Lord of Lyonsbridge

by Ana Seymour

  His brother sighed. “’Tis past, Connor. And you swore an oath to keep it that way.”

  “There’s no need to remind me of an oath taken at our mother’s deathbed, Martin,” Connor said stiffly.

  “Aye, I know, it’s just—” He held up a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. “Jesu, who is that?”

  Connor followed the direction of his brother’s gaze down the road, and his expression grew thunderous. “Whoever it is must be a bloody fool to ride like that over slippery ground.”

  “It’s a woman,” Father Martin said, his voice awed.

  Connor had already seen for himself that the approaching rider was indeed a woman. Though mounted sideways in a woman’s saddle, with her skirts billowing around her, she rode like a man, straight and sure—and fast. “She’s a bloody fool, for all that,” he said under his breath.

  The woman was approaching so quickly that it was difficult to get a clear view, of her, but her garments were obviously rich and her horse looked to be magnificently bred. By the time the horse and rider pulled to a stop directly in front of them, both the brothers had surmised the identity of the new arrival.

  “It appears your curiosity is about to be satisfied, brother,” Connor said in an undertone.

  “She comes alone? Where’s her entourage?”

  “From the pace she sets, they’re undoubtedly left behind at the coast,” Connor replied with a grin as he stepped forward, ready to lift a hand to stop the big horse, if necessary.

  But the mount came to a perfect halt not two yards in front of him, and the lady perched on top appeared unruffled by her breakneck ride. She scarcely looked at Connor, focusing her attention instead on his brother.

  “Be you the friar of Lyonsbridge?” she asked without preamble.

  Father Martin shot a glance at Connor before he answered calmly, “I am Father Martin, my daughter, priest of St. John’s and administering friar to this estate.”

  She extended an arm in Connor’s direction and said to Father Martin, “You may direct this man to help me down and see to my horse.”

  Her attention to his brother gave Connor time to study her. He’d been unwilling to admit to Martin that he shared his curiosity about the Norman maid, but the tales of her beauty and spirit had piqued his interest as well. As with most tales oft told, he’d discounted their validity, but looking up at the young Norman woman as she sat haloed in the sunset, he had to admit that this time there had been no embellishment. Lady Ellen Wakelin was all they told of her, and more.

  Father Martin spoke with a slight smile. “You may feel free to address the man yourself, milady, since he is your new master of horse.”

  She glanced down at Connor, and this time appeared to take in all aspects of his appearance. Unaccountably, for the first time in years, Connor missed the grander clothes he was wont to wear when his family had been masters at Lyonsbridge. The humble fustian fabric of his undertunic and surcoat indicated peasant garb.

  His chin went up a notch. “Milady,” he said, without being addressed. “Welcome to Lyonsbridge.”

  Ellen’s eyes widened and she hesitated a moment, but then seemed to recover herself, placed one foot in his cupped hand and put her arm on his shoulder to dismount.

  As she stepped nimbly to the ground, she made no reply to his welcome, but turned once again to the priest. “We’re not expected until the morrow, Father. Sir William will need to be informed of our arrival.”

  William Booth had been serving as bailiff since the awarding of Lyonsbridge to Lord Wakelin the previous year. Booth had recently been knighted by the king for bringing order to what had been considered an unruly part of the country. No one questioned what his efforts had cost the people he had subdued.

  Father Martin looked at Connor, waiting to see if his normally outspoken brother would protest the slight by the Norman beauty. But Connor merely took hold of her horse’s reins and stepped back, watching her with an amused smile on his face.

  “Certainly,” the priest answered. “But, my child, where are the others in your party?”

  “Lagging behind, as usual,” she said breezily. “My cousin is not known for his horsemanship.”

  “Perhaps your cousin has more sense than to ride a tired mount at full gallop on a frozen path,” Connor said.

  Father Martin and Ellen both turned their heads toward him. The priest’s expression was a combination of amusement and reprimand, but there was instant outrage on Ellen’s pretty features.

