by Anne O'Brien
‘Of course you will,’ Fitz Osbern replied. ‘When you have taken time to think of the advantages of your home, you’ll see the wisdom of it. A border fortress is no place for a woman alone, so you’ll be a sensible girl and take yourself back to Salisbury. In a month you’ll thank me for showing you the error your pride might have forced you to make.’ A condescending smile touched the firm lips. Which made matters even worse.
‘Oh, no!’ She braced her wrist against his powerful fingers, but he did not let go. ‘I shall sit outside my gates for as long as it takes. And if I do indeed die of cold, my death will be on your head. Are you willing to risk it, my lord?’ Her mouth curved with the challenge.
Which brought him up short. His fingers tightened. ‘Don’t question my authority, lady!’
‘Don’t you push me into defiance, my lord!’ And, snatching her wrist from his hold, Rosamund de Longspey swept from the dais and up the stairs to the solar without a backward glance. They watched her depart, her head held high. Until her mother, after a moment of pregnant silence, stood to follow with an apologetic smile.
‘I think I should warn you, sir.’ Her calm eyes were austere as they rested on Fitz Osbern. ‘It is unwise to underestimate my daughter. She tends to do exactly as she says.’
‘She’ll not defy me,’ Fitz Osbern remarked.
‘I’d not wager on it,’ Lady Petronilla replied over her shoulder. ‘She can’t afford to allow you to win.’
And then the Marcher lords were alone.
‘I think Lady Petronilla’s right, Ger. The girl might just do it, you know. She’s in the mood to.’ Hugh watched the final departing twitch of silk skirts around the turn in the stairs with serious contemplation and the faintest smile of admiration. ‘Are you, as the girl said, indeed willing to risk it?’
‘Risk? Nonsense.’ Gervase turned his attention back to the neglected food and used his dagger to slice into the mutton. ‘I wager it’ll rain tomorrow. A thorough drenching will spur her on her way quicker than any words of mine. And thank God for it! I suspect she’d be more troublesome to me than all the vermin in this place.’
Hugh de Mortimer was of a mind to agree. In his experience, women could be very tricky, and, he suspected, the daughter trickier than most. As for the widow…After her initial attack in the bailey, when her opinion of him appeared to be lower than if he were the rat just now scurrying along the edge of the wall toward the door, her composure in the circumstances was admirable. But what he would care to discover—he poked at some unappetising and unrecognisable dish of stewed vegetables—was what had put the depth of sadness in the widow’s eyes. He turned his attention back to the meat. But of course it was none of his affair.
It proved to be an uneasy night in varying degrees for all.
Hugh de Mortimer consigned his musings of the widow to a pleasant dream that could never be fulfilled, wrapped himself in his cloak in one of the vacant tower rooms and slept the sleep of the untroubled.
Fitz Osbern, with the experience of soldiering that enabled him to sleep anywhere, in any discomfort, was none the less kept awake by a range of insistent thoughts. No one ignored his wishes. No one! Not since he had come of age and taken over control of the Monmouth lands. Lady Maude, his forthright mother, had learnt that quickly enough when she had thought to order his affairs as she had done her husband’s. But that damned girl had. Defiant to the last, despite the fragility of the bones of her wrist under his fingers. And then there had been that definite mark of fear imprinted on her face, in those marvellous green eyes, when he had ordered her return to Earl Gilbert’s house, before the hot fury took over when she spat her defiance at him. He would not consider that.
Damnation. Worse than a nagging tooth! What could be so bad in her cushioned life that she could not recognise Salisbury as a haven of peace and comfort? Irritated with himself, Fitz Osbern pulled his cloak over his head and willed himself to sleep.
Petronilla, in her deliberate calm manner, well practised through years of marriage to men who had no consideration for her feelings, was equally irritated. Why in heaven’s name had she felt the need to explain her situation to the de Mortimer lord? Yet she had read such consideration in his face that she was tempted to smile at him…How foolish to be so flattered that she should blush like a girl! Had she not had enough of men? She would enjoy being a widow with a jointure and a home of her own. Besides, after tomorrow she would be unlikely to set eyes on Hugh de Mortimer ever again.
