by Anne O'Brien
‘Don’t stay here.’ His order was brusque, harsh. ‘Unless you wish to join my men in drinking and coarse jokes. I don’t advise it.’
Only stopping to drain his cup once again, he took himself off about his own concerns.
‘Well?’ Rosamund enquired of her mother as she tapped her ivory comb against the linen bed cover. It was late. The castle lapsed into silence around them, apart from the voices of the soldiers raised in raucous singing below them. Rosamund winced at a particularly loud roar of appreciation.
‘What’s that, dear Rose?’ Lady Petronilla dozed comfortably by the fire.
‘The self-styled Lord of Clifford. Courtesy and court manners have not yet reached the Marches, it seems. I was not impressed. I cannot imagine the content of his baggage wagons if that was the best he could do!’ Rosamund had spent some considerable time in contemplation of the man who would own her castle and order her life.
‘He was not attentive,’ Petronilla admitted. ‘Perhaps a Marcher lord sees no need to polish his manners. Your father could be just as boorish when preoccupied. Which was much of the time.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Not particularly interested in John de Bredwardine’s lack of polish, Rosamund’s dark brows knit into a frown as she considered her impressions of the meal. She removed her veil and began to loosen the bindings on her hair. ‘All I can say is Fitz Osbern is no better than a savage. He took no care with his appearance, his conversation was no better than that of one of the grooms. As for his manners in polite company! It might be all very well when on campaign, but he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He even admitted to bloody murder!’
Petronilla turned her head against the cushion, frowning a little. ‘He had very little to say for himself, for sure. A little rough around the edges.’
‘He dug into that platter of braised rabbit as if he hadn’t eaten in a se’enight!’
‘True.’
‘What’s more, he drained the ale in his cup so frequently—how he was able to walk from the Hall I know not.’
Petronilla sighed. It was all true. ‘But he is well intentioned, I think. We have him to thank for the improvements here.’ She stretched her toes to the fire.
‘Only because he wants the castle for himself, so it’s in his interests to make improvements! Don’t be deceived, Mother. He’s not at all well intentioned toward us,’ Rosamund remarked. She drew her comb through the length of her hair, feeling it prickle with the pressure and the warm air as she gathered the silky mass into her hands and considered the problem that she could not solve. It simply did not add up. Why would Earl William even consider an alliance with such an uncouth manner of man as Fitz Osbern? The eye-catching image of the Wild Hawk as she remembered him at Salisbury sprang into her mind. Remembering again now, recalling her unbidden reaction to him, the flutter returned to her belly. Just as when he had carried her on his horse back to the castle, when she had been lured into resting against him, against his strength and warmth. If she closed her eyes now, it was almost possible to feel the hard lines of chest and thigh against her body. To sense his breath warm against her cheek, to sense his arms enclosing her and holding her. And then he had had the temerity to kiss her. The muscles of her belly clenched at the heat of his mouth on her wrist, then on her lips in that one hard kiss. The dark heat, the seductive texture of his voice. I will never hurt you again…
Rosamund shook herself. How could she recall such disrespect with any level of pleasure? His apology—probably dragged from him—had turned to blatant threats within the space of a heartbeat. If she were not careful, it would make her forget her plan of revenge. And perhaps the change in him was easy enough to explain. Mercenaries were dependent on money earned for questionable services rendered. Clearly Fitz Osbern’s fortunes had declined. He no longer had a lord to keep him in fine clothes to hide his coarse nature.
As for all that talk of Clifford being a part of the land granted to the Fitz Osberns by the Conqueror—a likely tale! A charade calculated to impress. No doubt she had been saved from a terrible fate when he had refused to wed her. What would life be like tied to this man? As bad, if not worse, as for her mother tied to boorish John of Bredwardine, she suspected.
Rosamund began to braid her hair for the night. Gervase. An attractive name, unlike its bearer. Still, she must deal carefully with Gervase Fitz Osbern. It could be dangerous to underestimate him. But if he thought he would frighten her into leaving, he was wrong. She would not be the one to go. Nor would she allow herself to be swayed from her self-imposed task. A little conspiratorial smile curved her mouth. And that task must begin immediately.
