Protected by the Knight's Proposal

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Lachlan!’ cried King Henry, rising from his chair on the high dais. ‘Welcome to Exancaester! I didn’t realise that you and Simon had returned from France. I hear you decided to stay at Simon’s castle in Doccombe for a while?’

  ‘I had no option but to stay. I was wounded in France,’ Lachlan said as he climbed the wooden stairs to the dais, gripping Cecily’s hand to keep her alongside. Her hemline brushed against his boots as they walked.

  ‘Bad luck, Lachlan,’ the King said. ‘But your wound has healed now.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  The King’s brown eyes landed on Cecily. His brow wrinkled with interest as he noted her fine pale skin, the expensive cut of her lilac woollen gown and cloak. ‘Sit with me.’ He beckoned them along the dais. ‘Tell me what you have been doing.’ He turned to the elderly nobleman sitting alongside him. ‘You don’t mind moving along a little, my lord? I haven’t seen Lachlan in such a long time.’

  The older man’s mouth tightened in disapproval, before he made a great show of shuffling his chair back and ordering a servant to move his plate and goblet along the table to an empty seat. It was his castle, after all, in which the King was staying and he was spending a great deal of money keeping Henry and his entourage well fed and watered until they moved on to the next castle.

  ‘Come, come, my dear.’ Henry raised his hand to beckon Cecily into the empty seat beside him. His giant rings flashed in the candlelight, the red fire of rubies set into gold. In contrast to his grandiose gestures, his figure, although tall, was thin and gaunt, his hair a faded mouse-brown, drooping on to his shoulders in loose, wispy locks. He wore a plain gold circlet to denote his regal status, which sat low across his forehead. ‘Where did Lachlan find you, eh? I never heard that he had married.’

  Cecily flushed to the roots of her hair, glancing at Lachlan. He had folded himself into the chair on the opposite side of the King, his strong body a muscle-bound parcel of energy, his gold-red hair acting like a marker of his innate physical strength. Beside him, Henry looked like a child, although they were probably about the same age. ‘Oh,’ she managed to splutter out. ‘No, you have it wrong, my lord... Sire, I am not married to Lachlan. I... I am...’

  ‘I have brought Lady Cecily here on Lord Simon’s behalf,’ Lachlan cut across her smoothly. ‘She was married to his late brother, Peter.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did hear of his death. My condolences to you, Lady Cecily.’ Henry clicked his fingers and a servant leaned down between the chairs, setting a clean goblet and plate in front of her and pouring a glass of wine. A couple of red drops landed on the pristine white tablecloth, spreading slowly. Slices of meat appeared on her plate, a bread roll, some vegetables, and Cecily stared at them dully, as if in a dream. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she should even be sitting at the top table with the King. Surely when he found out what she had done, she would be treated differently. The blade of the eating knife, set beside her pewter dish, glimmered in the light of the many candles, set at intervals along the trestle table.

  ‘So,’ Henry said, pushing a slice of chicken into his mouth and chewing hungrily. ‘What brings you to my side?’

  ‘Lady Cecily has done something that Lord Simon is not happy about and asked me to bring her to you to resolve the issue.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Henry said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘For otherwise I would not get to see you at all.’ He swallowed and took a sip of wine, wiping the drops from his beard. ‘What have you done, my lady? I’m sure it cannot be that bad.’

  Cecily bit her lip. She had to stand up for herself, defend herself. There was no point in trying to hide the truth. She took a deep shaky breath. ‘I pretended...’ She paused, squeezing a lump of bread between her fingers, pressing the soft crumb again and again. She stared at the tablecloth, the drops of wine. ‘I pretended to be carrying a baby, so I could pass the child off as my late husband’s heir,’ she said finally. ‘Lord Simon wanted his brother’s castle and lands back and it was the only way we could keep it.’

  The King sat back in his chair, bolt upright, visibly shocked.

  ‘Is this true?’ He turned to Lachlan.

  ‘It is, my lord. But, without trying to diminish the severity of Lady Cecily’s crime, I will say in her defence that on our journey here, we were attacked by outlaws in the Forest of Haldon. I was knocked unconscious and the two knights who travelled with us were slain. Lady Cecily had the perfect opportunity to run away, yet she did not. She crawled through the undergrowth to find me and tend my wound. She could have left me to bleed to death.’ Lachlan’s eyes sought Cecily’s, caught and held. He flashed her a quick reassuring smile.

