But many had been stolen or broken. The floor was littered with stale and dank rushes. No furniture remained; it appeared that what had not been part of the structure itself had been carried away.
Elise at last began to laugh. She walked into the hall, sweeping her arms about as if to encompass it. “Here we are! The great home of that magnificent warrior, King Henry’s champion, King Richard’s right hand—Bryan Stede! The earl, the duke—the mighty lord! For this! For this you cast aside Montoui! My God, but it is amusing!”
Had he not sensed the beginning of a weary hysteria in her voice, he would have been tempted to slap her.
“Shut up!” he told her harshly instead. He stood slowly, staring at the fire while anger filled him. The wound that had not pained him at all during the day suddenly ached. He noticed absently that Elise had moved to the built-in window seat. Once, he assumed, it had overlooked a fine garden. He was certain that, now, the darkness concealed nothing but weeds. He slammed his fist hard against the mantel and muttered to himself rather than to her.
“By the blessed Virgin, these lazy serfs shall pay! I’ve the time to tear a good number apart, limb by limb! By the rood, they will know the extent of my wrath!”
He had all but forgotten Elise. He started when she spoke, her voice soft and weary.
“If you deal with the situation as you say, milord, you will find yourself with nothing but dead serfs. You are a warrior, Stede, trained to do battle. But you cannot joust with undisciplined serfs. That will not bring you the prosperity you desire.”
“Oh? And what will, madame?”
“Nothing at the moment,” she told him. “ ’Twould be best to sleep as well as possible through the remainder of the night. Morning can better bring order to chaos.”
He rested his head against the mantel. She was right. What was he going to do? Run like a lunatic to the village, rousing the peasants from sleep and earning nothing but their hostility?
He didn’t know how much time passed before he lifted his head to tell her that he would bring in their blankets and their packs.
She was gone. But as he turned around, he saw that she was already bringing in their travel blankets, arranging them before the fire. She gazed at him, a little uncertainly.
“If you would like me to tend to your wound—”
“My wound is fine. Go to sleep.”
She curled up before the fire.
Bryan stood by the mantel, listening to the damp kindling crackle as it fought to stay ablaze. At last he walked outside and discovered that Elise had already relieved the horses of their trappings. They were tethered beneath the overhang. The overhang leaked no worse than the manor. The saddles and the packs were drawn as tight to the building as possible.
Bryan carried the packs inside. He delved into their supplies until he found a skin of ale, which he proceeded to drain as he sat and stared morosely at the fire.
XVIII
Alaric, the steward, was sleeping soundly. He had drunk heavily the night before, and sleep was bliss. He started, nearly jumping from his cot, when his door burst open with a tremendous shudder.
He blinked in wild and panicked confusion. Then his eyes focused on an apparition in the doorway.
She was tall and slim. A haze of gold seemed to surround her head, and he thought for one shuddering moment that the blessed Virgin had come to strike him down.
“Dear God in heaven, forgive me my sins!” he cried out, falling to his knees.
His apparition frowned and took a step into the gatehouse, distaste filling her features. He saw that the gold about her head was not a crown, but neatly bound hair of the same color.
“’Tis likely God might forgive you your sins, but I’m afraid that I am not sure about my husband. This is disgraceful! You are living no better than a swine! And I had heard that Cornish men were a breed apart. Fine men, stalwart and proud!”
Alaric crawled up from his knees, trying in vain to smooth back his ruffled hair. “There’s been no one here to care, milady. No one to care for so very long. Aye, we’ve grown slack and lazy.”
“That will have to change,” Elise said quietly. “And very quickly, I believe. Have you heard of my husband? He is Bryan Stede, our good King Richard’s champion, and his temper is fierce! He is a just man, oh, aye, quite just, but when he comes to claim an estate such as this . . .” Elise allowed her voice to trail off with abject dismay. Then she gazed at the steward with her eyes brightening. “But he still sleeps! Rouse the peasants, bring the servants quickly. With God’s grace, we can get much accomplished before he awakens!”