  “How dare you?” she gasped.

  Connor shrugged. “As the good friar has told you, milady, I’m horse master here. ‘Tis my business to see that the mounts are not ill used.”

  As if to reinforce his words, he put a hand on her horse’s muzzle. Instantly, it dropped its head and stood stock-still. Ellen looked surprised, but her voice was still angry as she snapped, “I’ve ridden Jocelyn these past five years, and I know a deal more about her abilities than some bondsman.”

  Connor’s temper would have risen at the slur if he hadn’t been so fascinated by the way her anger heightened the winter red of her cheeks. By the rood, he’d never seen such a beauty. And her hair! Unlike the gentle Saxon maidens of Lyonsbridge, she wore no wimple over the thick black tresses. They hung in unruly waves, held in place only by a simple circlet of hammered gold.

  Connor tried to keep his gaze casual as he said, “I owe no bond to your family, milady. I work as a freeman.”

  “Then you’d best have a mind to your position, horse master, for you stay here at my sufferance.”

  Connor kept his expression impassive. He had no intention of letting Lady Ellen or any of the other Normans know of his family’s former status at Lyonsbridge. At his father’s death, the estate had been taken over by the Conquerer’s son, William. It had passed through a number of hands before the younger William’s successor, King Henry, had bestowed Lyonsbridge on Ellen’s father. “I’ll try to remember that, milady,” Connor said after a moment.

  Ellen nodded and turned back to Father Martin, who was watching the exchange with interest. “Will you escort me inside, Father?” she asked.

  Father Martin looked over at Connor, who spoke in a voice thick with irony. “By all means, Father,” he said. “Escort the lady into the castle. We’d not have our Norman visitor take a chill in the cool English air, now would we?”

  Father Martin shook his head at his brother’s dangerously impudent tone, but Ellen appeared to pay no attention and was already walking briskly toward the castle gates. He leaned toward Connor and whispered, “Mind your tongue, brother. Never forget that it’s a Norman world now.” Then he bustled off to catch up with the estate’s new mistress.

  Chapter Two

  Unlike the highly fortified castles in some parts of Europe, Lyonsbridge had no moat, no defenses. In addition to the stables, a number of other outbuildings were outside the low walls that surrounded the castle bailey. A small bridge crossed a token trench to the big wooden gates. As they approached, Ellen observed, “He’s a strange manner of man, the horse master.”

  Father Martin looked at her sharply.

  Ellen bit her tongue, realizing that after the way she’d dismissed the stableman, her sudden observation about him seemed odd.

  “I believe you’ll find that Connor is a valuable servant, milady,” the priest replied after a moment. “You would do well to take advantage of his experience here.”

  “Experience with the horses?”

  Once again Father Martin seemed to hesitate. “With everything—the animals, the people, the estate itself.”

  “He’s been here long, then?”

  “All his life.”

  Ellen looked back down the gently sloping hill that led to the stables, but the tall blond man was nowhere in sight. “All his life, yet he’s not a bondsman?” she asked.

  “Nay, milady. You’d not likely see Connor Brand in bond to any man.”

  “He does seem to have an obdurate nature.”<
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  Father Martin smiled, but all he said was, “Mayhap.”

  “Well, he’d best not show it with my cousin. Sebastian does not have the easiest of tempers.”

  “I shall pass your warning on to Connor.”

  Two yeomen had swung open the gates to admit them into the castle yard. One of the men carried a torch, as it was fast growing dark. Ellen nodded at him, then swept past to get her first look at the home she’d be inhabiting for the next several months.

  Though the stone building had made an imposing sight from the road, she quickly realized that her fears about coming to this uncivilized part of the world were likely to be realized. She sighed. “Is this the central courtyard?” she asked the friar.

  “This is the only courtyard,” he replied.

