Steam rose into the air from Weston’s enormous body as he gave off heat against the frigid air temperature. He stumbled out of the pond and over to John, who had managed to wrap the woman up tightly in the heavy woolen tunic bearing the blue and yellow colors of Bolingbroke. A couple of the men at arms suddenly burst through the snowy bramble; one had a giant horse blanket and the other one had a woolen tarp. Weston grabbed the horse blanket.
“Pick her up,” he commanded John.
The knight obeyed, collecting the woman into his arms as Weston took the dusty horse blanket and wrapped the lady up in it. Nearly frozen himself, he didn’t react when Heath tossed the woolen tarp over his shoulders; he was more concerned about the lady. Her face was gray, eyes closed, and he cocked an ear over her mouth to see if she was even breathing. After several long seconds, he could feel faint breath, hot and sweet, against his ear.
Exhausted, freezing, he began to stumble towards the keep with the lady in his arms.
“Go to the keep and tell them to fill a tub with warm water,” he commanded his men, his blue lips quivering against the cold. “Find out if they know who she is.”
Heath bolted towards the keep while John stayed with Weston, carrying the precious cargo towards the towering keep of Hedingham. They made quite a procession marching through the increasing snow, struggling up the slippery path up the motte before finally mounting the snowy, slippery wooden staircase that led to the second floor level. It was the entry level and a blast of stale, heated air hit Weston in the face the moment he entered the door.
A cavernous hall opened up before him, two stories tall. Great Norman arches lined the hall as they supported a minstrel gallery on the second floor above. Weston charged into the room as servants began to rush towards him, and somewhere in the middle of it, Heath was shouting orders to the servants who were overwhelmed with what was happening. Two older women, both in tight wimples that nearly strangled them, pushed forward in the midst of the chaos.
“Lady Amalie!” one woman cried, reaching out to touch the pale, gray face. Feeling that it was like ice, she drew her hand back in shock. “She is dead!”
Weston pushed through them even though he had no idea where he was going. “She is not dead,” he snapped. “I ordered a hot tub. Where is it?”
The other servant woman began pointing toward the alcove that housed the narrow spiral stairs. “This way, m’lord,” she was practically jumping up and down as she attempted to lead the way. “Bring her this way.”
Weston charged after the woman with Heath, John and two men at arms following him. The group entered the small, dark alcove and he followed the serving woman up the slippery, narrow steps, trying not to smack the unconscious lady’s head on the wall in the process. With his bulk, stairs such as this were difficult enough without the added awkwardness of carrying a limp body.
It wasn’t an easy trip. The third floor contained the minstrel gallery so they were forced to take the treacherous stairs to the fourth floor of the keep. They spilled out into a small corridor that had two doors; one immediately to the left and one further down the hall. The flighty servant indicated the far door and Weston proceeded in.
The room was spacious and warm, with a roaring fire in the hearth and furs on the bed and cold wood floor. It was a room that suggested the wealth of the de Veres, something not lost on Weston. He paused in the middle of the room as several servants finished hurriedly finished filling a big copper tub near the hearth.
It was only partially filled with steaming water but Weston didn’t want to wait. He lay the lady down on the big, fur-covered bed and began unwinding her from the horse blanket and tunic.
“Who is this?” he demanded from the serving women assisting him.
The younger of the pair, a woman with crinkled skin and missing teeth, spoke as she unwound the horse blanket from the lady’s feet.
“The Lady Amalie de Vere,” she told him. “She is the earl’s sister.”
Weston pulled the horse blanked free and tossed it back to one of his men at arms. His gaze moved to the unconscious woman’s features, puzzlement registering on his face. She was absolutely exquisite, even gray and wet. Her face was sweet, with a gently pouting mouth and long-lashed eyes that were closed and still. As he continued to gaze at her, he felt something stir within his heart that he couldn’t begin to describe – there was interest there, delight, and utter fascination. But there was also great confusion.