‘Mark my words,’ she finished her train of thought as she pulled the covers from the bed, ‘despite his promise of fair treatment, I think we can expect nothing from Fitz Osbern but insensitivity and callous indifference. I think he will use any and every opportunity to get me out of this castle. But I won’t go, whatever threats he makes against me.’
I dare not. For if I do, what is there for me in life? The uncomfortable thought slipped into her mind before she could push it away.
In the west tower, Gervase stretched and disrobed with smug satisfaction, in no sense displeased with Rosamund de Longspey’s opinion of him. She saw him as the uncivilised lout she had accused him of being. Shrugging his shoulders against the coarse material of his campaigning gear as he stripped it off, Gervase Fitz Osbern laughed softly, causing the hound stretched before the fire to raise its head from its paws.
‘What do you think, Bryn?’ he asked. ‘I think she suspects me of all sorts of evil intent, of any depth of uncouth behaviour. How I managed to pour so much ale into my cup and drink so little I’ll never know. I think I even admitted to excessive violence toward my enemies.’ He sat before the fire. ‘It’s exhausting being a robber lord. I must remember to swagger and glower more.’
The hound closed its eyes with a sigh.
‘If you agree, then so much the better. I’m obviously so far below her in wealth, intellect and standing, she’ll not be able to tolerate life under my control. She’s as damnably proud and intolerant as any of the de Longspeys.’ Gervase stirred the somnolent Bryn with the toe of his boot. ‘Though I have to admit to the temptation to kiss her pretty manipulating fingers. Her lips were sweet enough.’
He yawned and for a brief moment stared down into the glow of the ash as if he would conjure up an image there. A fancy piece of work, Rosamund de Longspey, bred up in all the wealth and soft luxury of the de Longspey household. He might have sneered, then remembered that her true sire was John de Bredwardine, a Marcher lord out of the same stable as himself. If he was her father, there must be a strain of toughness somewhere within her. But it had not been obvious as she sat at the board in a fine gown of Flemish cloth, covered over by a loose over-robe of distinctive style. Blue, he recalled, a deep vibrant colour. He hitched a shoulder. Cecilia, his vivacious sister, with her youthful mind stuffed with exploits of King Arthur’s knights and fashionable attire, would have died for such a garment and called the colour pers, or perhaps even pavonalilis, a ridiculously fanciful name, but it was blue to his eyes. And very becoming, if not fit for life in a border castle.
The image of Rosamund gained in intensity. Nor were the jewels that winked on her fingers fit for anything but a Court appearance at Westminster, the gems in the brooch that fastened the neck of her gown, emeralds that rivalled the green of her eyes, or that glittered in the belt that cinched her slim waist. In fact, he discovered to his discomfort that he could imagine the gown hugging her figure to great advantage with no difficulty at all. As for her hair…Burnished gold bound with blue ribbons, it lay softly over her breasts, weighted at the ends with silver ornaments so that the length of it reached easily to her hips. Probably all false, he decided. Cecilia had just such an ambition if Lady Maude, her mother, did not stop her, to lengthen her own tresses to at least her waist with skeins of silk.
In fact, there were some uncomfortable simila
rities between his mischievous handful of a sister and Rosamund de Longspey. Both of them, he suspected, driven by an urge to thwart male authority. But Cecilia was still very young and hopefully biddable, a state of mind, he suspected, that could never be attributed to the Lady Rosamund.
The hard mouth softened under the memory. Women were capable of such subterfuge in the interests of their appearance. Without doubt, the de Longspey heiress was very decorative, which entirely failed to hide her strength of will. She’d been willing enough to camp out in the rain. He must beware of that stubborn strain of Marcher blood. Who would have thought that such a glamorous graceful creature would…?
