by Sarah Hegger
Roger strode toward the stairs. He would not sleep anymore this night. Gregory had lived for seven years with the knowledge the woman he loved suffered under her husband’s hands. How the hell had he stood it? How had Gregory looked at the marks on Faye and not wanted to rip the heavens asunder?
Anglesea lay quiet and sleeping about him as he descended into the hall. All this would one day be his, and he still had insufficient power to prevent Sir Royce from beating his daughter ragged. Anger grumbled and stirred within him. Roger breathed deep to quell it. If William still lived here, he would speak with his brother. William always saw the larger scheme at play. His younger brother had the ability to push aside the haze of emotion and use his reason.
Sir Arthur sat by the hall hearth, his favorite bitch resting her head on his knee. She pricked her ears and watched Roger as he drew nearer. “Father?”
“What are you doing awake?” Father leaned his head back.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Roger took the seat beside him. It seemed the men of Anglesea all stood watch through the early hours.
With a chuckle, Father poured a goblet of wine from the table beside him and handed it to Roger. “I find it hard to sleep most nights.”
“Is that because you sit on your ass all day?” Roger tried to lighten his father’s mood. The old man looked burdened, his powerful shoulders wore a slight stoop that had not been there ten years afore.
“Still young enough to kick your ass.” Father responded as Roger knew he would, and they shared a smile. “Nay.” Arthur sighed. “I am weary, Roger.”
“Then sleep.” He sipped his wine.
“Too weary for sleep, you arrogant young cur.” Father reached out with a half-hearted cuff that missed Roger’s head altogether. “Do you know I have been lord here at Anglesea since my fifteenth year?”
“Aye.”
“My father passed when I was young. For a couple of years, an uncle thought to rule in my stead, but I was like you. Young, fierce, full of piss and pride and I soon disabused him of that notion.”
Roger would wager his sword arm on that.
“I sit here at night and count all the wars I have fought, all the battles waged—won or lost. It presses on me.” Father rubbed his nape. “Like a yoke.”
“What are you saying?” This new mood unsettled Roger. His father, impregnable and solid as the walls about them, did not grow fatigued.
“Your mother has been at me again.” Father sipped his wine. “She wants to see her grandchildren. I am not much for children, but what my lady wants, my lady gets.”
By all the saints, you would never guess Sir Arthur was not one for children by the way he played for hours with Bea’s three boys and Faye’s Simon and Arthur, or dandled Bess on his knee. Roger hid his grin behind his goblet.
“It is time,” Father said.
Roger stilled and stared at him. “For what?”
“This.” He waved a hand about him. “I never agreed with young men waiting for their elders to die before stepping into their roles.” One craggy brow lifted. “Far too many fathers have an early demise that way.”
“I have no immediate plans to kill you, old man.”
Father threw his head back on a guffaw. “As if you could, you puny little runt.” He refilled both their goblets and sat back. He stroked his dog’s head.
Firelight flickered over her brindle coat.
“What are you really about?” Roger studied his father. “What is it that you want me to do?”
“Take over.” Father rubbed his nape. “Take up the yoke of Anglesea as her lord. I will not get in your way. My lady wishes to travel and spend time with Faye and William. She is even nattering a hole in my head about France.” Father snorted. “France! Nothing wrong with the place other than it is filled with Frenchmen.”
Baron Anglesea. That had always been his father, and now it could be him. Of course, the title would not pass to him until Sir Arthur died, but to take up the role for which he had been raised. Right before him, the possibility danced and flickered, and Roger hesitated. “Am I ready?”
“Is any man?” Father pounded the arm of his chair. “Was I ready at fifteen? God’s teeth, I was not. But it is your duty, your purpose, and I am weary,”
“When?”
“Once we have seen you married.” So soon? “Your mother has some wriggle in her drawers about seeing you happy and settled before we go. Wants this brangle between Bea and the bastard smoothed away. But she also wants to be up north for the birth of William’s second.”
