect now that perhaps Aylworth was wrongly accused of poor rule. His estate here did not flourish, but he had held it for only a short time and without the wealth of a dower purse, as I have enjoyed. Mayhap my brother would have proven a decent lord, given a chance. And my father? Yea, his madness came from the woman he stole. He struggled for better than a dozen years to hold the wall against neighbors who believed him cursed and would attack him because of his sin. And the woman, his hostage-lady? Aye, she was mad. And how much of the Leightons’ curse came from you? Or Trothmore?

  “And lately you used Celeste’s melancholy as a tool in deaths you planned to feed your greed. And yet in all this time, for all these years, it was you, Boltof. Crazed with greed, a coward who would kill a sleeping man.” He looked at Boltof with pity. “You could have had much: a good father in Aswin, a faithful sister in Celeste, and ...” He paused. The words soured in his mouth. “You could have had a friend in me.”

  “Wharton will come for me,” Boltof taunted.

  “Nay, he knows you betrayed him. Word of Aylworth’s murder was taken to him in Coventry. You bought yourself a good servant ... of mine.” Boltof moaned miserably. “Should you escape me, Boltof, I am certain that Wharton will find you. Take him to the inner bailey, Hewe, and tie him in the courtyard in full view of the gate and hall. The night is mostly lost, but we won’t sleep easily until he has accounted for his crimes. I’ll allow no error. I will take him to Henry myself.”

  Boltof was dragged out of the lord’s chamber and down the stairs. Trumble was just entering, escorting Felise home from Ulna’s cottage. The old knight gave Felise over to Royce and aided Hewe with the prisoner. Boltof had little time to snarl at Felise before a big, hamlike fist cuffed his ear and turned his anger into a yelp of pain. No patience or kindness was wasted on him as he was dragged away.

  Felise rushed to Royce’s side and he wrapped his arm securely around her. She hovered there in the security of his embrace, feeling a warmth of safety that would be hers forever. Together they watched from the hall as Boltof was tied to a stake in the center of the yard between the hall and the town. Around him stood four guards. The night could be no safer than that.

  Morning came and eyes that opened to break the fast were mostly bleary from lack of sleep. There was no mood of celebration at having caught Boltof. Relief and better ease could be seen on the faces of all who had kept themselves alert for more than a week, but Boltof’s crimes had created great loss. Not the least of those grieved was Aswin.

  When he descended to take his meal with Royce and Felise, his mood was not light, but most of his rage had been bled dry.

  “Celeste will prove cooperative,” he reported. “She has accepted the fact that her word will cost Boltof his life and is prepared to give it I don’t know what will become of her after that.” He paused and took a steadying breath. “Mayhap she will become stronger and take her mother’s home when I die. Then again, her days may be fewer than mine. Her losses were many. First her father. Then her mother. Then you, albeit not through death. And now Boltof. And she is not strong.”

  “Have faith, Aswin. She proved stronger last night than any of us would have guessed.”

  “Neither of them would let me be their father, though for Ducline I did my best by them.” He sighed heavily. “The woman must have known her children, Royce. She must have sensed their greed, though they were not fully grown when she died. Why else would she have written a document giving me her property until my death? She was careful to state that I might not dispose of it on any future heirs, slighting her children, but she would not have me cast out by Boltof. Perhaps Dulcine could have saved us much heartache, by telling what she knew.”

  “My lord,” Felise appealed. “Do not in any way blame yourself or your lady wife. The seeds that grew into Boltof’s greed and hatred were sown long before you. And you say Dulcine was a good woman, and I trust you to know goodness. That you would be his father though you didn’t sire him was kind of you. If Boltof would willingly cast aside your gesture, it is not your fault.”

  “You warm an old man’s heart, fair Felise, but the truth might be tougher to chew. Boltof was only a child when his father, who was strong and true, died upon the field. And the little one, so adoring of his mother and trying to live faithful to his father’s memory, encountered me when he was but twelve. And I, not a straight and mighty warrior, but one bent and crippled by an accident, took his mother’s attentions away from him. Dulcine nursed me for a year before I could even rise. And all that time I was a poor wretch in need of her gentle ministrations. We were not man and wife.”

  “But neither is that your fault, my lord,” Felise gently coaxed. “An accident--”

  “What the boy saw must have made him hate me. Ah, damn, let it be out! It has burdened my soul long enough.

  “There was another, before Dulcine. I worshiped her, adored her. She was my life and my reason for living. And when my head was smashed in my fall, I raved in an injured stupor, calling out for her all the while. Dulcine knew as she tended me that I loved a woman, yet the kind widow took care of me. Had she left me alone I might have died. Perhaps that would have been better, for I have never lived a day without mourning my love lost.”

  “My lord, don’t tell us things that--”

  “That would shame me? Nay, ‘tis no shame to love. That is not my crime.” He
became wistful and his eyes clouded with tears. “She was the most beautiful woman a man had ever seen. She rivaled your beauty, Lady Felise, which is a hard thing to do. Indeed, she wore tresses of red and gold much the color of your own hair ... and eyes the green of emeralds that glittered in the sun. She was the queen’s handmaiden, a poetess who sang for the court of love. Many admired her, most men desired her. And I courted her very boldly ... before I was crippled by my fall.”

  Felise sat a bit straighter in her chair. “The queen’s poetess?” she questioned meekly.

  Aswin barely noticed the attention his story was getting from the couple. He went on in blissful memory. “I counted myself a prince, at least, for having won her favor, and rode off with a token from her worn in my tunic. We went on a southern campaign, not dangerous by any man’s measure. Hah! Hardly a battle, for our troop was all weary with lack of duties. We drank, staged mock tourneys, courted the local wenches. ‘Twas in such a state that I took my fall. I could blame no one but myself for that.

  “But she had given me as much as a kiss, indeed more! Yea, I was too bold with the woman, but I was young and used little restraint. And then the accident and a year taken from my life. When I returned to London to seek her out, perhaps I was even relieved that she had gone. I did not know how I would face her, with a hand that could not properly caress her soft skin and a leg that hangs like a useless log at my side.”

  He peered closely at Felise, nearly whispering his words. “All the while that Dulcine nursed me, I cried out for Veronique, my love, my heart. This was what her children heard. And when I was well, I stayed within her care, no longer crying out in madness for my lover, but stating boldly that when I could walk and ride, I would return to her. This her children heard, as they watched the woman tend me unfailingly. And when I could mount a gentle steed and stay astride, I bid Dulcine farewell with only thanks for her patient care. Though she begged me to stay, I left,” he said, and his fist hit the table sharply. “And this, too, Boltof took as a token of my chivalry ... to use the woman so and leave her for another. Aye, I taught the lad much of nobility.”