  Henry glared fiercely at his plate, now empty, then took a long sip of wine from his goblet, wiping the drops from his beard. He set the goblet back down on the table with deliberate slowness, running his finger around the ridge of pewter that decorated the goblet base. He sighed heavily. ‘This is a serious crime, my lady, one, I might say, of which you do not look capable. I have to tell you that such a crime normally merits a lengthy imprisonment, or even hanging in some cases.’

  Cecily gasped at the King’s pronouncement. Her head spun, nausea rising in her throat. Sweat coated her spine, sticking the fine material of her gown to her flesh. She gripped the thick edge of the table, knuckles white.

  ‘Normally,’ Lachlan repeated the word, loudly. His velvet tones pierced her terror; she snared his bright eyes and clung to them, helplessly. He raised his eyebrows, a warning. Steady, he seemed to say.

  ‘You should be tried, my lady, before my court. I do not have the power to make decisions on your fate alone. But the next court is not for another month or so and I am not inclined to imprison you for that length of time, especially as you had the chance to run away and did not.’

  Cecily clasped her hands in her lap. Her mouth was dry, her fingers slick with sweat.

  ‘So...’ drawled Henry, ‘I am in the mood to offer clemency. A good word from Lachlan is worth three from any other man; I value his opinion greatly. You have been brave enough to face me and face whatever punishment I might have given you.’ Henry wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m thinking that you need another husband, someone who would keep you in line. Maybe even have a child or two of your own, eh? You’re a pretty piece, I’m sure I can find someone who would be happy to marry you.’

  A sudden wave of heat flooded through Lachlan’s body; he ran one tapered finger around the neckline of his tunic. The wound on the back of his head throbbed. He hitched forward, listening intently. Why had he not envisaged such a scenario? Why had he been so stupid as to imagine that Henry would let her go on Lachlan’s say-so? Christ, the thought of her going to another man, probably one of Henry’s old cronies who had worked their way through one or two wives already, didn’t bear thinking about. Lachlan watched the colour drain out of Cecily’s lovely face, the sparkle die in her eyes, and he thought, I cannot let this happen.

  ‘Let me think,’ mused Henry, leaning back in his seat and resting crossed arms on the rising curve of his protruding belly. ‘Who needs a wife? Can you think of anyone, Stephen?’ he shouted past Cecily to the nobleman on her other side, staring at his plate. The man turned to Henry. A lock of grey frizzy hair fell across his lined forehead. ‘The Lord of Colcombe has just lost his wife in childbirth.’

  Henry clapped his hands. ‘Ah. yes, the Lord of Colcombe, an excellent choice!’

  ‘I don’t have a wife.’ Lachlan’s voice emerged suddenly, calm and measured, breaking across the King’s high-pitched exclamations, the burble of chatter along the table. ‘I will marry Lady Cecily.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Heat flashed across Cecily’s face; astonished, she stared at Lachlan, mind reeling. Her hand flew to her throat, then her neat chin, fluttering undecidedly, her fingers finally settling around her jaw. What in heaven’s name was Lachlan thinking? Was he out of his mind?
And yet a tiny kernel of hope flickered, deep in her belly. She touched her bottom lip, slowly, remembering his mouth upon hers. Maybe he thought more of her than she had imagined.

  A dull ruddy colour touched the top of Henry’s gaunt cheeks; he cleared his throat several times, before gulping down some wine. The red liquid dribbled down his chin; he wiped it away angrily with his sleeve. ‘My God, Lachlan, you don’t have to do this! I wasn’t asking you to marry this...’ He sneered at Cecily. ‘Why saddle yourself with her when you could do so much better? Let her go to one of my lesser nobles.’

  Cecily laid her palms flat upon the white tablecloth; her fingers shook and she tried to steady them Yes, she thought, come on, Lachlan; I want to hear what you have to say. Why would you saddle yourself with me? She searched his face for clues, but the lean angles of his face remained irritatingly bland, impassive.

