by Linda Madl
Without replying, Leandra walked to the center of the hall, her eyes on the servants hanging green garland, her back still to Brenna.
Brenna followed, coming to a halt behind her cousin and planting her fists on her hips. Sometimes getting Leandra to talk could be a chore. “You're not going to take a dislike to Sir Garrett just because you didn't fancy the way he sailed into the bay, are you?"
Abruptly, Leandra turned, apprehension written in the way she pressed her lips thin. “Did you see to the wounded boy? How serious are his injuries?"
"'Twas little more than a scratch. Shoo, dog.” Brenna snapped the hem of her blue gown at a hound that sniffed too close. “The boy will be fine if the wound doesn't fester. But you did not answer my question, cousin. You liked Sir Garrett, did you not? I could tell by the way you scowled."
"He will do.” Leandra frowned. “A little arrogant, but I think Lord Reginald has done well for us. He sent us the knight that we need. A man ready to fight."
"He will do?” Brenna mimicked. Thank heavens Leandra didn't need convincing about the earl's man. “I thought he was perfect. Sir Perfect."
She smiled to herself. If Leandra was satisfied, then her goal was a little nearer. The image formed in her mind of herself in a beautiful cloak, her harp under her arm, standing in the bow of the cog, sailing toward the shores of Cornwall with the wind in her face and freedom spread before her like a feast on a banquet table.
"Uncle Aidan read the letter of introduction to me,” she said. “Sir Garrett has fought in France and has traveled to the Holy Land, and Lord Reginald recommends him most highly."
"Yes, I know,” Leandra murmured.
"So what do you like best about Sir Garrett?” Brenna cast a sly look at her cousin. Leandra seldom failed to take part in this childhood game of theirs. They never liked the same things. “I liked his tawny hair and his long legs,” she baited
"Yes, more fresh garland over there.” Leandra directed a servant to the spot over a door and turned her back on Brenna again. “When you finish with that, be so good as to wash all the tabletops with rosewater. I'd like the hall to smell like flowers."
"Roses, good.” Brenna clapped her hands, never forgetting her purpose. “So appropriate for a betrothal celebration. No doubt Sir Garrett will have gifts and a betrothal speech for you. He'll be speaking for the earl, of course, but if one were to imagine Sir Garrett as—"
"Never forget that Sir Garrett is the earl's man,” Leandra interrupted, her voice sharp though it was meant for Brenna alone. “A representative only."
"Yes, of course.” The harshness was unlike Leandra. Brenna sneaked a curious glance at her cousin's face. “So, did you like his blue eyes? Maybe we should be talking about whether he likes you? I'll wager if you had been a man, he would have struck you down out there in the street."
"No doubt. He was angry,” Leandra agreed. “He had a right to be."
"So what do you like best about him?” Brenna prompted once more. “You've had thoughts. I can tell."
Leandra faced her at last. “If I tell you, will you stop chattering after me?"
Brenna nodded.
"I like best his age. He's old enough to have fighting experience that the older men-at-arms can respect, yet youthful enough to claim the younger men's confidence. Sergeant Ralph has already shown respect toward Sir Garrett."
"Oh, rot me, Leandra,” she moaned and shook her head. “That's not what I was asking, and you know it. Stop talking like a sergeant of the guard. What did you like about his person?"
When Leandra hesitated, Brenna looked down at her hands indifferently but leaned closer, eager to hear the answer.
"Very well.” Leandra thoughtfully tapped a finger against her lips. “I like the firmness in his jaw and the slight squareness of his chin. I think it reveals that he is decisive and not easily swayed from his decisions. Stubborn. But I think he is honorable. A true knight."
"A true, chivalrous knight?” Brenna repeated. “Do you think so? You've never met one. My father was Lyonesse's last knight, and he died in battle so long ago that neither of us remembers him."
"But I'm sure he must have been very much like Sir Garrett,” Leandra persisted with an unusual, faraway gleam in her eyes.
"Maybe.” Brenna wondered whether Leandra was withholding some thought. She liked the picture of her father that Leandra's words conjured. But she forgot the vision when she caught sight of a serving girl hurrying from the stairs toward the kitchen. “Come here, Amice. Have you finished bathing the guests? Come tell Leandra and me what Sir Garrett and his squire are like."
