Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  For a brief moment, Linet feared they were taking over the household. The thought dizzied her. She faltered back. The beggar caught her.

  “What do they want?” she whispered, trembling.

  “Why don’t you find out?” he said. He sounded so confident, so unconcerned.

  It took all her courage to descend the steps. Halfway down, the offers began. A gangly youth hoisted up a brace of slaughtered hares. “I caught ‘em myself yesterday.” He slung the carcasses across the trestle table.

  “My wife won’t be needin’ these, God rest her soul,” an old man mumbled, elbowing his way forward and dropping a pair of thick leather shoes onto the table.

  A pair of giggling maids bounced out of the crowd, their arms draped with crudely embroidered linens, which they deposited beside the shoes.

  “It’s got a limp!” a barrel-chested, black-bearded man bellowed, pushing a rusty wheelbarrow toward her. “But it’ll serve ye well enough!”

  One by one, the villagers came forward, yelling out the virtues of what they’d brought, leaving their humble offerings in a growing pile in the midst of the great hall. There were livestock and linens, flour for the pantry and seedlings for the garden, some things she needed desperately and some for which she had absolutely no use.

  But they were for her. These peasants with scarcely two coins to rub together had managed to scrape up enough to help a neighbor who’d lost her warehouse and outbuildings to fire. They had brought her gifts of their hearts.

  Tears brimmed in Linet’s eyes, and she had to clamp her lips to keep them from quivering as the villagers eagerly dropped their parcels on the table.

  “This isn’t right,” she whispered to the beggar. “I can’t take these things.”

  His voice was warm and kind against her ear. “You have to take them. You’ll offend them if you don’t.”

  Linet sniffed. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend them. In all the years she’d lived in Avedon, she’d scarcely breathed a word to any of her neighbors. Yet here they were, offering her comfort and sustenance they could ill afford. It touched her deeply.

  She’d accept the gifts. It was what they wanted. But somehow she’d repay their generosity. She dashed the tears from her face with the back of her hand and raised her chin.

  “Good people,” she called out clearly, “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness.” She swallowed hard, praying God would somehow grant her the wherewithal to keep her next promise. “I vow to you…all of you…that when my warehouse is restored, when the looms of de Montfort are operating again…” She looked at all the faces, faces that had before always seemed a blur, and found in them decency and affection and encouragement. She smiled proudly through a new welling of tears. “I shall weave for each of your families a length of fine worsted such as the nobles wear, enough to make you Sunday garments.”

  The villagers remarked in wonder among themselves, smiling their gratitude, until someone started a great cheer. In a moment, the hall of de Montfort was ringing with her praises.

  How she’d restore her warehouse she didn’t know. The Guild would probably oust her for marrying a commoner, preventing her from selling her wares at market and hiring apprentices. Even if she could somehow raise the coin to purchase a loom or two for her home, it would take her years to fulfill her promise, weaving alone.

  But somehow she’d do it. Somehow she’d struggle to her feet and repay these people for all the years she’d scorned them. Somehow she’d redeem herself.

  She descended the rest of the steps cautiously, like a swimmer approaching a cold pond. A snaggle-toothed man shot forward and snatched her hand between his two dirty paws, pumping it roughly. She gasped at first, afraid he meant her harm. But his eyes twinkled with affection. She smiled, and then withdrew her hand, placing it atop a shy little girl’s head. A wizened old woman hobbled up, embracing Linet suddenly with a motherly squeeze. A tiny boy sucking his thumb tugged at her skirts.

  It wasn’t as disconcerting as she’d expected. She moved forward through the crowd as through water, touching a shoulder here, receiving an embrace there, wading deeper and deeper into the midst of the humanity. And yet she felt neither fear nor repulsion. They were only people, even with their dirt-stained aprons and their sticky fingers, their stringy hair and their bare, lanky limbs. They were her people.