Baron Anglesea. The weight of his title settled about his shoulders like a heavy, fur cape—both welcome and burdensome. “I am prepared.”
“Nay you are not.” Father drank his wine. “But I have done my best by you and you are a lot less stupid than most who take up their duties.”
High praise indeed. Roger laughed.
“Now.” Father slapped his palms against his armrests. “What has you up and about in the middle of the night?”
“A woman.”
Father shook his head. “Is that not always the case with us worthless bastards? I hope you are speaking of the lovely Lady Kate.”
“Kathryn.” The correction came unbidden to him. “She likes to be called Kathryn.”
“Are you as besotted with the girl as your mother claims?”
“Probably more so.”
“Good.” Father upended the flagon in Roger’s goblet. “And God help you with that. It has certainly played merry hell with me for all these years.”
Roger weighed his next words carefully. “I need something from you.”
Father raised his brow in question.
“Kathryn came to me tonight, she wanted to break the engagement.”
His brow rising even higher, father sat back.
“Sir Royce is handy with his fists, and he does not spare his womenfolk.”
On a large sigh, Father stroked his dog’s ears. “There are too many such.”
“Aye.” Roger swallowed his raw rage. “Kathryn fears for her mother if she leaves.”
“Ah.” Father’s expression darkened, and he rested his elbows on his knees. “Son, your name will protect Kathryn, but you know I cannot intercede between a husband and wife.”
“You did it for Faye.”
“Faye is my daughter.” His head shot up, gaze burning. “Even then it took some fancy footwork by your uncles to get the king’s favor on our venture.”
“I know.” Roger held his ground. “I gave her my word I would protect her mother.”
“Jesu, Roger.” Father sprang to his feet and paced into the open. “Why would you make such a vow? How can you possibly keep it?”
“I intend to keep it.” Roger rose and met his father in mid-stride. “With or without your help, but I was hoping you could assist me in some way.”
“Is nothing ever simple with my children?” Arthur stared at the ceiling and pleaded with God.
“Why would it be?” Tension coiled in Roger’s gut. He had not been naive enough to expect unconditional help, but this? “Naught with this family is simple, including you. You challenged King John, and I marched with you. Knowing it could mean the end of Anglesea, of all of us.” Roger stood a half-foot taller than his father now. “You went to rescue Faye, and again, I did not ask if it could be done or should be done. You called and I answered. You are my father and my liege lord. I claim your protection for my wife and her mother.”
Arthur growled at him and shook his head. “Settle down, you silly sod. I did not say I would not help you, but you cannot drop something like this on a man in the middle of the night and expect him to be happy about it.”
“I do not much care how you feel about it. Are you with me or not?”
“I should beat you bloody for your arrogance and impertinence.” Sir Arthur straightened, every inch the most feared warrior in the kingdom.
“If this was Faye.” R
oger refused to give ground. Kathryn was his everything and he had made her a promise. A man never broke his promises, particularly not to those whom he loved. This grizzled old warrior before him had taught him that. “If this was Faye and we had a chance to do something before matters became dire with Calder, would we not have declared damn everyone and stepped in?”
Father dropped his gaze and spun back to the fire. “That was foul tactics, son. You know I would remove every trace of a mark that whoreson put on Faye if I could.”
“What if you had a chance to prevent her from being in that position in the first place? Would you not take it?”
“In a twinkling.” Sir Arthur sat heavily on his chair. The dog replaced her head on his knee. She gazed at him as if she would soothe. “We need a strategy.”
Roger’s shoulders lifted as if suddenly relieved of a heavy burden. “You will help me?”
“You are my son,” Father said. “I would do no less for you than I would for a daughter. Sir Royce is a canny one. He is not a man to let go of an advantage without gaining something in return. Sit and cool your blood. We will need more than piss and pride to see this thing done.”
