by Linda Madl
"No need to rush,” the lady replied patiently. With a steady hand she dipped the quill into the ink and held it out to her father. “No need to wait. Sign, Father. Is this the place, Father John? Sir Garrett, do you witness?"
"Yes, of course, and Father John also.” Despite the lady's outward calm, Garrett detected determination in her careful actions. He took up the quill after Aidan and scrawled his own mark below the highlord's. Then he handed the quill to Father John, who hastily scratched his name on the parchment.
As the priest put the last flourish on his signature, loud voices filtered through the doors of the great hall. The clamor of boots on stone echoed in the passage beyond.
"'Tis done,” Leandra said with a sigh. A look of resignation crossed her somber face where he'd expected to see at least a glimmer of a bride's joy. But then the prospect of facing a man like Leofric brought pleasure to no one.
The commotion in the passage grew louder. Garrett and Father John stepped away from the table and followed Leandra's gaze toward the great hall's entrance.
The towering doors split open with a force that made brass latches clang against stone walls. The noisy tumult flooded in. Armored men-at-arms tramped forth. Drummers beat a sharp march time. Trumpeters scurried in and raised their horns in a brassy fanfare.
Suddenly from the throng burst a great black horse, thundering onto the wooden floor of the hall.
Dogs barked alarm and slunk away. Servants cried out in surprise and shrank against the walls. Hand in hand, Wystan and Brenna sidled in on the rider's wake.
The purple-clad horseman sat straight and righteous in the saddle. An iridescent peacock feather in his cap bobbed with each prance of the warhorse. The swarthy rider drew rein just inside the doorway. Behind him a herald waved a purple standard bearing the device of a gray boar.
Garrett's eyes narrowed as he recognized Casseldorne—the man who had insulted the Bernay name when he was but a man-at-arms and could demand no retraction. The memory remained clear-edged and raw.
Just last fall at a tourney attended by the earl of Tremelyn and his knights, Garrett and Wystan had been passing a group of knights engrossed in conversation. When Casseldorne saw them, he'd immediately changed the subject.
"I am forever astonished that those Bernays show their face again and again among respectable knights,” he'd remarked, speaking from the side of his thin-lipped mouth. “You'd think they would stay in France, where traitors and mercenaries belong."
Garrett had halted. But Wystan grabbed his sleeve and dragged him on.
Now the man had the gall to insult Lyonesse with this presumptuous entrance.
Cursing softly, Garrett reached for his sword, grasping only thin air at his hip. He muttered another curse. He had not strapped on his sword that morning because the marriage contract signing was a peaceful affair. Annoyed, he forced himself to remain quiet beside the table with Father John. He glanced apprehensively at Sergeant Ralph and the Lyonesse men-at-arms near the door. They appeared confused but stood their ground.
Garrett recalled that Leofric and his father were given to displays of pomposity. He doubted the man would dare any violence in the presence of so many witnesses. Nevertheless, menace wafted into the hall with the rider.
"My lady, I tried to tell Lord—” the bailiff said, trotting up beside Leofric's horse.
"Hush, man, I'm here now.” The lord booted the bailiff aside and rode farther into the great hall. He drew rein once more in front of Leandra's table. His long purple cloak billowed behind him, and the purple leather tack on his horse jingled and creaked.
Frowning Garrett instinctively stepped closer to Leandra.
"Ah, Lady Leandra, here you are,” the dark-haired horseman greeted with an artificial smile. He swept a grand bow from the saddle without making any respectful move to dismount.
"Imagine, my lady, your bailiff tried to delay presenting me to you, but I would have none of that,” Leofric said with an indulgent grimace and a gesture of dismissal. “I knew you would want to greet me yourself immediately."
"Indeed?” Lady Leandra drawled, with a husky dryness in her voice that almost made Garrett smile. She remained pale, but the contentious thrust of her chin betrayed her annoyance. Good, the lioness was undaunted. There was no need to challenge Casseldorne's bad manners, yet.
She added, “I would have preferred that you leave your horse at the door, sir."
"But I come in haste to express my disappointment in learning that your father has accepted the Earl of Tremelyn's offer of marriage in place of mine. Is it true?"