Alaric began to nod profusely, bowing at her all the while he edged around her. Hurry! hurry! he urged himself silently. It was still possible to salvage his scrawny neck.
Alaric looked back as he ran toward the village. She had followed him out to the sunlight, and now seemed shrouded in gold once more. So elegant, so beautiful. Her words were firm, but soft-spoken. Perhaps God had sent her, after all; she had come as a warning, a blessing.
Alaric would forever confuse Elise with something mystical and holy. And he knew from that morning on that he would serve her with the greatest enthusiasm, and the utmost loyalty.
* * *
The pounding awoke him; a sound that echoed irritatingly all around his temple. Bryan opened his eyes slowly. They felt swollen. Just as his tongue felt thick, as if he had grown hair on it over night. How much had he drunk? Enough to give him a splitting headache, apparently. A headache compounded by the confounded hammering.
He groaned slightly and rolled to a sitting position, holding his head between his hands. He had wanted to awaken to realize that it had all been a nightmare, that the great reward he had so coveted had not proven to be nothing but an empty and rotting castle.
But it was no nightmare.
And neither was the pounding he heard an invention of his mind. He continued to hear it, sharp and rhythmic, thudding above his head.
He looked around himself. The dank and filthy rushes of the night before had been swept away; the fire he had nurtured to a sick and sooty flame was now blazing away with a healthy crackle. The only dirty thing remaining in the vast hall was him and the blanket beneath him.
The pounding ceased, then started up again.
“Elise!” he thundered out, wincing at the pain his action caused him. He staggered to his feet and continued to look around. The mantel had received a furious scrubbing; tapestries had been hung between the structural arches, and as well as having been swept, the floor had been polished. The place even smelled clean and fresh.
“Elise!” he started to holler again, but he broke off as a buxom and homely woman in dull gray wool came running in, bobbing a half curtsy every few steps.
“Who are you?” Bryan demanded.
“Maddie, milord,” the girl replied nervously, tucking away a straying wisp of dark hair. “I’m to be in charge of your kitchens, or so milady told me, with your approval, sir!”
Bryan quickly blinked, trying to hide his astonishment as he looked around himself again.
“’Ave I your approval, milord?”
“What? Oh, uh, yes, of course. But, Maddie, where is Lady Elise?”
“Gone on to the village, milord. Alaric has the carpenters going on the roof, and we’ve ’ad the girls in cleaning and freshening the place, but the smith and the priest long ago moved down to the town. There’s a perfectly fine smithy round the back, and the chapel is beautiful, milord, truly beautiful! Milady said that we were going to set things to right as they were in the old days.”
Bryan continued to stare at her blankly. Maddie’s dark eyes grew wide and she took a step back from him. “We didn’t mean to neglect the place so, Lord Stede; truly we didn’t. No one came for so very long, you see.... If you’ll just give us a chance, we’ll see that the manor stands grand again and that the crops yield you a bountiful rent. Please, milord—”
Bryan held up a hand to stop her prattle. She was making his hea
d feel worse, and he’d be damned if he knew what to say to her. Last night he’d wanted to hang every serf on the property. This morning he knew that would be unwise, as well as grossly barbaric. This morning he was also forced to admit that for all his cravings, he knew nothing about managing his estates. He needed to say something. But he admitted grudgingly that his wife had already been at work—and doing a splendid job at that. What approach had she taken? Not too harsh, but apparently firm.
“I can see that you’re working hard, Maddie. And I can clearly hear the carpenters at work. I’ve no wish to deal blows against my people. We shall see how things progress.”
“Bless you, milord!” Maddie chortled. “Will you be ’avin’ something to eat, or would you prefer to bathe first? I’ve fresh bread ready, with thick butter. Trout from the stream, and kidney pie!”