Not wanting to make a fool out of himself by staring at the woman, he pulled off the tunic with the help of the two women.
“She is nearly frozen,” he said as he lifted her off the bed and turned for the heated tub. “She must be warmed immediately.”
He laid her in the tub as servants continued to pour hot water into the mix. Weston was freezing, too, but at the moment he was more concerned with the lady. His knightly sense of chivalry was more important than his health at the moment but one of the two female servants, the plump one, brushed against him and noticed.
“M’lord,” she had a hand on his muscular forearm. “You are nearly frozen yourself.”
She began to shout commands to the men who were bringing buckets of water into the room, demanding warmed wine and blankets. Weston tried to wave her off but as he opened his mouth to do so, the lady in the water came alive.
Great gasps came forth and her eyes flew open. She began thrashing violently, as if trying to swim or save her life as the last thing she remembered, the icy grip of the lake, closed in around her. A hand flew up and caught Weston in the mouth, driving his teeth into his lip and bringing blood. Weston put his enormous hands on Amalie’s shoulders and tried to steady her.
“You are safe, my lady,” he said steadily, trying to break through her haze of fear. “You need not fear; you are safe.”
Amalie gradually became lucid, realizing she was in her chamber with a few familiar faces. The haze was clearing yet her panic was not eased; there was so much fear and distress in her heart that nothing could soothe her. Adding to the fear was the square-jawed, enormous man hovering over her that she did not recognize. She began to fight viciously.
“Nay!” she cried, struggling to climb out of the tub. “Leave me alone!”
Weston had her in an iron grip. “Be at ease, lady,” he assured calmly. “No one will hurt you. You are safe.”
Her panic was expelling itself in harsh little pants; it was as if she did not understand his words. Weston caught Heath’s wide-eyed expression over the top of the lady’s head and he jerked his head in the direction of the door, silently ordering the man to vacate. Heath took the hint and ushered the men at arms out as he went. The younger of the serving women slammed the door behind the unfamiliar knights, racing back to her position next to the tub as Amalie struggled to climb out.
“Ammy,” she put her rough hands on Amalie’s face, forcing her to look at her. “Look at me, lamb; you are safe, I promise you. This knight… he brought you here. He rescued you.”
Amalie’s green eyes were wide on the serving woman but at least she was calming. Weston was relieved. But his relief was short-lived as the woman suddenly began to weep.
“Nay,” she breathed, her lovely face crumpling. “Nay… I …I….”
She dissolved into distraught tears. By this time, she had stopped struggling and Weston removed his big hands from her shoulders when he was sure she wasn’t going to bolt from the tub. He stood unsteadily, shaking because he was still soaking wet and nearly frozen, but his gaze never left Amalie and he had no idea why. As the plump servant tried in vain to comfort the lady, the other serving women went to Weston and gently grabbed a cold elbow.
“Come and stand by the fire, m’lord,” she encouraged. “You are nearly frozen. Come and be warmed.”
He did as he was told but his eyes remained on the woman in the hot tub, weeping as if her heart was broken. His confusion grew.
“Who is she?”
The servant was trying to wring the water o
ut of his sleeve. “The Lady Amalie de Vere,” she said, realizing she wasn’t doing any good with his wet clothing. “She is the earl’s sister.”
Weston regarded the lady a moment; he still wasn’t sure what he was feeling at the moment because the lady was so overwhelmingly beautiful that he couldn’t seem to feel anything other than complete fascination. The serving woman jolted him from his thoughts.
“May I take your wet clothing, m’lord?” she asked. “You must change into something dry before you catch your death of chill.”
Weston was still gazing at the weeping lady as he pulled off his wet tunic with the automatic response of a child responding to his mother’s command. He handed the woman the heavily padded tunic, exposing his magnificent torso to the weak light of the room. He was brilliantly muscular with a thick neck and shoulders, enormously big arms and chest. His waist was narrow, disappearing beneath his leather breeches.