On which comforting thought she still found it impossible to sleep.
Whilst at her side in the west-tower chamber—the lord’s chamber still not clean enough to her liking—her daughter stirred and twitched and gave up on any possibility of sleep. Rosamund knew that she had wilfully stirred the flames into a blaze, and now she would just have to be prepared to face the consequences of making impulsive declarations. The hours before dawn could be usefully occupied in planning each careful step if, as she feared, she was ejected through her own gates. So she applied herself to her task, but not before she closed her hand around her wrist, and was once again aware of the heat, the power in the man’s grasp, the fierce but controlled anger in his body.
She closed her eyes against the little brush of memory that roughened her skin and sent a shaft of heat to her belly.
No. Rosamund’s eyes snapped open. She would not, could not allow him to defeat her. Nor could she allow him to step into her dreams. Because she knew exactly who Gervase Fitz Osbern was. He was her Wild Hawk, of course.
The man who four years ago had rejected her with no more than a second look. Beneath the grime of travel and the unshaven cheeks he was the same man whose striking face she hadn’t quite been able to forget. Although on close encounter she thought her memory must have been at fault. Fitz Osbern was obviously not the eye-catching individual she remembered, whose alliance Earl William had considered to be of some importance. The Earl of Salisbury would never seek to associate with this ruffian. Perhaps Fitz Osbern had fallen on hard times and been reduced to thievery and living off his wits. She sighed her disappointment that it should be so, then remembered her present grievance.
Hardly surprising that, given his total uninterest in her, both at Salisbury and here at Clifford, he had not even recognised her.
Chapter Four
T he de Longspey party was up betimes, all their possessions packed. Rosamund was not foolish enough to believe that Fitz Osbern would not be true to his word. Her plan was risky. A dangerous wager. Had her blood father not been fond of wagers? Until one had killed him when he had risked a raid on a neighbouring Marcher lord’s prize cattle, and that lord retaliated with a storm of fatal arrows. But there were no arrows here to kill and maim. At worst a cold wind and heavy showers, but discomfort would be the only danger. The prize, if her plan worked, would be weightier than gold. Her freedom more precious than any jewel.
She would show Lord Fitz Osbern that she was not a woman to be underestimated.
‘Wear your warmest clothes,’ she advised. ‘As many layers as you can. And leave the quilts unpacked to be placed on top of the wagon. And…’ she fixed both the Dowager Countess and Edith the serving woman with an intimidating eye ‘…not a word of complaint.’
Fitz Osbern and de Mortimer watched from the gatehouse tower as the little cavalcade started out, four of their own men in attendance as promised to ensure safe passage to Hereford. Deliberately the Lord of Monmouth had absented himself when the ladies had broken their fast, so there had been no final communication between them. There was nothing more to say. He had made his intentions clear enough. No need to bandy words again with the girl. He saw them move slowly from the gates beneath him with relief.
‘That sees the end of my immediate problem.’ He turned his back to walk down the stairs into the bailey, looking up to address de Mortimer over his shoulder. ‘Will you leave, Hugh? I can’t offer you comfortable hospitality yet, but you’re welcome to what I have.’ He gave a wry grimace in acknow
ledgement of their disreputable surroundings.
‘Tomorrow, I think.’ Still inclined to keep the little party in view, de Mortimer made to follow.
‘I shall start some rebuilding here.’ Fitz Osbern, oblivious to his friend’s distraction, was surveying the flooded inner court. ‘And then I shall—’
‘My lord, my lord…’ The voice echoed from a guard above their heads. ‘I think you should come and look…’
They climbed once again to the gatehouse battlements. Looked over. Frowned. Within little more than two hundred yards of the gate, on the flat piece of flood plain between castle, river and village, the well-loaded wagon had come to a halt. Fitz Osbern’s mounted escort dismounted. Quilts were being shaken out, some of the packages unloaded on to the grass. The soldiers, after some conversation with the more eye-catching of the distant figures who waved her arm in obvious dismissal, turned their horses to return to the castle.