With a crooked-tooth grin on a face flushed from working over steamy water, Amice joined them in the center of the hall.
"Magnificent, my lady, the knight especially.” Amice wiped her work-roughened hands on her apron. “I helped him undress, and he stepped into that tub bare as a babe at baptism."
"Don't be a rattle-pate, girl, give us details,” Brenna demanded with a laugh.
Leandra frowned, but said nothing.
"Now, Lady Brenna, you know your uncle doesn't approve of such talk.” Amice glanced over her shoulder at the other servants in the hall. She lowered her voice and gestured for Brenna to come closer. Leandra remained apart, but Brenna noted that her cousin's ear was turned toward them.
Amice began, “Well, I can tell you Sir Garrett is broad of shoulder.” She held out her arms in a wide measurement. “And his back is aripple with muscles. He's sensitive in the small of it. Near jumped from the tub when I scrubbed low, and cross like—in that deep voice—he bade me to move on."
Brenna sighed. “Yes?"
Leandra stepped closer, her ear nearly bent in their direction, but still she refused to join them.
"And his torso narrows to his hips like so.” Amice's hands fluttered down into a vee. “I tell you, I never saw a firmer, rounder behind, my lady.” She giggled and cupped her hands to hint at the shape. “His thighs! Long and hard."
"What else?” Brenna prompted. “Tell us."
"His chest bulges firm and ‘tis covered with hair as tawny as the curls on his head, and it grows all the way down to a fine nest—well, that's enough for you to know."
"Oh,” Brenna groaned in disappointment, then brightened. “The squire, what's he like?” She'd liked the younger man's looks, too. He hadn't rudely dismissed her as Sir Garrett had. “Are they brothers? Are they alike?"
"Yes, my lady,” Amice said. “Squire Wystan is built much like his brother, only slightly smaller, and his hair more sandy, of course."
"Do you want to ask something?” Brenna asked, tugging on Leandra's arm.
"No. Off with you, Amice. My only desire at the moment, cousin, is to complete the betrothal ceremony and sign the final contract,” Leandra said, obviously distracted once more. “I just wish we had signed it today."
Brenna noted that her cousin's frown had grown deeper than ever. But she didn't take the expression too seriously. Leandra was always overly concerned with particulars. “Today. Tomorrow. What difference does it make? Lord Reginald is already fulfilling his part of the agreement. Uncle Aidan's signature is a mere detail."
"I'll just feel better when Father sets the seal to the contract,” Leandra repeated.
An unsettling thought came to Brenna. “Are you thinking of Sir Leofric?” She shivered, always her reaction to the thought of their neighbor who had courted her cousin. He was handsome in a dark way, with his odd light-brown, almost yellow eyes and his smooth, olive-skinned complexion. Yet, his inclination to wear purple as if he were of a kingly rank offended even her. The man presumed too much. “Do you think he will appear tonight and make a commotion about your betrothal?"
"I hope not.” Leandra shook her head. “But you know how Leofric is given to displays."
Brenna twisted a dark lock around her finger. So that was what was on Leandra's mind. Sir Garrett might have passed Leandra's approval, but they were still a long way from Tremelyn.
* * * *
THE SOUNDS OF merriment seeped through the tall oaken doors of Lyonesse's great hall—doors lofty enough to admit the legendary giants of the land.
Garrett hesitated in the passage outside the portal. All he needed to do was present the ring and gifts, make a speech, and charm the lady over a meal. Lord Reginald had told him what to say. The words weren't all that strange to him. He'd courted ladies before, but never an heiress. And tonight the successful alliance of two houses rested in his hands—or on the words he spoke.
Uneasy, he turned to look at the men following him. Out of long habit he walked from man to man—Wystan, Father John, and Master Cedric—inspecting their freshly bathed faces and clean dress clothes, like a general inspecting troops before a battle.
The three stared back, their faces long with sober, expectant expressions.
Satisfied with their appearance and preparation, Garrett turned back to the door. Before he could speak to the page, a warm, restraining hand gripped his arm.
"Forgive me for saying so, my son,” Father John began, “but you don't look like a man about to win a lady's favor for his liege lord."