But the old serving woman didn’t notice; she was more concerned with drying out the sopping tunic. There was a soft knock at the door and one of the male servants appeared with two cups of steaming wine in hand. The old serving woman took it from him and closed the door once more. She handed one of the cups to Weston, which he accepted gratefully.
“What is your name?” he asked the woman.
“Esma, m’lord,” the women replied, then indicated her counterpart still kneeling by the tub comforting the sobbing lady. “My sister, Neilie.”
Weston sipped the hot wine, still staring at the lady in the tub. “Why would Lady Amalie throw herself into the lake?”
Esma’s wrinkled eyes widened with shock. “She… she threw herself into the lake?”
Weston nodded. “I watched her,” he said frankly. “She removed her cloak and jumped in. Naturally, I went after her. I could not stand by and watch her drown.”
Esma’s astonished gaze moved to the lady in the tub. “’Tis not true,” she gasped. “You must be mistaken, m’lord.”
“I am never mistaken.”
The servant didn’t argue with him; his statement left no room for doubt. More troubling than that, she believed him. She blinked rapidly as if blinking back tears.
“God help her,” she whispered. “My poor little lamb.”
Weston looked at the woman; she seemed more saddened than shocked, as if not particularly surprised. She didn’t give him much of an argument on what he had suggested regarding the lady’s behavior. His analytical mind began to kick in.
“What do you know about this?” he asked her.
She looked at him, shocked. “I… I would know nothing, m’lord.”
He didn’t believe her for a minute; now she had his full attention. “My name is Sir Weston de Royans,” he told her. “I am the new commander of Hedingham. In order for me to command effectively, I must know the truth of what has gone on before my arrival. Do you understand so far?”
Esma looked terrified. “Aye, m’lord.”
“How long have you served de Vere?”
“Since before the lady was born, m’lord.”
“How old is she?”
“Nineteen years, m’lord.”
“Then you know everything that goes on at this place.”
She nodded timidly, as if he was trying to trick her with his statement. “My sister and I assist the lady in her chatelaine duties.”
“Then you will tell me why she threw herself into that lake.”
Esma was torn; she eyed the now-sniffling lady in the tub, watching as her sister forced Amalie to sip at the warmed wine. She didn’t want to divulge too much to this knight she did not know, but on the other hand, perhaps in doing so he would understand the fragility of Lady Amalie and treat her accordingly. The man had saved Amalie from a watery grave; perhaps that meant he was better than the last man that had held his position. Esma could only pray.
She moved closer to Weston, wringing her hands nervously. When she spoke, her tone was so soft he could barely hear her.
“I can only tell you what I know, m’lord,” she whispered. “The last of Bolingbroke’s commanders was a brutal man with no great love for the de Vere’s. He was personally offended by the earl’s flight to Ireland to escape Bolingbroke’s wrath and took his frustrations out on Lady Amalie.”
Weston was studying the woman intently, seeing the pain ripple across her face as she spoke.
“What did he do?” he asked.
That brought tears to the old woman’s eyes and she began wiping at her nose, dragging mucus across her cheek.
“He… he beat her severely one night,” she whispered. “He broke her wrist and nearly killed her. After that, one of his men hid Amalie so the commander could not hurt her again. He also sent word to Bolingbroke of the man’s actions. Until the commander was recalled by Bolingbroke, we spent weeks hiding Lady Amalie in caverns, holes and tunnels so the commander could not find her. She was living like an animal for weeks.”
Weston’s gaze moved to the beautiful creature in the tub, now calmly sipping her warmed wine. His gaze moved over her delicate features, the silken blond hair; knowing his predecessor as he did, he could only imagine what the man did to her. As he thought on that, disgust and fury such as he had never known began to surge through his big body.
With the heat of the fire upon him, he actually began to sweat from both the physical heat and the emotion he was feeling. The actions of unchivalrous knights always set his blood to boiling, fiends who hid behind their vows to mask vile actions. Men like that gave decent knights a bad name.