  Lachlan shrugged, hitching his eyebrow as if the matter was of no consequence. ‘I need a wife,’ he said. He leaned back in his chair, his arm stretched out over the linen tablecloth, his fingers playing with the stem of his pewter goblet. ‘And as you wish Lady Cecily to have a husband, then it may as well be me.’ And I can protect her with my name, he thought, even if I cannot give her my love.

  Henry nodded. ‘I see. You need someone to produce some heirs, to carry on the family name after...’ His voice died away and he clamped his lips tight shut as if to prevent any further words emerging. Lachlan tipped his head to one side, acknowledging the fact that Henry was not going to talk about what happened in his past.

  Cecily stared down at her plate, heaped high with food. Her mouth was dry; she had failed to eat even a single morsel. She had no idea why Lachlan had offered to marry her; she hadn’t envisaged such a thing before they had approached the King. Biting her lip, she sought out his bright blue eyes along the table. ‘Are you sure about this?’ She spoke directly to him, ignoring the King in between them. ‘It’s a big commitment.’ Beneath the fizzing nervous energy, beneath the anxiety that came from being in the King’s presence, something shifted within her heart. Was it hope?

  The King rose between them suddenly, blocking her view of Lachlan. He was incredibly tall, taller than Lachlan, and his bony frame loomed over her. He leered down at her; his hawk-like nose, his face twisting with ferocious intent. ‘No one asked you to speak, Lady Cecily. You have no choice in this matter, after what you have done. You should be grateful that Lord Lachlan offered for your hand.’

  At the King’s harsh words, she slumped back in her seat, clamping her lips together to hold back the tears. What a fool she had been; she should have learned to hold her tongue by now, especially in front of the King. This was a good outcome for her and she would do better for herself if she did not question it. If Lachlan was set on marrying her, then so be it.

  ‘If you’re sure you want to tie yourself to her, Lachlan, then I will not stand in your way.’ Henry swallowed the last dregs of wine from his goblet and wiped his beard with the back of his sleeve. ‘You’ve been a loyal supporter to me for all these years. But...’ Henry lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture, then let them fall again with a deep sigh ‘...you know you can do much better than that chit.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lachlan.

  But she’s the one I want.

  The words popped into his head, unbidden; he blinked in surprise at the thought, his lashes flicking upwards, startled.

  ‘So be it.’ The King threw himself back into his chair, throwing his stained napkin into the middle of the table. ‘You can be married in the morning, in the chapel here. I will witness the marriage before the lords and barons start arriving here for the monthly parliament.’ He snapped his fingers impatiently towards an unseen servant. ‘Hester! Take Lady Cecily to the guest chamber and make sure she’s comfortable for the night. Lord Lachlan and I have a wedding to plan.’

  * * *

  Flanked by a pair of castle guards, Cecily made her way along the high dais. A weakness invaded her knees, Lachlan’s proposal driving all strength from her body. She resisted the urge to grip on to the chair backs as she moved along the top table, but she stumbled on the wooden steps and was forced to seize the banister. Smoke hazed the lower part of the great hall, belching out from an enormous stone fireplace. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and honeyed mead, mingling with the sour note of sweat that lifted from the crowds of people crammed together along the trestle tables, peasants and knights eating and drinking hungrily as the roar of their voices rose to the high rafters.

  No one paid Cecily any attention as she slipped by them, following the diminutive maidservant, and for that she was grateful. The maid pulled at the heavy brocade curtain that hung across the open archway at the end of the hall and held it aside, indicating that Cecily and her guards should go through. The entrance hall was much cooler, lit by a single torch, slung into an iron bracket by the main door. In the shadows, Cecily made out the stone steps on the left that disappeared up through an arch to the upper floors.

  A group of knights stood in the entrance hall, talking in low voices as they pushed back their gleaming chainmail hoods, and handed their gauntlets and shields to their young squires. Jewelled sword hilts sparkled in the gloom as they crowded into the small area, blocking the route to the stairs. A guard gripped Cecily’s upper arm, shoving her over to the left, towards the stone staircase so that the knights could enter the great hall.