Garrett looked at the others to see if they agreed.
Wystan nodded. “'Tis true, brother. Your frown alone would lay waste to all of France for King Edward."
For the first time, Garrett became aware of the tension in his jaws and the tightness in his shoulders. His outrage smoldered anew with the realization that he was furious still with the Lady Leandra, and even angrier with himself for being angry. “The lady did order an attack on us without taking note of our colors,” he growled as much to himself as to the good father. “For that a man suffers."
"'Twas an unfortunate way to make our landing at Lyonesse, ‘tis true,” Father John said, shaking his head in sorrow. “But little harm was done. I'm sure Lady Leandra regrets the incident."
"I think ‘tis humorous.” Wystan offered with a derisive chuckle. “The reason you can't laugh, brother, is that you've never raised a white flag in your life, and you hate that when you did, it was against a woman."
"That's not so!” Garrett glared at his smirking little brother. Sweet Jesu, Wystan was right. His first deed as a knight had ended in an inglorious surrender—to a woman.
Father John hid a smile with a cough.
Earnest Cedric stepped forward, apparently keen on lulling his commander's temper. “'Twas no serious harm done, sir. The boy is in the kitchen eating. The men are well-satisfied with the hospitality. Though there is not overmuch to eat, the people are companionable and merry."
Resentfully, Garrett nodded.
"Do you have the ring?” Father John asked.
"Right here.” He pulled a blue silken veil from inside his surcoat. “Wystan has the other gifts, the fabrics and the jeweled bridle."
Father John said, “Do you know what you want to say?"
Garrett ignored Father John's question. “Why wasn't her father out there giving orders, I want to know.” He shoved the veil deep inside his surcoat again. “What father puts his daughter in charge of the bowmen?"
"Garrett,” Father John soothed. “I know you to be a more reasonable man than this. Where is your sense of humor? What lady could resist a knight who comes to her rescue flying a white flag? Just think of this betrothal as the recruiting of a worthy ally for your lord. Would Tremelyn not be in good hands if the Lady Leandra were left in charge of defenses?"
"Indeed, if first the lady did not slaughter her lord upon his return from battle.” He allowed a slow, rueful smile to ease his frown. For a moment he relished the vision of Reginald dodging arrows at his own castle gate. “Stay near me tonight, Father. I may need your prompting to find the right words. And most of all, to avoid the wrong ones."
"I'll be there, my son."
Garrett signaled to the page to open the tall, oaken doors, and the envoys of Reginald, Earl of Tremelyn, stepped into the great hall of Castle Lyonesse.
Music ceased, and conversation lapsed.
Immediately Highlord Aidan and Lady Leandra rose respectfully from their tall chairs beneath the canopied dais at the far end of the hall. Benches scraped against the wooden floor as vassals turned from their talk and stood to greet the heroes of the day.
The minstrels in the gallery began to trumpet a victorious fanfare. Cheers and applause echoed against the hall rafters and brought a reluctant smile to Garrett's lips.
Careful to look stately and unhurried, he walked the length of the hall with his head high, his shoulders square—like a knight. He could feel all eyes on him. When he looked ahead he saw that no forester's daughter stood next to the highlord this evening. Instead, an heiress, dressed in a creamy white gown trimmed in gold embroidery and a rich green surcoat, waited for him beneath the canopy. A woven gold chaplet crowned her elegant brow, and her golden locks were confined in a thick braid.
The torchlight brought a pale rosy color to her flawless fairness. She looked the true princess. Pure and lovely. Yet there was about her still the tentative air of a wild creature.
Garrett swallowed.
"Sir Garrett and gentlemen,” Aidan greeted. “We are pleased to have you join us. I trust Lyonesse's hospitality meets your needs?"
"Your lordship has been most gracious and generous.” Garrett bowed slightly in Lady Leandra's direction. The vassals’ cheers and applause led him to think this was a good start until he noticed that the lady neither cheered nor applauded. Her solemn expression remained unchanged.
His own smile faltered—for a moment only. He forged on. “Your lordship. My Lady Leandra. ‘Tis my pleasure to be of service to you, and it is my honor to represent Reginald, Earl of Tremelyn, in presenting you with your betrothal gifts."