  There was scarcely room to walk, so filled was the space with all manner of clutter. Logs for the fireplace lay in a haphazard pile, half blocking the small stairway at the far end of the bailey. A heap of what looked to be rusty armor lay scattered around to the left of the front gates, and to the right was a ramshackle wooden hut that reeked of stale urine.

  Ellen wrinkled her nose as they passed it. “Who has been keeping house for Sir William?” she asked.

  Father Martin kicked at a pile of bones being scavenged by two of the castle hounds. “He has no wife, milady.”

  Ellen watched as the two dogs scampered off into the dusk. “That’s well evident,” she said softly.

  “Here’s Sir William now,” Father Martin said, pointing to a low arched entryway on their left.

  The man who appeared there was stocky and short of stature, not as tall as Ellen herself. Almost at once she sensed a belligerence in his nature that she didn’t like. But her father had spoken highly of his bailiff, and she knew Lord Wakelin was exceedingly grateful for the way Sir William had been able to put some structure into the estate with very little help from Normandy.

  She’d be wrong to judge his efficiency by the appearance of the castle, particularly if he’d had no woman to help. Indeed, the neglect of this aspect of the estate justified her father’s wisdom in sending her here. Ellen felt a sudden sense of mission, which warmed her voice as she greeted the man approaching her.

  “Well met, Sir William,” she said in response to his murmured welcome and bowed head. “My father sends his greetings.”

  “Would that he could have accompanied you, milady. I’m anxious to have him see how his holdings are prospering.”

  As he raised his face to look at her, his black eyes darted around, reminding Ellen suddenly of a rat. The back of his head was shaved in Norman fashion and his black beard was sleeked with some kind of grease, adding to the effect. It made Ellen want to giggle, but she stifled the impulse and kept her voice gracious. “I’ll see your efforts in his stead, Sir William, and make faithful report of your good work.”

  “Thank you, milady.” His eyes shifted from her to the gates behind her, then to Father Martin, then back to her. “I’d understood that your father was sending his nephew to review his English estate.”

  “Sir Sebastian is directly behind me,” Ellen explained. “I found myself with a spurt of energy and rode ahead, to the disapproval of your master of horse.”

  Sir William scowled, and the ratlike expression that had amused her suddenly looked more sinister. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. Begging your pardon, since he be blood, Father,” he said to the friar, “but Lyonsbridge would be better off without the likes of Connor Brand.”

  Ellen looked at Father Martin, questioning. “Connor is my brother,” he explained.

  “Your brother!” She couldn’t decide why it was such a surprise to learn that the forceful man she’d met at the stables was brother to the friar. Now that she knew, she could see the resemblance immediately. They had the same handsome features, the same smile. The priest appeared to be bulkier under his robes, whereas the horse master had, she recalled with an uncharacteristic blush, been of a decidedly muscular build.

  “Perhaps I should have mentioned it right away,” Father Martin said apologetically.

  “Brother or no, he’s been a thorn in my tabard ever since I came to Lyonsbridge,” Sir William grumbled.

  When Father Martin made no response to the charge, Ellen asked, “Then why haven’t you dismissed the man?”

  Sir William shrugged and waved his hand vaguely. “He’s good with the horses,” he said. He made a nervous shuffle with his feet. “Enough of the stable. Let me show you inside the castle.”

  Ellen put her hand on the arm Sir William offered her and let him lead her across the courtyard toward the stairway, but she remained puzzled about his answer. It seemed odd that the bailiff would keep a servant whom he professed to detest, no matter how good the man was with the livestock. In fact, there was something odd about Connor Brand himself. A strange manner of man, she had told the priest. Indeed. And perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she, mistress of the entire estate and acclaimed by the most noble men in Christendom, couldn’t seem to banish the stable master from her thoughts.

  The previous day’s frost had disappeared overnight, leaving a mist that hung heavy and thick near the ground. It was not a good morning for a ride, but after breaking her fast with bread and strong ale, Ellen found herself wandering toward the stables. It made sense, she assured herself, to check on Jocelyn’s welfare after the grueling trip.