With a grunt Gervase turned from the attractive picture in the remnants of the fire, pulled Bryn’s ears to reduce the animal to a state of bliss, and poured a final cup of ale. Since when had he become a connoisseur of the female figure? And there was no doubt that she stirred his blood. The tightening of the muscles in his gut, the increasing pressure in his loins left him in no doubt of that at all. Not a reaction he would have sought in the circumstances, when his inclination was to strip the fine gown from her, discover every swell and curve of her with hands and mouth before taking her in ultimate possession.
God’s blood!
Why not just get rid of her? Put her on her horse and escort her out whether she resisted or not?
Because he had given his word, he admitted. Not the wisest of moves, but he had given his oath, to allow her to stay on her own terms until she chose to go. As a man of principle, a man of honour, he could hardly change his mind. To break that promise even to a self-confessed enemy would go against the grain. She might consider him capable of any outage, but he was not so reprehensible as to break a freely-given oath.
Not that the de Longspey girl would know that. The curve of his mouth became wry. He must mask any honourable tendencies. Had he not almost apologised for putting that bruise on her wrist? Gervase frowned heavily. Such a thoughtless action when dealing with her had been unworthy of him, despicable. He shrugged against a wash of shame, that he had been so careless. He would make sure it did not happen again.
Well, he would give her a week here at Clifford. Two at the outside before the winds and rains drove her out. All in all, he was satisfied. She detested him and sneered at his lack of polish—all very well. Now the battle could begin. His sword was drawn. It was time to turn the blade and get the de Longspey women out of his castle.
On the following morning, unaware that he was being observed, in a lull in the persistent wet Gervase Fitz Osbern organised an impromptu mock-battle in the bailey between his soldiers, using sword and shield. Although there had been no call on their military proficiency since their return from Anjou, it would not do to allow their skills to rust through disuse. So Rosamund, attracted by the commotion, found herself kneeling on the window seat in the solar to look down into the bailey. She frowned at the swell of noise, and even more at the sight of Fitz Osbern himself in the midst of the mêlée. Rosamund would have denied that her mind was truly engaged in watching these manly pursuits, despite her blatant consideration of Fitz Osbern’s splendid physique as he raised his sword in seemingly ferocious attack against his sergeant-at-arms. Her eyes widened, her lips pressed into a little moue of appreciation as he feinted, spun on his heel and drove the heavy weapon home against Watkins’s shield with such force that the man was disarmed. Such incomparable grace, hard-muscled skill. She blinked as those muscles braced in shoulder and thigh, straining against a renewed attack from the sergeant. The flex of his lithe body as he grasped Watkins’s arm to pull him to his feet, his face alight with a grin of conquest, held all her attention. Then a joke she could not hear. Laughter erupted from the group.
After which Fitz Osbern gave his attention to the young lad who was his squire. Owen, his name. Small of stature and still young enough to miss his own home, she suspected. Certainly still new to the use of arms. The sword and shield, hoisted in his thin arms, positively dwarfed him. She leaned forward to watch. With patient encouragement Fitz Osbern demonstrated how to hold the shield to prevent being skewered by a rapacious foe, how to feint and parry with the sword, then stood foursquare before him, encouraging the lad to strike at him. Rosamund found herself laughing at Owen’s attempts. There was never any chance that he would home in on his target. Until Fitz Osbern dropped the blade of his own sword and allowed a fairly accurate lunge to strike against his shield over his heart. He staggered and groaned realistically before dropping to one knee.
‘A hit! A kill!’ Owen crowed out with triumph.
‘Not any time soon!’ she heard Fitz Osbern reply as he rose to his full height. ‘But well enough, boy. Your eye’s good enough.’ He ruffled Owen’s hair. ‘Let’s try again—and this time watch your left side. I could’ve stabbed you through the guts a dozen times. Then what would your mother have to say…’
Owen grinned and took up the heavy sword once more.
Rosamund was transfixed at the sheer good humour, the awareness of the boy’s inexperience, yet with a care for his dignity. Fitz Osbern’s physical dominance overawed her. He was magnificent, and for the briefest of moments she wished she could feel the slide of those sleek muscles under her hands.
Never!
