“Your offer is sweet,” she said softly. “However, I fear that I will not be able to attend given… well, suffice it to say that it is better if I do not. My heart and prayers will be with you on your wonderful day, however. I wish you and Michael all of the happiness in the world.”
Until this point, Weston had been standing strong and silent several feet away. Mostly, he had been watching Amalie and the way she moved, the way she spoke, the sensual pout of her lips on her amazing face. He’d been quite swept up in everything about her. He wasn’t particularly offended when her friend lobbed insults against Bolingbroke but when she began to talk about the wedding, he could see a change come over Amalie. She went from radiant and happy to demure and, he thought, depressed. He didn’t like the expression on her face at all. It reminded him of the night she….
“I will escort you to Lady Cecily’s wedding, my lady,” he interjected his offer before Cecily could respond. “It would be my pleasure.”
Both Amalie and Cecily looked at him, each with distinctly different reactions. Cecily was thrilled while Amalie simply appeared more depressed.
“That is kind, Sir Weston,” Amalie assured him quickly. “But it would not be appropriate.”
He approached the ladies, his enormous arms folded across his chest and his focus on Amalie.
“Why not?” he wanted to know. “Lady Cecily has graciously extended the invitation. All young women love weddings and hope for one of their own someday. Why would you refuse to go?”
Amalie’s composure fractured. Her mood was killed, her despondency swamping her like a black tide. She turned to Cecily and held the woman’s hands tightly, kissing her on each cheek. When she pulled back, she forced a bright smile into the pale, colorless face.
“You will make a beautiful bride, sweetheart,” she said hoarsely. “I love you very much. Please accept my apologies for not attending.”
With that, she darted off before Cecily could respond. The woman watched her go with astonishment.
“Ammy!” she called after her, trying to follow but not wanting to get muddied. “Ammy, please come back! Please?”
Weston was already on the move, slogging across the muddy avenue as he followed Amalie’s flight. She was several feet ahead of him, dodging big puddles, but in her haste, she ended up stepping in a couple and the mud splashed all the way up to her waist. He could see that her cloak was becoming one great muddy mess. He was nearly upon her when she suddenly stumbled and ended up on her knees in a puddle of muddy snow. Rather than jump up and continue, she simply hung her head and wept.
Weston came up behind her. Without even asking, he gently scooped her up under her arms and lifted her from the mud. Before Amalie could respond, or even fight him off, a heavily-laden wagon slipped in the muddy avenue behind them, careening into Weston. His big body took the brunt of the blow as both he and Amalie went down.
Amalie ended up face-down in the mud, feeling Weston’s substantial weight on top of her. She tried to get up but he wasn’t moving very well. When he finally did roll off of her, his arms were wrapped around his torso as he struggled to his knees. Amalie could see that he was hurt and she forgot all about her sorrows and desperation. She gripped him by his big shoulders as if her small strength could steady him.
“Weston?” she gasped, greatly concerned. “Are you injured?”
He was smarting but trying not to show it. “A little,” he grunted.
“Where?”
“My back and my ribs, I think.”
By this time, the burly farmer who had been driving the wagon that had struck them came to see if they were okay. He could see the small lady trying to help the enormous knight and he rushed to the man’s other side to help lift him. He helped Weston to his feet, listening to the man grunt.
“M’lord,” he said anxiously. “I am sorry if I hurt ye. The horse slipped and the wagon followed. Are ye bad off?”
Weston knew it was an accident; he waved the man off, more concerned with his ability to make it back to the castle at this point.
“I have been worse,” he replied, looking to Amalie covered in mud. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her big green eyes wide with concern. “I am fine,” she put her soft white hands on him, gently, as if to help him. “Let us return to the castle and have the surgeon examine you.”
He tried to wave her off but couldn’t quite summon the strength; the blow had been a hard one and his back and ribs on the right side of his body was killing him. Before he could reply, Amalie was calling to her friend across the street; Cecily hadn’t left the scene yet.
Cecily’s escort came rushing across the avenue with their big destriers, taking charge of Weston in an effort to get the man back to the castle. The last Weston saw of Amalie, she was climbing into the cab with her friend, which he thought was a far better place for her. He wasn’t distressed by it in the least.
He couldn’t mount a horse, so six men at arms walked him, however slowly, back to Hedlingam as the lone knight escorted the carriage back up through the gates. By the time Weston reached the outer bailey, Heath and John were there to meet him. His brush with a runaway wagon had put the entire castle in an uproar as his men hastened to get him examined by the surgeon.
Weston resisted their attempts until he got inside the banqueting hall and saw Amalie there with Cecily, both ladies taking instructions from the castle surgeon. The wiry old man who had known Amalie since birth was rattling off orders to the ladies and they were making all haste to fulfill them. As he watched, Amalie and Cecily flew into action.
When Heath and John pulled off his mail and tunic in a slow and painful process, Weston perched on the edge of the banqueting table while the surgeon examined him because it was more comfortable than sitting down. It kept some of the pressure off his sore ribs.