* * * *
Sitting still across the table from Sir Royce took an act of will Roger had not known he possessed. His fingers flexed to fasten about the man’s flaccid, corpulent neck and squeeze the life out of him. Beside him lounged Garrett, toying with a goblet in his upraised hand. Father had raised merry hell about the addition of Garrett, but Roger stood firm. No man knew more about a well-plotted revenge than his brother by marriage.
Garrett twisted the goblet until the gems caught the sunlight that streamed through the armory casement.
Sir Royce’s coarse, wiry-haired hands lay on the table before him, his knuckles split in places. Wounds gained by beating Kathryn black and blue.
As if sensing his mood, Garrett shot him a warning glance. Never reveal your weakness to an enemy. If Sir Royce even suspected how much Kathryn meant to him, they would lose valuable ground. Then he might be forced to beat the man bloody to keep his vow. The idea held limitless appeal.
They had discussed her dowry, and the wedding portion to be bestowed on Sir Royce once the marriage was concluded. The greedy bastard preened with satisfaction as Sir Arthur conceded ground. Royce needed coin and lots of it. He’d beggared his lands over the years, and now they could no longer support him. He also sought to make up for the loss of Matty, and any future income.
Sir Arthur had a simpler need. Land. A massive swathe of some of the richest pasture to be found between Anglesea’s borders and London. Land, the plans for which, already littered father’s chamber. Anglesea prospered, and with that came more mouths to feed.
Garrett grew restless sitting on his ass in Anglesea and taking Sir Arthur’s coin. When Henry returned, he would serve as Roger’s chamberlain. But Garrett needed a challenge of his own, and the new land would provide the perfect ground in which to sink his axe.
Brutish hands rubbing together, Sir Royce made to rise.
“There is one thing.” Garrett spoke for the first time. He motioned Sir Royce to be seated again. “We have some concerns.”
Father stiffened.
Roger pressed Father’s foot with his own beneath the table.
“Concerns?” Sir Royce frowned and took his seat.
“Mere trifles, I am sure.” Garrett motioned for a serving man to refill their wine and smiled. “Women! They are always more complicated than a man anticipates.”
Sir Royce waved the serving man away. “I can assure you those complications are now over.”
Sir Arthur shifted in his chair, his smoldering gaze locked on Garrett. It sat ill with Father to allow Garrett any control in this situation.
Roger pressed his father’s foot, harder this time. Garrett had skills Sir Arthur had never thought to make use of.
“Indeed.” Garrett savored a mouthful of wine. “William would love this. We must be sure to send him a few barrels,” he said to Roger before he turned back to Sir Royce. “When you first proposed a marriage, we were offered Lady Mathilda.”
Sir Royce flushed. He glared at Garrett and then Sir Arthur. “Does this bastard speak for you now?”
“He speaks for me.” Roger slid in smoothly before Father could speak. “I will take charge of Anglesea upon my marriage.”
Garrett twisted his goblet in the sunlight. “How is Lady Mathilda?”
“She left to join the holy sisters.” Sir Royce threw his wine down his throat.
“How wonderful.” Sir Arthur smirked. “Neither of my daughters chose to take up the veil. You and your good lady must be prodigious proud to have such a devout daughter.”
Was his father spreading the shit too thick? Roger glanced at him and then at Sir Royce.
Sir Royce’s eyes glittered malice, aimed at Mathilda or father, Roger knew not. For the first time, he caught a glimpse of the animal that lay beneath the surface. The same animal who had laid his filthy paws on Kathryn. Roger quaffed his goblet. He could not find a calm voice right now. He did not have one in him.
“Anyway.” Garrett placed his elbows on the table. “For whatever reason, we had no more Mathilda. Now we have Kathryn in her stead, and my good lady and I are so looking forward to welcoming her into the family.”
Sir Royce’s shoulders lost a little of the tension.
“However.” Garrett tapped his fingertips on the table. “Lady Beatrice has observed that Kathryn is a rather…excitable girl. We think her spirit will suit Roger admirably, but she has not the serene nature of her sister.”