"'Tis true.” Leandra extended a steady hand toward Garrett. “This is Sir Garrett Bernay and Father John, envoys of the Earl of Tremelyn."
Leofric studied them. His eyes narrowed, and he sat back in his saddle, his gloved hand spread across his thigh. Garrett knew the man recognized him. He returned Casseldorne's gaze steadily.
"So the earl is still so weak from his near mortal wound, delivered by outlaws riding his own land that he had to send envoys to declare his betrothal vows?” Leofric gave Garrett a haughty glare of disapproval. “He sends the heir to the traitorous Bernay family no less?"
Head held high, Leandra stayed Garrett with a hand on his arm. She spoke before he could. “My lord had pressing matters to tend to. If Lord Reginald trusts Sir Garrett, so do I."
"The earl fares well enough,” Garrett said, shaking off the lady's hand. He didn't need her to come to his defense. “How well my liege lord feels, or how pressing his affairs, is not for you to decide."
"Of course.” Counterfeit contrition played across Leofric's darkly handsome face. Obviously the man knew he was treading close to danger. “I am glad to hear that the earl enjoys improved health.” Then with a sly look in Garrett's direction, he added, “Lady Leandra, may I speak with you and your father alone?"
"We have nothing to keep from the envoys of my betrothed. You may speak freely."
Leofric frowned at Garrett, but spoke nevertheless. “Lady Leandra, I have come with hope in my heart. To ask if there is any possibility that you would reconsider my offer of marriage over the earl's. Surely you understand that I can offer you everything he can—riches and, in time, the title of countess.
"Even as we speak, my esteemed father is with King Edward in France. The war goes well. No doubt he will return with more riches and lands. I am his legitimate heir. Then it would be only a matter of time until ... Of course, it gives me no pleasure to speak of my father's demise. But I am a younger man than the Earl of Tremelyn. I can offer you a title eventually, more years of protection, and..."
A lewd grin flitted across Leofric's face. “And there are other benefits."
Anger flared in Garrett, hot and furious. There was no mistaking Casseldorne's tasteless innuendo about what a younger man could bring to the marriage bed. From the roundness of her eyes and the blush on her face, Lady Leandra also understood. He longed for his sword, but he seethed in silence. The lady deserved to remain in control. And what a pleasure it was going to be to see Leofric bow before the lady's exquisite fortitude.
She tented her dainty hands upon the documents lying on the table. The sunlight glittered on her golden betrothal ring, and he wondered how she managed to keep it from slipping from her finger.
"As for more riches or titles, I have little interest in such,” the lady replied. “I seek benefits for Lyonesse only."
The line of Leofric's mouth soured. Clearly he thought his charms should win the lady. “Then how does a union with Tremelyn benefit Lyonesse over a union with Casseldorne?"
"Wood from Lyonesse forests will be used to build ships to carry Tremelyn and West Country tin to the markets that will help the king in his war. Casseldorne has no need of our forests. You merely seek to add our lands to yours."
"But you are wrong, lady.” A look of dismay softened Leofric's swarthy features. “Casseldorne also has goods to transport. You are but a maid. What do you understand of these issues? Leave this to
me."
Garrett caught the flash of ire in the lady's eyes, and her chin jutted forth even more. With baleful pleasure he realized that Leofric would never recover from that slip.
"I can protect you from the pirates and the brigands,” Leofric declared. “I have proof."
"We have appealed to you, our neighbor, for protection for the last two years, and we've seen no result,” Leandra snapped, her husky voice edged with anger. “These days we are more at the outlaws’ mercy than ever in the past. Sir Garrett rescued us from attack yesterday."
"But he did not bring you a gift like this, did he?” Leofric asked. At the flourish of his gloved hand his men-at-arms marched forward, bearing between them an oak and ivory-inlaid casket almost as large as a small cooking pot and set it on the floor.
At last Leofric swung down from his black charger and approached Leandra. The men with the box stopped at his side.
Garrett started forward, once more reaching for the absent sword. He didn't like this turn at all. He allowed it only because Sergeant Ralph appeared at the ready.
Brenna, eyes bright with anticipation of a gift, crept closer for a better view. Reluctantly, Wystan followed her.