He stopped, allowing an expectant hush to fall over the crowd. To his surprise, Highlord Aidan sat down, and the vassals settled on their benches once more. Lady Leandra stood alone with her hands at her sides and her somber gaze intent on him.
"The honor and pleasure is ours, Sir Garrett.” She spoke in a rich, husky voice that all could hear. “We thank you for your rescue this afternoon. We are most happy to welcome you, Father John, and your men among us."
Garrett smiled at her. He thought those fair words considering they had nearly done battle a few hours ago. Now if she would only give him some indication that she was a conventional maid susceptible to flattery and compliments.
"My lady.” He bowed slightly again and pulled the blue veil from his surcoat. “Upon leaving Tremelyn, my lord, Reginald, entrusted me with this silken veil and bade me give it to you and to you alone upon my arrival. For he wants you to know how pleased he is with the betrothal and how eager he is to welcome you to Tremelyn. He wishes for this ring and these gifts to seal your betrothal vows."
He gestured to the goods Wystan carried. Then he offered the veil.
Daintily Lady Leandra reached out to accept the silk without touching Garrett. Drawing the fabric over a hand, she appeared to admire the blue color and the fineness of the weave. But she did not look as closely as he knew she should. He clasped his hands behind him, wondering whether he was going to have to urge her to examine the veil again. Then she drew her hand over the silk slowly once more, hesitated, and peered intently at the knot.
He relaxed a little. She'd found it.
The lady glanced up at him, her eyes widening in surprise and a soft smile coming at last to her lips. A lovely, sweet smile that glowed with pleasure—and relief. Relief. She'd feared there would be no betrothal ring—not from him anyway. His heart softened toward her, a little.
"It is engraved with your name,” he explained as she eagerly untied the golden circle from the blue silk. “His lordship asked me to slip it on your finger on his behalf. If I may?"
After taking a moment to read the inscription, “Leandra of Lyonesse,” she eagerly held the ring out to him.
Garrett took it and reached for her left hand. Her warm fingers, tiny and delicate, trembled slightly in his grasp. That be
trayal of her anxiety gave him confidence. He cast her a smile of encouragement. Then holding her hand firmly, he eased the golden circle into place.
The ring hung loose, swinging on her slender finger.
Sweet Jesu. He stared at it dumbfounded. The cursed thing was too big. Enormous. It could slip from her finger without resistance. When the earl had first shown him the golden circle, it'd seemed impossibly small and dainty. Later, glorying in their cleverness like a pair of school boys, they'd contrived to present the ring tied in the scarf. He and Lord Reginald had never considered this complication.
Garrett opened his mouth to make some apology, but before he could get a word out, she doubled her fingers into her tiny palm and yanked her hand from his grasp. She pressed the balled fist against her heart, covering it with her other hand as if she feared that he might try to reclaim the thing.
"Thank you, Sir Garrett.” Her rare smile faded to an expression of gratitude that he knew he didn't deserve. “The ring is most beautiful, and I shall wear it as a constant reminder of the solemness of my betrothal vows. Please be certain to send the earl my thanks in your next dispatch. I have a gift for him also. You will dispatch it to him?"
"Yes, indeed, of course,” Garrett stammered, still uncertain what to do about the ring and only now recalling that tradition required that the lady also bestow a betrothal gift.
Lady Leandra signaled to a servant, who scurried forward with an ornately carved gift box. She opened it and lifted out a long lock of golden hair tied with silken threads through a wooden ring. Even from where he stood, he could see that the ring was skillfully carved with an R entwined about an L and polished to a smooth, nearly golden sheen.
"This ring is of oak,” she said, holding up the gift for all in the great hall to see. But she eyed Garrett as if she dared him to deride the humbleness of the gift. Everyone watched her in respectful silence. He waited politely and prayed that nothing more went wrong.
"Oak is strong and durable,” the lady went on. “Oak is cherished in Lyonesse. The sturdiest tree in the forest, yet humble enough to feed the squirrels and shelter the lowly ferns. Oak is the wealth of our realm. It is the material for our boats, and its leaf is the device, the symbol, we use on our crest. I hope the earl will tie this lock of my hair in his helmet as my favor to him and wear this ring as a symbol of my undying affection and faithfulness to him."