As the wiry man with the red beard poked and prodded, Amalie appeared at his side, holding a big bolt of tartan and taking a dagger to it. He watched curiously as she and Cecily ripped it up into great strips. Those strips were then taken by the surgeon and wound around Weston’s bruised ribs to keep them from moving around too much. Although the surgeon didn’t feel any fractures, the fact remained that Weston was badly bruised and the tight wrapping would help.
When Weston should have been focused on his own injuries, he was more interest in watching Amalie. Through the entire incident, he noted that she was calm, in control, and precise in her movements. She dealt with the servants in a smooth, even tone and handled both the surgeon and Cecily with cool efficiency. The woman appeared as strong as a rock.
It was difficult to fathom that this was the same woman from only a few days ago, determined to end her life, and her efficient manner was something he found deeply attractive. More and more, he was growing increasingly interested in her to the point where he didn’t care how inappropriate it was. He decided at that moment that he was going to make his interest known, but timing would be the key. He would have to be very careful how he went about it.
As Weston mentally schemed for Amalie, the old surgeon finally finished with the bindings and faced the big knight with his hands on his hips.
“Your pain shall be worse by tomorrow,” he told him. “I would suggest that you rest for the remainder of the day. I will give you a potion to ease the pain and help you sleep.”
Distracted from Amalie, Weston stood up from the edge of the table, grunting softly as he moved and putting his hand to his right side as if to hold in his guts. “No potion,” he told him. “There is no need.”
The old man just shook his head, his bearded jowls quivering. “I thought as much,” he sniffed. “I never knew a knight who did not believe he was beyond my help.”
Amalie was standing next to Weston, listening to the instructions. She turned her green-eyed gaze in his direction.
“Perhaps he is correct, Sir Weston,” she said. “The day seems quiet enough and I am sure you have other men who can take your duties for you while you re
st. Surely you can spare a few hours for your recuperation.”
Weston looked at her, feeling himself relent with her soft words. But as he looked at her, he realized she was still muddy from where he had fallen on her and pushed her into the mud. His gaze was on the mud on her neck and shoulders as he spoke.
“I would not worry about me, my lady,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, had an ox fall on you. Are you sure that you are well?”
She grinned at him, such a lovely gesture with a tiny dimple in her chin. “I am well,” she reassured him. “But thank goodness for the soft mud or I might have been flattened.”
Behind her, Cecily giggled. Weston lifted an eyebrow, amused, as both women chuckled. He nodded as if to concede the point.
“Kind words, my lady,” he muttered.
She gave him an expression as if he had brought it all upon himself. “You called yourself an ox, de Royans; not I. I was simply agreeing with you.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head at her, although he was both enchanted and amused by her humor. He turned away from the women and looked around for his tunic.
“Where is my clothing?” he asked to anyone who could answer him.
Heath and John were a few feet away; it was John who retrieved his woolen tunic from a bench near the great hearth. Heath sent a soldier for the mail coat, which had been whisked away by a squire when they had removed it from his battered body.
“Here is your tunic,” Heath took it from John and handed it to Weston. “Your mail will be here shortly.”
Amalie watched Weston’s determination to return to duty and her humor faded. “The surgeon says you should rest, Sir Weston,” she pointed out. “Perhaps you should listen to him.”
Weston shook his head. “No need,” he grunted as he lifted his arms to pull the tunic over his sculpted, and bound, torso. “I will heal with or without rest.”
“Sir Weston,” Cecily’s pale face was open and anxious. “Will you not sit and take refreshment with us at least? Even that small respite might help and then you may go about your duties if you so choose.”
Amalie looked at Cecily, her brow furrowing with some confusion as the woman asked de Royans to share what was considered a social event. In fact, Amalie hadn’t even asked her friend to stay for refreshment, mostly because she didn’t want to hear about the impending wedding. But Cecily’s gaze was purely on Weston.
“Cece,” she whispered. “You cannot ask that of him. He is the garrison commander.”
Cecily ignored her, her hopeful face on Weston. “Please, Sir Weston? Perhaps you will tell us something of yourself. Since you serve Bolingbroke, it is possible that you and I know many of the same people.”
Weston was flummoxed by the woman’s invitation and his first instinct was to decline, but in the next breath he realized that Amalie would be there. He wasn’t about to pass up a chance to sit with her, in conversation that would have nothing to do with suicide or horrors from the past. He knew she would steer clear of anything like that. It would be his chance to get to know the woman a little better in a perfectly proper setting.
“Very well,” he said, moving to sit on the bench of the great banqueting hall’s table. “If it would please you.”
Cecily appeared thrilled while Amalie appeared resigned. Weston sat carefully on the bench, shifting until he found a comfortable position as Amalie sent one of the servants for food and wine. Both women sat across from Weston at the great table with Cecily taking charge of the conversation. Amalie stared at her lap.
“Do you know of my betrothed, Sir Weston?” Cecily began eagerly. “His name is Sir Michael Hollington, a knight under Thomas de Mowbray’s command. Surely you have met him?”
Weston’s gaze was mostly on Amalie but he forced himself to look at Cecily. “I am afraid I have not had the pleasure, my lady,” he said. “There are thousands of knights in England and I have not had the opportunity to meet every one of them.”