  She was still floating on a current of good will when she climbed aboard the cart to make the journey to de Ware Castle.

  The beggar had to drive the nag at a breakneck pace through the countryside to get them there by nightfall. Maple, oak, and birch passed in a blur as they sped along. Even the merrily twittering sparrows couldn’t catch them. The odor of damp earth and the faint scent of apple blossoms wafted by like fleeting memories. The few clouds above seemed like faraway nomads drifting across the sky, sky that was almost the exact color…

  Linet gasped suddenly. The beggar slowed the horse, turning to her in concern.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  How could she explain? It seemed so trivial. “My blue worsted…”

  Suddenly the weight of all she’d lost in the last year came crashing down on her shoulders—her father, her title, her warehouse, her looms… But at this particular moment, nothing seemed so devastating to her as the loss of her precious blue worsted, the worsted dyed with rare Italian pigment, the worsted that matched the color of his eyes. It was silly, she knew, insignificant in the face of her greater losses. But it moved her to tears.

  “It’s gone,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “My blue worsted is gone.”

  Duncan didn’t hesitate to comfort her. He reached across the seat and gathered her into his arms. He’d soothed enough weeping women to know that their words often had nothing to do with their tears. It was no matter that she’d narrowly escaped death at the hands of sea reivers, that she’d been hunted halfway across Flanders, that she’d singlehandedly slain a Spanish criminal, that she’d lost the source of her livelihood to fire. That damned blue cloth was her biggest concern now. And he couldn’t get it back.

  “Everything will be all right,” he said, combing her hair with his fingers. “I promise you.”

  Duncan smiled to himself as the cart wobbled through the gates of de Ware. If Sir Duncan de Ware had ridden up to the castle astride his noble mount, his adoring vassals might have recognized him. But atop this merchant’s cart at twilight, in the shadow of a beautiful angel with curls of gleaming gold, he passed through the throng at the gates without notice.

  Linet seemed oblivious to most of the stares. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet for the past hour. It was probably nervousness. They circled the courtyard, and Duncan dropped her off before the door of the great hall so he could stable the horse.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “I’m sure Lady Alyce will understand.”

  Linet scarcely heard him. She was occupied with choosing words of diplomacy for the confrontation ahead. How she’d explain it all, she didn’t know. She had no cloth for the lady, nor did she have the advance payment she’d received from her. Worse, she had neither warehouse nor wool to complete the order. But she had her honor. She hoped it would serve her now.

  She stared at the imposing front doors of the great hall until the beggar was gone. Then, taking a shaky breath, she broached the entrance.

  The cavernous hall was empty except for a few servants and a man-at-arms, to whom she gave her request for an audience with Lady Alyce. She attempted to still her trembling heart and hands. Lady Alyce was a kind woman, she reasoned. Surely she could rely upon her patience and understanding.

  She waited for what seemed an eternity, counting her steps along the length of the vast room, tapping her fingers against her thigh, watching the servants travel back and forth from the buttery to the pantry.

  This hall was much more inviting than her uncle’s castle, she decided. It was warmer, brighter somehow, the tapestries cheerier, the r
ushes fresh and fragrant. It seemed like a place of harmony, where wealth wasn’t displayed for wealth’s sake.

  She fidgeted with her skirt. Damnation! The hem was muddy. She hoped Lady Alyce wouldn’t notice. The beggar, at least, seemed confident that everything would work out. Where was he? He’d had enough time to stable the nag by now. She’d feel much more sure of herself with him at her side.

  The beggar, she mused. He still hadn’t told her his real name. Everyone in her household seemed content to call him Duncan. She supposed he’d tell her in his own time.

  Her thoughts scattered as a small commotion ensued at the far archway of the hall. A tall, gray-bearded nobleman entered, his surcoat a luxurious sweep of black velvet. Instinctively, she curtseyed.