‘God’s blood!’
‘I did warn you,’ Hugh remarked. ‘The lady has a war-like look in her eye. She looks as if she intends to stay. She’s pitched her camp, you could say…’
Ignoring the amusement in de Mortimer’s voice, Fitz Osbern watched in startled disbelief as the figures spread the quilts on the ground, wrapped themselves securely in their cloaks, hoods pulled up, and sat down to await events.
‘A whim,’ Fitz Osbern muttered. ‘She’ll soon tire of it. By midmorning they’ll be gone. I’d wager my sword on it.’ He marched off.
‘I wouldn’t!’ Hugh de Mortimer called after him, laughing.
The rain started, at first a light soaking mist. Then a heavier patter.
‘This’ll do it, Hugh.’ The Marcher lords had been unable to resist returning to their vantage point to assess developments. The women were as they had been some hours ago, but now the quilts had been pulled over their heads, the three figures huddled beneath and together for warmth. It was possible to just make out the dark shape through the rain.
‘You have to give her credit, though.’
‘For what?’ Fitz Osbern struck his fist against the stone coping, but a little thread of worry, even shame, had begun to slide along his skin. ‘Obstinacy and hard-headedness? If she thinks she’ll shame me into opening the gates and inviting her back, she’s wrong!’
The intensity of the rain increased.
‘What are we doing, Rosamund?’ Petronilla cringed beneath the quilts, unnaturally but understandably petulant. ‘We shall die here. I can feel an ague coming on. I can feel the damp settling into my bones. I don’t want to die here in the mud.’ Her voice hitched in misery. ‘I would rather be at Lower Broadheath.’
‘And so you shall be.’ Rosamund put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. ‘Of course we will not die. No man of chivalry, not even Fitz Osbern, would allow that to happen. Just wait a little longer.’ She patted the hand of Edith, who had begun to sob.
‘Are you sure he’s a man of honour?’ Petronilla sniffed. ‘I’m not. Lord de Mortimer perhaps, but not Fitz Osbern.’ ‘Perhaps he’s not. But de Mortimer will persuade him, will not allow it even if it’s only to save you from discomfort. I would say he’s very taken with you.’
All Lady Petronilla could do was splutter into the damp neck of her cloak.
‘I won’t give in. Not yet. Be courageous, Mother. We have so much to gain. I promise I’ll not allow you to come to any harm.’
Rosamund tucked another quilt around Petronilla, uneasily aware that she might indeed be putting her mother’s health in danger, sitting in the cold grass as the rain swirled around them. And what guarantee that the man would back down? There was none. But now was no time for second thoughts—she could afford to retreat as little as he. He had rejected her once and could readily do so again. He did not even remember her! Pride spurred her on, just as the anger racing through her blood kept her warm.
The rain pattered heavily on the soaked quilts.
‘Is she still out there?’
‘Yes! God’s Blood!’
‘Ger—you must do something. It’s neither seemly nor honourable.’
Gervase Fitz Osbern huffed a breath against the worry that had become a distinct unease. ‘If only the daughter were as biddable as the mother. Very well. I can’t leave them out there. I must try persuasion rather than brute force. I’ll send de Byton out to fetch them in—until better travelling weather. But further than that I will not bend. They can’t stay here.’
On hearing the approach of hooves, Rosamund lifted the quilt and peered out to see de Byton, surly, reining in his horse.
‘Well?’ She scented victory, but kept her face stern.
De Byton wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘My lord says you’re to come within, lady.’
‘No. We will not. Tell your master—for it seems you have betrayed your de Longspey loyalties—’ heavy irony despite water dripping from her hood ‘—tell him I need to hear it from his own lips that I shall be invited back. That I shall be allowed to stay for as long as I wish. That I shall not be bullied into departing against my will.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And that I shall have the solar and the private chamber for my own use. He must come here and tell me himself. Do you understand?’
A short grunt was the only reply. De Byton wheeled his horse and cantered back.