  She was within yards of the stable and had just about decided that Jocelyn would prove to be her only mission after all, when suddenly the tall figure of the horse master emerged through the fog. Her heartbeat jumped.

  Once again, he did not wait to be addressed first. “Good morrow, milady. You’re up and about early. The very sparrows still sleep, I trow.”

  She put aside her annoyance at his boldness. Perhaps manners were not as formal in England. “You were here before me, Master Brand.”

  “Ah, but I’m a poor laborer whose lot it is to work early and long. You’re a noblewoman, made to while away the hours in play and pleasure.”

  The proper response to such an inappropriate comment would have been to ignore him, but the amused scorn in his tone made Ellen bristle and answer, “I’ve come to England to oversee a household, one that appears to be in sore need of management, I might add. I’ve not come to play.”

  Connor took a step closer to her, then paused. His blue eyes boldly ran the length of her, taking on a sparkle as he smiled and said, “I’ll admit I don’t picture you quietly weaving tapestries the day through.”

  She was standing uphill from him, which made their faces level, less than a yard distant. He gazed at her frankly, without apology. For a moment, she stared back. Then she realized that her face had grown warm and the breath had halted in her throat. She backed up a step. “I’d thank you not to picture me in any way whatsoever,” she said. Her tone was not as imperious as she’d hoped.

  Connor smiled more broadly. “Norman rule has robbed Saxons of many things, milady, but not of their thoughts, nor yet of their fantasies.”

  In Normandy a servant could have been beaten for such insolence, but instead of the reprimand that had leaped to her lips, she found herself arguing with him. “Norman rule has brought the Saxons much more than it has taken.”

  Connor’s eyebrow raised. “So says the Norman lady?”

  “Aye,” Ellen answered firmly. “So says the Norman lady.”

  “Perhaps one of these days you’ll enlighten me about these wonders our conquerers have brought us, milady, but at the moment, I must take leave to go muck my Norman master’s stables.”

  This man was like no servant she had ever encountered, and, for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why she continued to stand there like a tongue-tied maid and let him speak to her in such a fashion. It had something to do with the fact that her heart had not slowed from the time he’d first startled her, coming out of the fog.

  One thing was certain. If she was going to put some good Norman order into this place, s
he’d have to start by regaining control of herself. “You forget yourself, Master Brand,” she said, and this time she was pleased to note that her tone was properly haughty. “If my cousin were to hear you speak the way you have to me just now, he’d turn you over to the king for sedition.”

  Connor turned his back on her and walked down to the stable, collecting a pitchfork that was leaning against the building. Over his shoulder he said, “You misjudge me, milady. I’m a man of peace.”

  “I think not. You and your brother appear to be cut of wholly different cloth.”

  Connor turned back to her in surprise. “Martin told you, then?”

  “Father Martin? Aye.”

  “We’re not so different. Our destiny has given us two different paths, but we walk toward the same end.”

  Ellen shook her head in confusion and finally gave voice to the thought that had been circling in her head since meeting him the previous day. “You don’t talk like any stable master I’ve ever heard.”

  Connor dug the end of the fork into the ground, threw back his head and laughed.

  There was, indeed, an independence about this servant that totally discomfited her. “I’m serious,” she insisted, her voice raising a notch. “Who are you? Father Martin said you’ve lived here all your life.”

  “That I have, milady. Who am I? Why, I’m your stable boy, your horse trainer, your livestock manager.” He left the fork standing by itself in the dirt and took a long step to bring himself once again close to where she was standing. Very softly he said, “I’m your faithful servant, milady.”

  His voice rumbled deep into her midsection.

  She stood there facing him, eye-to-eye, as blood pounded behind her ears. She swallowed once, then again, before making a reply that came out as not much more than a whisper. “Aye, Saxon, you are my servant. See that you act like it.”

  Then, abandoning her intention to visit her horse, she turned abruptly and made her way up the hill toward the castle as quickly as dignity would allow.