"Look upon this, my lady,” Leofric said with a sneer, and threw open the box. With expansive gestures he peeled back a layer of red velvet and stepped aside. “For you."
Wild red locks crowned the human head that stared up out of the box. Eyes bulged. A purple tongue thrust from the mouth in obscene mockery. The face glowed deathly white against the crimson velvet.
A gasp went up from all in the great hall. Leandra's blush vanished. A small cry escaped Brenna.
Garrett recognized the face of the jeering red-haired chief of the brigand ship. How had Leofric's men tracked the pirate down and dispatched him so quickly? Had they known who he was and where to find him?
"Like the knights of old, I bring you the dragon's head, my lady,” Leofric announced with malicious pride. “Like a knight returned from slaying a monster in a lady's honor. Do you not appreciate the tribute?"
The sound of retching caught Garrett's ear. He glanced away from the gruesome spectacle, expecting to find Leandra swooning. Instead she was composed. The retching was Brenna's. The dark-haired girl turned away from the scene and was violently ill down the front of Wystan's tunic.
"You overstep the boundaries of chivalry,” Garrett said. Leofric's gaze only flickered in his direction, but he knew he'd been heard.
Leandra remained frozen beside the table, her face ashen, and her lips bluish. As Garrett watched, she took a deep, steadying breath and tucked her hands into her surcoat sleeves. Garrett tensed. He was uncertain whether she was hiding her trembling hands or reaching for a weapon.
She leveled a cold gaze on Leofric.
"The decision has been made, Sir Leofric,” she said, speaking quietly, without giving the slightest hint that a grisly pirate's head lay at her feet. Her fearlessness awed Garrett. “The contracts are signed. Only the intercession of the Church could change anything now."
"I'm afraid that's true, my son,” Father John said, bravely moving to Leandra's side.
"I see,” Leofric said, his features twisting into a gargoyle's grin. “So only an act of God can change this betrothal—or an act of the Grim Reaper."
That was enough for Garrett. He stepped forward, imposing himself between Leandra and Leofric. “Do you dare to threaten Lady Leandra? Before her father, her servants, the Church? Dare you insult the earl's bride to be?"
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Chapter Six
CHAIN MAIL JINGLED menacingly as the Casseldorne guards drew their swords. Garrett was unarmed and afoot, but the force of his angry presence went undiminished. He was as large as Leofric, and as a knight, he now was nearly the purple knight's equal in status. He would not be ignored.
No one drew a breath. The hush in the great hall grew so deep the rustle of the rushes on the floor could be heard when the dogs moved.
Leofric glowered at the Tremelyn knight. His men-at-arms glanced at one another in uncertainty. The men who had carried in the casket stepped away from it and stood ready to fight.
"Sir Leofric. Sir Garrett. Remember, this is the great hall of a Christian lord and his lady daughter, friends to you both.” Father John strode forward with his hands held out in appeal. “Let us have no violence here. Not before the lady."
"I make no violence,” Garrett said, without taking his gaze from Leofric's cold, hard face. But he longed to beat Casseldorne to his knees and force him to beg forgiveness for bringing the vile head into Leandra's presence.
"Nor I,” Leofric said, a look of righteousness composing his features. “I make no threat, no challenge. I simply bring proof that my word is good. I promised to defend Lyonesse, and I have kept my pledge. What do I find when I bring the proof? That the ungrateful lady of my heart has accepted another's marriage offer."
"What did you say about the Grim Reaper?” Garrett demanded. He didn't believe a word Casseldorne was saying. The varlet was once more weaseling out of a challenge.
"I simply meant to say that life is but a game of chance,” Leofric said. “You always make too much of things, Bernay. I took a chance on winning the lady's heart and I lost."
"Of course,” Leandra's father agreed too quickly, too eager to ease the tension in the room. “The world is an uncertain place. None of us knows what may happen in the next month, week, day, or even the next hour. Alas, all our uncertain lives are in God's hands, just as this poor misguided man's was.” Aidan gestured to the pirate head.
"Well put, your lordship,” Leofric added, without warmth. “You are rich in wisdom. I take my leave of you, my lady, and wish you and Lord Reginald happiness in your marriage."