Her mention of food was making him feel sick. “I want some water, Maddie, only water.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “And a bath and a shave. But—”
“Come, milord, and I’ll show you the master tower.” She swept up her skirts and headed for the stone-railed stairway. “Lady Elise ordered all the bedding pulled out into the sun this morning, so it will not look proper,” Maddie explained, “but there’s a spring-fed, built-in bath—they say the original Norman lord had been to Rome and seen such things—with a grate below where wood burns to heat the water. We scrubbed out the bath this morning, too, milord,” she told him hastily. “Lady Elise was most insistent that it be done immediately!”
Still a little dazed, Bryan silently followed his new servant up the stairs and along a hall to the left. Maddie threw open a handsome set of double doors.
Two Norman arches separated the chamber into three sections. He could see the bath, an elaborate and tempting creation of small red bricks, set to the far right where the sun streamed in through a mullioned glass window. A wood and rope bed frame rested in the second chamber, and though the mattress had been taken outside to be freshened, the chamber already seemed inviting. Draperies had been hung, and Persian throw rugs littered the floor. Here, too, beneath a carved-stone mantel, a fire burned warmly. The packs with their clothing and supplies had been brought up and rested by the fire.
The third section of the room was empty.
“What was this?” he asked Maddie.
“A nursery, milord. For the first days when a wee babe is born. There’s a larger nursery down the hall, of course, and rooms for wet nurses and governesses and the like, but ’tis rumored that the Norman lady who came here first was loath to send her babes to be cared for by others. Lady Elise said that it would make a marvelous spot for wardrobes and trunks. A dressing chamber, I believe she said.”
“Did she?” Bryan queried, clenching down on his jaw.
“Aye, milord! She is a whirlwind of energy, your fair lady!”
“Um . . .” Bryan replied dryly. There was an old carved chair before the fire, broad and inviting. He sank into it, pulling off his boots. Maddie started to back away. “I’ll send Alaric to you, milord, right away—”
“Who is this Alaric?”
“The steward, sir. But he makes a fine valet, too.”
Bryan grunted, and Maddie hurried out of the chamber. He continued stripping off his clothing. He winced as he pulled the bandage from his knife wound; it had been healing well, but yesterday he had ridden too hard. The wound was bleeding again.
With a shrug, he decided the water could only help it. He walked over to the bath and ducked low beside it to see that a fire was burning within an iron grate. He touched the water and found it to be agreeably warm. The bath fascinated him, but at the moment he wanted to crawl into it not explore its marvelous workings. He hoped he could purge his headache away.
Bryan crawled into the tub and sighed in comfort. He ducked his head into the water, running his fingers through his hair. It felt good. He lay back and rested his head on the rim. The thing was so damned big a man could swim in it. Or share it . . .
He smiled, thinking of the nights that could come. But then his smile turned to a scowl as he thought of Elise.
Always the duchess, always the lady. She was in her element; she knew how to rule and govern an estate. How to bring unruly serfs to order. How to refurbish a manor in a matter of hours with practically nothing at hand.
He should be grateful. She was his wife; it seemed that he had at last convinced her of that. She was working hard to pull this Cornish estate together, when he had feared that he would have to expend his energies merely to keep her here. Her proficiency at such tasks made him feel ignorant, but he did not resent her talents.
What, then?
He didn’t trust her yet. There was a part of her that was still closed to him. He had managed to rouse her to passion, but he had not touched her heart. Or her soul—or her mind.
The third section would make a good “dressing chamber,” she had said, apparently dismissing it as a nursery. Did she know something that he did not? Or was it not a matter of planning, rather than knowledge? He remembered how vehemently she had denied the possibility of being with child after their first meeting; she did not want to have his child—and had simply determined that, therefore, she would not. How long had it been since their first meeting? Almost three months. It seemed that she had been right.
He clamped his teeth hard. Did she perhaps plan to spite him by refusing him an heir? Could a woman do such a thing? Surely there were dozens of whores who went year upon year without conceiving.