It was a bit of a tribute to her ridiculous question but Cecily didn’t catch on; it was becoming apparent that she was smitten with Weston’s strong, blond good looks.
“A pity,” she said. “He is an excellent knight; wealthy, too. My father has known him for years and was able to negotiate a contract with him when his wife died.”
Weston glanced at her as a servant set a pewter cup of wine in front of him. “So you will be his second wife?”
Cecily nodded. “Michael’s first wife bore him two daughters. He very much wants a son and paid my father handsomely for the privilege of marrying me.”
Weston refrained from any outward reaction, although inside he was thinking on the desperation of a man who would buy another wife to bear him a son. In Weston’s beliefs, a man married one woman for life, good or bad, sons or no sons, death or no death. He was fairly rigid in his thoughts on that matter. But instead of a reply to that regard, he merely lifted his cup.
“Then I wish you health and happiness in your marriage, my lady,” he said. “May you bear many strong sons if it is God’s will.”
Cecily grinned happily, sipping at her own wine that a servant politely provided. Amalie collected her own cup and drank the toast, although her features were tight. She remained silent as Cecily continued the interrogation of Weston.
“And you, Sir Weston?” Cecily set her cup down and reached for some cheese. “Are you married?”
Weston shook his head. “I am not, my lady.”
Cecily looked surprised. “Why not?” she wanted to know. “Surely you are much esteemed by Bolingbroke, which means you are wealthy and connected. Surely there is some young woman worthy of you.”
Weston shouldn’t have looked at Amalie as he replied, but he did. He wanted her to get the message. “There is, somewhere,” he said, meeting her rather dubious green eyes. “When the time is right.”
He watched Amalie flush a violent shade of red and look to her lap again as Cecily continued her onslaught.
“And your family, Sir Weston?” she asked. “Where are you from?”
“North Yorkshire,” he replied, increasingly unwilling to carry on this line of conversation. “Netherghyll Castle is my family home.”
“Will the castle become yours on the passing of your father?”
Weston looked at her, then, and his manner stiffened. “My father is already dead,” he suddenly stood up from the bench. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have duties to attend to.”
Cecily’s face fell as Amalie leapt up also; she was so red in the face that she was having difficulty looking anyone in the eye.
“Cece, I am sure you have many things to attend to,” she had her friend by the elbow and was forcing her away from the table. “You must see Brigid right away. You do not want to keep her waiting.”
Cecily looked rather confused that she was being led towards the entry of the banquet hall but the mention of her wedding dress got her moving in the right direction.
“Of course,” she said, suddenly excited again. “Will you come with me to see her, Ammy?”
Amalie paused by the entry, not wanting to disappoint her friend but certainly not wanting to accompany her. She quickly thought of an excuse.
“Not today, sweetheart,” she said. “I have not been feeling well lately and need to rest. But I thank you for your sweet offer.”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye,” Amalie hugged her. “You will be a beautiful bride, Cece.”
“Please come to the wedding, Ammy. It will not be the same without you.”
Amalie didn’t want to commit; she smiled bravely and nodded somewhat, giving the woman the sense that she might indeed consider it. Cecily kissed her on the cheek and made her way through the fore building, down the stairs towards the outer bailey.
Amalie stood at the top of the steps and watched her until she disappeared from sight. Once the woman was gone, she turned to find Weston standing just a few feet away.
She gazed into his dark blue eyes, feeling the delic
ious liquid warmth spark between them again. But the warmth scared her still and she lowered her gaze, unwilling and unable to entertain it.
“I must go change from these muddy clothes, “she muttered, moving past him. “I am glad you are not overly hurt, Sir Weston.”
He watched her brush past him. “You will not call me Sir Weston,” he told her as he watched her walk away. “Only Weston.”
She paused, turning to look at him. “Weston,” she corrected herself, the big green eyes appearing uncertain, perhaps confused. “You… you may call me Amalie if you wish.”
“Ammy,” he said softly. “I have heard your servants and your friend call you that.”
She smiled faintly, if not reluctantly. “That is what I called myself as a child because I could not pronounce Amalie. It has stayed with me, unfortunately.”
He approached her with a smile on his face. “’Tis a sweet name. I should like to use it if it will not offend you.”
She wasn’t sure what she could say to him; the truth was that she would not be offended but she wasn’t sure it was proper. She wasn’t sure how the man’s familiarity would be perceived by others. Still, she couldn’t help herself from agreeing.
“It will not,” she said quietly, eyeing him. “Are you sure that you are all right to go about your duties?”
He nodded, rubbing at the right side of his torso. “Well enough,” he said. “It only hurts when I laugh.”
“Coming from a man I have never seen laugh, you should be in fine shape.”
He grinned. “That is the thanks you give me for saving you from a runaway wagon? You have a keen sense of gratitude, lady.”
She couldn’t help but return his smirk. “I do not wish for you to think me ungrateful,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from the runaway wagon.”
He dipped his head gallantly. “I am your devoted servant, my lady.”
Lords of the Kingdom Page 7