“That still does not explain why she threw herself into the lake,” he said quietly. “My predecessor has been gone for weeks. Surely she feels safe now.”
Esma looked at Weston with some surprise, wiping at her nose.
“Why should she?” she snapped softly, realizing too late who she was speaking to and demurring accordingly. “When we received word that Bolingbroke was sending a new commander to oversee Hedingham, you can imagine her fear. Perhaps… perhaps she is afraid you will do to her what the other one did.”
It made perfect sense. He began to suspect why she had submerged herself in the lake and began to feel a good deal of sorrow as well as some revulsion. He downed the rest of his wine in one swallow and thrust the cup back at Esma.
“Go,” he commanded softly. “Take your sister and go.”
Startled, Esma began to feel the same desperation she had felt when the previous commander had made the same request of her once. That was the worst day of her life. She was starting to think she had been too bold in speaking the truth to him; she did not know the man or anything about him. Perhaps she had offended him.
“Please, m’lord,” she began to beg, tears in her eyes. “She cannot… you cannot… please do not hurt her. She cannot…”
Weston waved her off. “I will not harm her in any way,” he was moving towards the tub. “You and your sister will go.”
Esma was weeping softly as she scooted to the tub and pulled her sister to her feet. The old serving women clutched at each other, whispering between themselves as Esma pulled her sister to the door. It was apparent that the older woman did not want to leave but Esma forced her through the door. When the women vacated and Weston shut the door behind them, he returned his attention to the tub near the hearth.
His dark blue gaze fell on the back of a blond head, now drying in the heat of the room. Amalie hadn’t moved a muscle; she sat in the big copper tub, still dressed in her thin linen surcoat, staring at the surface of the water.
Weston made his way to her, hesitantly, wondering what he was going to say. He was coming to realize that everything they had suspected about Sorrell was the truth and this woman was at the heart of it. Sorrell hadn’t killed the de Vere relative as rumored but, as Weston gazed at the face of the pale woman, he’d probably come close. Before he could speak, her soft voice filled the air.
“Did you fish me out of the pond?” she asked.
He was struck by the tone of her voi
ce – smooth, silky and honey-like. In spite of the serious circumstances, he found it exceedingly delightful.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “My name is Weston de Royans. I am the new garrison commander for Hedingham.”
Amalie continued to stare at the surface of the tub, her green eyes, usually so beautiful and full of life, now dull with sorrow.
“You should not have done that,” she murmured. “I will only do it again.”
Weston’s brow furrowed and he crouched beside the tub; he could only see her delicate profile as she stared at the water. She wouldn’t look at him and he could feel her shrinking from his gaze. Not that he blamed her given her past experience with Bolingbroke men.
“Why?” he finally asked, baffled.
She lifted her face to look at him and Weston felt the physical impact as their eyes met. It was as if her great green eyes swallowed him up, holding him in a trance that he was unable to free himself from. All he could do was stare at her.
“Because I must,” she said simply.
He was even more baffled, trying to figure out why she was so determined to harm herself. He should have, at the very least, been disgusted with her weakness. Given what Esma told him, however, and what he knew of Sorrell, he couldn’t bring himself to lose respect for the woman. In fact, he felt strongly compelled to ease her mind.
“My lady,” he said in his rich, deep voice. “I understand that you have not been treated kindly since your brother fled to Ireland and I will say now that it is a cowardly man who would leave his sister to the clemency of the enemy, but you must understand that I will not behave as my predecessor did. I have no intention of laying a hand on you. Under my command, you will be treated with respect. This I swear.”
Amalie stared at him, emotions undulating behind the veil of the green eyes. It was almost as if she could not understand what he was telling her. But the glassy expression began to fade, the one so dull with sorrow, and he could see her lovely features twist with emotion. The great green eyes filled with tears again, spattering like raindrops against her porcelain cheeks.
Lords of the Kingdom Page 2