  A rope banister threaded up the steps, hung between iron rings; Cecily clawed at it, her stomach roiling with nerves. The maidservant, Hester, preceded her, lighting the shallow stone steps with a candle in a wooden cup. The guttering flame dipped and swayed along walls that sparkled with damp. Her mind clouded with staggered disbelief at what had just happened in the great hall. Her life had been spared by the King, but only if she married. And Lachlan was to be her husband.

  Reaching the first-floor landing, Hester lifted the iron latch on the first door she came to and pushed it open, standing aside so that Cecily could enter. ‘In here, my lady. I will come and make the bed up for you.’ She cast a steely gaze at one of the guards. ‘Make yourself useful. Run downstairs and tell the kitchens to send up hot water for a bath. Now, if you please.’

  The other guard dangled an elaborate key from his gauntleted finger, swinging the heavy iron from side to side. ‘They won’t escape while you’re gone, Geraint,’ he reassured his friend. ‘I will lock them in.’ The other man nodded and disappeared back down the stairs.

  The chamber was dim. A small charcoal brazier threw out a flickering heat in one corner. Hester shut the chamber door, pressing her hips firmly back against the planks, before walking swiftly around the room, touching her little candle flame to the rush torches set at intervals around the stone walls, before fitting the candle into a iron holder beside the four-poster bed. A glowing, ambient light filled the chamber.

  ‘You must be tired, my lady, after your journey.’ Over by the window was a bucket of charcoal pieces. She picked up a couple of lumps and threw them into the hot, molten centre of the brazier. ‘They were saying in the kitchens that you have travelled in from the moor.’

  Cecily stood by the door. The edges of her cloak, below the row of buttons at the neck, had fallen aside. She wound the ties from the girdle around her gowns round and round her middle finger, pinching the skin. Her head jerked up. ‘Yes, I did.’ A great shiver passed through her. Questions clamoured in her brain, gnawed at her, making her feel exhausted with the effort of thinking about it all.

  Hester glanced at her shyly, clasping her hands in front of her simply cut gown. She was a short, buxom girl of about twenty winters. ‘The King has posted guards outside your door,’ she whispered. ‘What have you done, my lady? They’re saying in the kitchens that you murdered two men.’

  The arrival at the castle of the dead knights slung over the back of her horse would not have gone unnoticed. The rumours and gossi
p must have travelled around the castle like wildfire. ‘It’s a long story,’ Cecily sighed. ‘I have committed a crime, but I haven’t killed anyone. I’m not a danger to you, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  Hester grinned and shook her head, her soft brown eyes gleaming. ‘I know, my lady. I am a good judge of character; I know you’re not a bad person.’

  Hot tears, sudden and unbidden, sprang to Cecily’s eyes. A trembling wave of gratitude flooded through her: a vast relief. How could a few simple words from a maidservant overwhelm her so? Cecily stuck her chin into the air, trying to keep the tears from falling. ‘Thank you, Hester. It means a lot to me to hear you say that.’

  The girl threw her a quick smile. ‘Do you wish to sit while I make up the bed?’ She pointed to a plain oak chair, the tall laddered back pushed back against the white-plastered wall. ‘I shall not be long.’

  Cecily moved to the chair as if in a dream, almost falling into the seat. Hester snapped out the bottom sheet, a fine-woven linen, tucking the fabric neatly in and around the straw-stuffed mattress. She laid another sheet and woven woollen blankets on top, plumping up a couple of feather pillows and placing them carefully against the vast carved headboard. Rummaging about in a large oak chest, she produced a sable fur which she threw across the whole bed.

  ‘There,’ Hester said, stepping back, surveying the bed with a satisfied air. ‘Now...’ she turned to Cecily and clapped her hands together ‘...now I shall prepare a bath for you. Where are those lazy louts from downstairs?’

  As if on cue, there was a tap at the door. Cecily watched hazily from the chair as servant after servant marched in to pour their brimming buckets into a bath that was hidden behind a tapestry screen. Hester chided the servants, scolding them for slopping too much water on the floor, pointing with an outstretched hand to the puddles on the polished elm floor. As the last boy left the chamber and the key turned once more in the lock from the outside, the diminutive, apple-cheeked maid turned to Cecily, rolling her sleeves up to her elbows.