  At first, Lord James thought the diminutive girl in the middle of the hall was wearing a caul of spun gold. Then he realized he was seeing her hair. She lifted her head again. Her face was as beautiful as her hair—her cheeks rosy, her eyes brilliant. Alyce had been right. Duncan’s betrothed looked like an angel.

  But suddenly the girl’s face contorted with horror. He wondered uneasily for a moment if he’d forgotten to don his braies.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed across the empty hall.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lord James glanced about him. Perhaps the damsel was addressing someone else. But there were just the two of them. He regarded her curiously.

  “Aye, I’m speaking to you,” she said, continuing to gape at him. “Lady Alyce will be here any moment! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I?” he asked indignantly.

  “Are you looking for a flogging?”

  He raised himself up to his full height. How dared the girl speak to her future father-in-law in this way?

  “Please go, Duncan,” she begged. “You’ll only make matters worse.”

  Ah, here was the coil, Lord James thought. The damsel wasn’t the first to remark on the resemblance his son bore to him. And with Duncan’s penchant for disguises…

  “I’m not Duncan,” he announced.

  “Of course you’re not,” she whispered sarcastically. “You’re not Venganza or Gaston de Valois either.”

  “My name is—”

  “Nay, I don’t want to know now. I want you to leave immediately, get out of that ridiculous costume, and wait for me outside.”

  Lord James lifted a brow. No doubt Duncan had been up to his well-known pranks with her in the recent past—“ridiculous costume” indeed. He stroked his beard and looked hard at her. She didn’t budge. This was obviously one spirited woman, just the sort of partner his eldest son needed, one who wouldn’t be overawed by Duncan’s wealth and position, but would speak her mind freely. Damn, but Alyce had chosen well.

  “I shall send my wife out presently,” he told her.

  “Your wife? Really!” she fumed, her hands on her hips. “Did you steal those garments?”

  Lord James glanced down at his clothing. “You mean my…’ridiculous costume’? Nay, my wife—“

  “Duncan! I’m not a fool, and furthermore—“

  “I’m not Duncan.”

  “I won’t put up with this nonsense when we’re wed.”

  “Ah,” Lord James replied, quite satisfied with her decree. It seemed this woman would suit his son very well indeed. He saluted her. “Perfect.”

  Lady Alyce stifled a smile.

  Her oldest son Duncan stood before her, challenging her with a gaze of unyielding iron. Already the poor lad had made the mistake of coming to the solar, her domain, to confront her. Now he was compensating for that tactical error by puffing out his chest and staring at her with a grim expression that said he’d brook no argument from her.

  How out of place he looked here, she thought. His size and that fierce, dark countenance of his were at odds with the blithe tapestries, soft furnishings, and warm candlelight flooding the room. And he was obviously uncomfortable. He wouldn’t know what to do with his arms if he unfolded them from across his chest. He’d likely stand for hours before attempting to sit on one of the delicate cushioned benches he was certain would break beneath his weight. It was all too amusing.

  Before he misunderstood the smile that threatened to crinkle her eyes, she turned her back on him and gazed out the window.

  “I know you’re upset,” he warned, “but—”

  “I’m extremely upset,” she told him, but somehow she couldn’t make her voice reflect that.

  “Be that as it may, I won’t change my—”

  “Do you smell smoke?” she asked suddenly, turning to him and sniffing.

  “I helped to put out a fire last night. Linet’s warehouse burned to the ground,” he mumbled, obviously eager to get back to the other topic. “I want you to know it was entirely my idea.

  “A fire?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Our marriage.”

  “Ah,” she sighed, pressing a hand to her breast in relief.

  “Linet is blameless,” he insisted.

  “Well,” she laughed shortly, “that much is a comfort. I’m glad to know the girl at least has more sense than to try to marry without the king’s permission.”

  How like his father he was, she thought, this firstborn son she’d raised as her own, stubborn and principled and utterly charming. He never doubted for a moment that he’d get his way. Most of the time, he was right.