So he had a good rapport with his men. Did that make him any less of a savage? For a lady who was not interested, she spent considerable time in enjoying the scene. Until, she persuaded herself, the racket of shouts and groans and metal striking metal became excruciating to the ears of a well-born lady. What possible interest could she find in a parcel of uncouth soldiery? Or their lord, who was just as infuriatingly masculine as they? In the end with a huff of a breath she turned her back, sinking deep in thought; thoughts that were, apparently, pleasing. Despite the groove between her brows, a smile hovered around her lips.
She had a plan. All it required was the courage to put it into action. And she needed an ally.
An hour later, Rosamund engaged in a lengthy conversation with Master Pennard, the perfect ally who resented Sir Thomas de Byton’s crude authority, and was thus willing to side with his mistress against Fitz Osbern. Master Pennard’s smile became slyer by the minute, his eyes hooded by drooping folds of parchment-like skin as they gleamed with appreciation of the chance to get one over on his adversary.
‘I am entirely at your service, my lady.’ He bowed low over her hand.
‘I am grateful.’ She tried not to snatch her hand away from the scrape of his dry fingers. Master Pennard was very much like the grey cat that had taken up permanent occupation in her solar, unprepossessing, unattractive, totally self-interested, but undoubtedly useful, she decided.
Master Pennard promised to do all he could.
‘The Hall is where my men will eat and sleep and spend their spare time, lady. I don’t expect them to be turned out because you are of a mind to renew the rushes, scrub the walls or any other such whim. Not even for one day in the present climate.’ Gervase stood foursquare before her in the middle of the Great Hall, blunt and accusing. ‘Watkins tells me you have barred them all until further notice.’
Rosamund had the vantage point of the dais, again, and looked down her straight nose at him. ‘It is disgusting in here.’ He watched the pretty nose wrinkle at the stench and had some sympathy, but now was not the time. ‘This is my castle and I will tolerate it no longer.’
He raised his voice in deliberate aggression. ‘Then take yourself off to your solar, lady. An easy solution.’
Whatever it took her to face him, and it took all her courage in the face of his simmering anger, the determined chin lifted. ‘It would give me the greatest of pleasure not to enter this—this cow byre—but I will not endure the disgrace of this place any longer. It will take no more than a day, or two at most. Tell your men to stay in the stables. Or to make use of the east tower.’
‘The east tower’s as filthy as this. It’s not fit.’
Ignoring his refusal, Rosamund turned to her steward, who wai
ted for his orders. ‘Master Pennard. I expect the servants to be in here with brushes and water within the half-hour. I want to see less soot on the walls by the end of the day. And I want these rushes cleared—all of them.’
Gervase advanced a step, hand on sword hilt. ‘Did you not hear my refusal? You do not have my permission.’
‘I heard. But I will have this midden cleaned, with or without your permission. Your men can find their comfort elsewhere.’ Then, without another glance in his direction, Rosamund stalked past him, her skirts just about brushing against his boots.
As if he did not exist!
Gervase stood and stared after her. So she would defy him, would she? Not that he didn’t agree with her about the state of the Hall. What man of any noble upbringing would not? But she would not ride roughshod over his demands or his men’s needs. It was time she learnt that he was a power to be reckoned with. His fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword as he was forced to admit that his campaign was not without its difficulties and was not proceeding quite according to plan. Considering this immediate clash of wills, in which she had undoubtedly emerged the victor, he was about to have a major battle on his hands.
‘God’s blood! Is she always so uncompromising? She could at least wait until the rain stopped before turning us all out—’
‘My lord?’
He spun on his heel, surprised to see the Dowager Countess, neat and trim, head tilted like a robin, watching him with interest—and not a little amusement. A gentler lady altogether, until he found mild grey-green eyes locked with his, with just as direct stare as the…as the vixen…who had just refused to do as he said. He thought the robin might just be about to snap up a tasty wireworm.
Gervase frowned. ‘Your daughter, lady. Is she always so damned difficult?’ he demanded, not mincing words. ‘Intractable would not be too strong a word.’