He wanted children. In the days when he had wandered from tournament to tournament, and even when he had begun to serve Henry, he had come to realize that he lived with an emptiness. Nowhere was really home. It was then that he had begun to crave land, but just as he ached for the land, he longed for sons to whom to leave it, and a family to build with, to grow with. He wanted to teach a lad how to string a bow, how to make an arrow fly straight, how to wield a sword, and how to stand proud, even before a king.
He had his land. And he had a duchess who wanted to turn a nursery into a “dressing chamber.”
He closed his eyes and allowed the water to swirl around him. The pounding seemed to ease slowly in his head. When the rapping at the door began, he calmly bade the caller to enter without opening his eyes.
“My lord?”
The words were very hesitantly voiced. Bryan opened one eye and surveyed the slender little man, who was almost tearing apart the cap he held between trembling fingers. A casket had been set beneath him, and the toweling spilling forth from it further portrayed the man’s uneasiness, since he had obviously dropped his supplies. His eyes were a sparkling brown; his brown hair was much longer than fashion dictated.
Bryan closed his eyes again. Alaric—his steward. The man who deserved the brunt of his anger. Last night, Bryan would have gladly thrashed his back to ribbons.
“I offer you my humblest apologies, milord. But you see, when no one came, the people began to believe that I ordered them about for my own reward. They thought I took their hard-earned produce and goods. The old lord was not always a just man. He was one of those oafish Normans who called all Saxons swine. I—”
Bryan opened his eyes again as Alaric broke off with horror. Bryan started to laugh as he realized his steward had just assumed he’d cooked his own goose by insulting the Normans.
“Alaric, I come from the old Saxon stock myself, although I admit, Henry surrounded himself with Normans. However, the conquest took place a hundred and twenty something years ago—I will not be plagued by trivial quarrels between races.”
He was surprised when the scared little man drew himself up to his full height. “Trivial, milord? Men were slaughtered like sheep; our sisters, mothers, daughters—raped. And still they refer to us as dogs.”
“If you’re to be my valet, Alaric, I could use a shave.”
“Yes, milord.”
Bryan wondered with a moment of uneasiness if he should bare his throat to the man, but decided then if he didn’t,
he would never learn if he would ever be safe when turning his back on these people.
Alaric set himself up, lathering Bryan’s cheeks, then sharpening his blade upon a strap. “As to the manor, milord—”
“Yes—as to the manor?”
“Everything can be righted in a matter of days. The ledgers are good. I have counts of every home, and every man, woman, and child. I know the rents; I know the fields; and I know the livestock. Milord, if you will just see fit to forgive me.”
Bryan sighed, wincing as Alaric took the blade to his face. “Alaric, I owe Richard ten mounted and armed men from this province for his Crusade. Where the hell am I going to get ten men out of this stock?”
Alaric paused. Bryan could feel the man’s indignity. “This stock, milord? You’ve several score men to choose from! They’re descendants of mighty warriors, even if fate cast them into being nothing but serfs of the land. Tom, the smith’s son, for one. He’s nineteen, tall as a birch, and made of muscle. Then there’s young Roger the baker. And Raul, although he’s a farmer born and bred. And then—”
“Whoa, Alaric!” Bryan laughed. If he had his ten men for Richard—his due to his king—he could relax. Ten men from Montoui; ten from the Cornish lands. “You know the lot; you choose the ten. Mind you, don’t take those who are more valuable here. I’ve followed a merry trail for the last month; I borrowed men and coin from Richard. He does not part easily with either. Show me that you can be efficient, and the management of the estate shall remain yours. I’ve a man coming from Montoui, the duchess’s steward. Let him handle the household; you will handle the land.”
Alaric sighed. Bryan felt the blade slide smoothly over his face. “Aye, that sounds a fine arrangement, and I am grateful.”
For several moments, the only sound that could be heard was that of the blade scraping over Bryan’s face. Then Alaric stepped away and Bryan ducked beneath the water. Alaric’s hand hadn’t faltered once; Bryan was pleased to discover he hadn’t a nick on his face. Alaric provided him with a towel, and he stepped from the bath.
Blue Heaven, Black Night Page 33