“Aye.” Father joined the fray. “Lady Mary noted the same.”
“How interesting.” Garrett steepled his fingers before his mouth.
“Kate will do as she is told.” Sir Royce’s expression hardened.
Roger dug his hands into the bench to keep from strangling the sod. Father stomped on his foot this time.
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Garrett said. “But perhaps it helps a girl to have her mother with her, at a time of such great change. A mother’s wisdom and guiding hand can provide the stability to which a girl of lively disposition may look as she makes the change to wife.”
Sir Royce scowled. “You want me to leave her mother here?”
“I think it is rather splendid idea.” Sir Arthur beamed at him. “We have more than enough space for her, and I am sure, Kathryn would be so much easier.”
Sir Royce considered him. “Are you making this a condition of the marriage?”
Roger showed his teeth, more snarl than smile. “I am afraid that I am.”
Chapter 20
Kathryn’s stare fixed on her wedding gown and refused to move. Her mouth went suddenly dry. Her. Wedding. Gown. As in the gown she would wear to get married.
Married.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Oh, Lady Mary, it is lovely.” Mother clasped her hands to her bosom. Tears glistened and she dabbed at them.
“I wore it the day I married Sir Arthur.” Lady Mary stroked the ice-blue samite encrusted with seed pearls. Lady Mary must have looked like a faerie princess in that gown.
Kathryn stood, her feet frozen to the spot as her mother, Lady Mary, Nurse, Faye and Beatrice all grew misty-eyed. An interloper in the land of women. When the gown brought for Matty proved too short and gaped across the bosom, Lady Mary had made the offer to gown Kathryn.
The longer she stood, the more her body hurt, and she had trouble hiding her pain from the other women. Mother would not want the other women to see the marks on her and witness their shame.
Now they all expected her to don the gown, then follow them to the chapel where Roger waited. Sweat broke out over her skin. After today she would be Roger’s bride, his wife and chattel.
“Are you all right?” Beatrice sidled up beside her.
Not in the least. Her voice escaped her in a wobbly exhalation. “Aye.”
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Beatrice cocked her head. “You do not look all right.” She stiffened and went scarlet. “Do you need me to explain the…um…tonight.”
“Nay,” Kathryn near shouted. That would be beyond awkward. “Nay. I mean, I believe I understand that part.” The conversation with her mother yestereve had been even more excruciating than the act her mother described. It scrambled the mind that children came into the world at all if they got here that way.
“Good.” Beatrice blew out a long breath. “Because I would, but with Roger being my brother, it seems a little odd.”
“What maggot are you putting in her head?” Nurse bustled over, eyes narrowed like a ferret beneath her brow-squashing wimple. “She looks pale as a ghost.”
Beatrice threw her arms up. “What? She looked that way before I got here.”
“Looked what way?” Faye sidled up and peered at Kathryn.
“Terrified,” said Beatrice.
Nurse pressed a goblet into her hand with a wink. “Drink this.”
“What is that?” Beatrice peered at the goblet.
“Never you mind.” Nurse stared at Kathryn until she drained the goblet. “It is just a little something to make the day go easier.”
Faye and Beatrice exchanged glances.
Mother made herself busy, gathering up mugs and bowls from their shared meal and piling them by the door.
With a clap of her hands, Lady Mary drew all attention to her. “Might I have a word with Kathryn. Alone.”
“Why?” Beatrice glanced about.
“Out.” Lady Mary shooed them all toward the door, Mother included. “I will have a quiet word with Kathryn and then you can all come back and we will see her dressed.”
Faye gave her a look of concern and then the door shut behind the other women.
“There now.” Lady Mary walked to the bed, sat and patted for Kathryn to join her. “It can get a bit overwhelming.”
“I am not frightened.” Kathryn did not think her legs could move.
“Indeed.” Lady Mary laid her hands in her lap. “Perhaps it would be a little more convincing if you let go your stranglehold on your chemise.”