‘She says what?’
De Byton repeated the conversation with relish and a rare disgust for all womenkind, at that moment fully appreciated by Fitz Osbern. ‘She’s intransigent, my lord. She’ll hear it only from yourself, my lord.’
‘Will she, now?’ The icy flash of anger did not bode well. Fitz Osbern leaned on the battlement and fixed his attention on de Mortimer, an idea developing. He faced his friend, expression bland.
‘A simple solution. You could fetch them in, Hugh. Your words would be kinder than mine. You have a gift when appealing to the soft heart of a woman…’
‘No. I won’t. You’re going to have to grasp the dagger’s edge, Ger. It’s you she wants, your assurance. You have no choice.’
Nor did he, Gervase acknowledged, as he wiped the rain from his face. She had won her battle. But what would be the consequences for him? Uncomfortable with his line of thought, he shrugged his shoulders against the weight of his wet jerkin. What would it be like for him to have this woman as effective chatelaine of his castle? When it should have been Matilda, his young wife who had not lived long enough to make the place her own. He frowned at the unwanted memory. A soft, pretty, fair-haired girl, who would have been a good wife to him, carried his children, presented him with an heir to the Fitz Osbern lands; with tuition from him, she would have held the reins of power in his name. But Matilda was dead and in her place, if he weakened, he would have this de Longspey woman on his hands, who needed no lessons from him in exerting her will, and who would surely see his retreat as a victory over him, and take it as a precedent.
He did not want that. He definitely did not want that.
Yet Gervase looked out at the sad little party under their soaked coverings and exhaled loudly. No, he had no choice but to take them back. Even if it meant Rosamund de Longspey stepping on the hem of Matilda’s increasingly shadowy gown.
‘I dislike surrender,’ Gervase snarled.
‘No such thing,’ De Mortimer replied cheerfully. ‘See it as an organised retreat before superior forces.’
‘God’s bones!’
‘Well, lady, I’m here, as you requested.’
‘I did not think you would come.’ Rosamund scrambled from under the covering despite the relentless downpour, face raised to him, noting the heavy scowl, but determined to hold firm. Regardless of the rain, regardless of her heavily thudding heart, she fixed her eyes on his, praying that he would not think the raindrops on her lashes were a sign of female weakness.
‘What do you want from me?’ Fitz Osbern demanded.
‘To return. I’m sure de Byton informed you of my terms, my lord.’
Rosamund had almost given up. She would admit
to it. She knew that her mother would stand with her to the bitter end, but how could she be so thoughtless of Lady Petronilla’s welfare for much longer? She was on the very edge of ordering that they load up the wagon and find shelter in the village. Or even in Hereford itself before she took her mother on to Lower Broadheath, where she deserved to be in all comfort. Rosamund’s conscience had been on the point of pushing her to abandon her defiance to make that decision. There was, after all, a limit to the power of pride when dealing with those she loved, so few as they were. But now against all hope the bane of her existence was here, sitting his horse before her with all the arrogance she had come to recognise, and so she would not weaken. She raised her chin against a probable rejection.
‘Well, my lord?’
The stare was as cold as the rain that trickled down her spine. The voice as harsh as the wind that moulded her sodden skirts against her legs. But the words were the golden chime of victory.
‘You have won, lady. I have come to tell you that I agree to your terms.’
Rain dripped from the end of her straight nose, spangled her lashes. Translucent as a pearl, her skin glowed through the moisture. Fitz Osbern found it difficult to look away as he dismounted and stood before her. She was probably soaked to the skin through every inch of her clothing, her face was pale, her eyes wide with tension. He could see her whole body was braced against the chill that would have made her teeth chatter if she had allowed it. But her courage was unbroken as her head was unbowed, as she was magnificent in her determination to achieve her goal. A pity it was at his expense. The muscles in his gut tightened in—well, in concern, he told himself as she shuddered with a sudden cold blast of wind. But his anger was stirred as well, a faint ripple of it beneath the admiration, that she had bested him.
‘You will agree to them? All of them?’ she asked.