  “However,” she continued, crossing her arms and turning her back on him again, “that isn’t why I’m upset.”

  His sigh was loud.

  “Linet de Montfort is lovely,” she said, “Brilliant, hard-working, courteous. I couldn’t ask for a more suitable daughter-in-law. In fact, I told the king so when I sent for his approval. All it needs now is your father’s final blessing. He should be with her now.”

  There was an instant of delay while he digested this information. “What?” he finally exploded.

  “I told you I think she’s lovely.”

  “How did—” Duncan stumbled.

  “I purchased quite a bit of cloth from her, you know—superior quality stuff.”

  “Mother,” he threatened, sounding very like his father now, “what have you done?” He stepped behind her and turned her around by the shoulders.

  “Only assisted fate, my dear,” she said with a shrug.

  Duncan was at his wit’s end. He wondered how his father had endured this woman’s capricious logic. “Mother, how could you possibly know what fate has in store for me?”

  “Duncan, Duncan,” she chided, patting him lightly on the cheek. “I always know.”

  He shook his head. It was useless trying to interpret her reasoning. Part of him was furious that his stepmother had made wedding arrangements with the king without consulting him. But truthfully, Duncan was pleased with the outcome. And looking down at Lady Alyce’s radiant expression, he knew he couldn’t stay angry with her for long.

  “If you had my future planned all along,” he said, arching a brow, “then why are you upset with me?”

  “I’m upset, you big lout, because I’m sure you’ve bedded her, and that means we must make haste in case she is with child. There’s scarcely time to prepare for the kind of ceremony your father will insist upon for his firstborn.”

  He grinned, and she pushed him aside to pace.

  “We must have a hunt,” she decided. “We’ll need quail and heronshewes, at least, and a dressed swan as the processional centerpiece at the wedding feast. We have stores of pickled salmon from Scotland, and river eels will be simple enough to come by, but…oh, how I do wish we’d gotten more figs and dates from that Turkish merchant after Lent…”

  Duncan heard little else of Lady Alyce’s chatter. He bussed her soundly on the mouth, startling her from her discourse, then gladly fled the room that seemed to mock his masculinity.

  Linet made a formal curtsey when Lady Alyce swept into the great hall with two of her maids-in-waiting.

  “There you are, my dear,” the lady beamed, gliding c
loser. “Why, what lovely hair you have. It’s as golden as the sun.”

  Linet touched her curls self-consciously, keenly aware of the fact she’d forgotten to wear a proper coif and veil. “My lady…” she began nervously.

  “And your gown—what a beautiful shade of green,” the lady continued, circling her with her maids until Linet felt like an object of art. “Did your Italian dyers do it?”

  “Aye, my lady, thank you.”

  One of the maids began sniffing suspiciously. Linet would have sworn Lady Alyce kicked surreptitiously at the girl, though she remained smiling all the while.

  “I smell smoke,” the other maid declared.

  Linet colored.

  Lady Alyce took Linet’s arm and walked with her to the dais at the end of the hall. “Prepare a bath, ladies,” she called over her shoulder. “One of you smells of smoke.”

  Linet bit her lip. “I fear it’s me,” she whispered.

  “Now,” Lady Alyce said, ignoring the comment, “I wish to have new attire for a special occasion. How long would it take you, from the raw wool to the dyeing and the weaving, to complete enough cloth for garments for my immediate family—that is, my husband and myself, two of my sons, and…let me see, the men will wear their own colors…five of my ladies?”

  Linet was overwhelmed by Lady Alyce’s babbling. How could she tell the woman that the raw wool was gone and all her looms destroyed?

  God must have been smiling on her.

  “I have a store of raw wool,” Lady Alyce said, “quite fine, I’m told, though I’d like your judgment on that, and I would prefer the work to be done on my looms here, except for the dyeing, of course. It’s a smelly business, isn’t it, best left to the far end of the village?”