His envious gaze lingered overlong on Leandra, Garrett thought. He stepped forward again, pushing Father John aside. Leofric cast him a look of pure hatred and swiftly swung up on his horse. Turning without a farewell, Casseldorne thundered out of the great hall, pages and guards surging out in his wake.
Incensed, Garrett signaled for the guards to close the doors after the intruder.
The jester capered to the box where Leofric's gross gift lay. Gingerly he grasped the straggly red locks and lifted the bloodied head up for all to see. In astonishment Garrett watched the man take on an imitation of Leofric's height and carriage. Casseldorne's curl of lip twisted Tyler's mouth, and his jaw firmed in an arrogant line.
"So only an act of God can change this betrothal—that or an act of the Grim Reaper,” the jester mocked in a voice that echoed Leofric's with chilling accuracy.
"I believe that settles any question of me remaining here, my lady,” Garrett announced. “I begin to train your men tomorrow, immediately after prime. We sail from Lyonesse in five days, maybe sooner. I will be your escort."
* * * *
LEANDRA WINCED AS the burly seaman dropped the last of her dower chests none too gently to the cog's deck.
"Stow it there,” Sir Garrett ordered, and pointed to corner of the deck. “Lash all the baggage down well. Make haste man, or we'll lose the tide."
She was about to tell them to have a little more consideration for her life all packed up in those wooden boxes. The silver basin for hair washing. Her prayer book, a gift from Mother Mary Elizabeth. The small down pillow her mother had stuffed for her before she was born. But she pressed her lips together and decided to hold her tongue as she had done admirably well through the past five days.
Throughout the days of preparation and arms drills, Sir Garrett had growled and grumbled, prowling about the castle and grounds like a trapped bear in no mood to be baited with disagreement. Leofric's visit had vanquished the man's good nature, what little he had. Though they were about to set sail, Leandra noted that his temper had not lightened.
When he rounded to see her standing in the bow, he pointed an accusing finger at her. “I'll have a word with you, lady, as soon as these chests are loaded."
"As y
ou please, Sir Garrett.” What had she done now? Willfully she turned away to look for the last time at the village and the castle where she had been born and nurtured. The morning light washed across the face of each sturdy cottage, rinsing away the flaws—the cracks in the stone walls and the ragged thatching—to give Leandra a picture beautiful and familiar to treasure.
"Rot me, the man has been a bear these past few days.” Brenna climbed onto the bow deck to stand next to Leandra. Her face was still puffy from sleep, and her eyelids drooped. “He growls here and bites a head off there.” She paused to yawn. “So where is Uncle Aidan? At prayers I suppose."
"'Tis prime.” Leandra studied each cottage with frowning concentration. She wanted to remember every detail in her mind's eye and in her heart. “Father prays for our safe journey."
Brenna sniffed and gave a virtuous toss of her curls. “My father wouldn't shuffle off to chapel and leave me to sail away alone. If he were alive, he'd ride down from the castle to see me off. He'd sit on a fine horse, a black one like Leofric's, and wave a heartfelt good-bye, after he gave me a costly gift, of course."
"Father and I have said our farewells,” Leandra replied, patiently disregarding Brenna's insult. She had long ago accepted her cousin's need to create a mythical sire to replace the father who died before she was born. But a little encouragement from her own father would have been welcome. Defending one's homeland took one kind of courage. She was discovering that leaving home forever took another. “Our journey is long and dangerous, and we may need his prayers."
"I suppose prayers are useful,” Brenna said, waving unenthusiastically to Tyler Wotte, the jester. “But the pirate is dead, thanks to Leofric. In the last few days Sir Perfect and Wystan made an army out of our fishermen and foresters. So, what's to fear? I found the training fascinating—all that sword swinging. Didn't you?"
"Yes, fascinating once we determined that Wystan was going to live,” Leandra said, the vision of Brenna leaning over the stone battlements to wave at Wystan still clear in her mind. The unfortunate squire had looked up to return the greeting and been flattened by a mace-flinging farmer. Heavens, Sir Garrett had snarled over that, and they'd been ordered to cease observing the training sessions.