Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘No.’

  Well, that was definite enough. He wondered why. ‘If you will allow me so intimate an observation, Nell, you are very…’ He hesitated as her eyes snapped to his, almost in a warning. ‘Attractive,’ he finished. ‘I wager you will be much sought after as a wife by the men of Worcester when you eventually return to Lower Broadheath…’

  ‘I will not accept.’

  ‘Why not? You don’t seem to have a high opinion of men, my lady.’

  ‘No. I don’t, do I?’ Distressed, she stood as if she would walk away, having forgotten her reason for seeking him out in the first place. But Hugh found himself wishing the absent Earl of Salisbury and John de Bredwardine to the fires of hell, and considering the possibility of teaching the lady that some men were worthy of her regard. With a hand to her sleeve, he pulled her back to her stool.

  ‘You called me Hugh before you were stricken. Perhaps you could do so again.’ His eyes twinkling, he shrugged when she simply stared at him. ‘You wanted to know about our little domestic conflict. Well, they both apologised—and that’s the end to it as far as I know. I understand the Lady Rosamund has promised to mend her ways.’

  ‘I don’t know about that…’

  ‘You don’t believe her?’ He rubbed his finger along the length of his nose. ‘I’ve noticed nothing. Fitz Osbern has been…brooding, shall I say, but he’s rarely loquacious.’ Hugh chuckled. ‘Enough of that.’ He pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. ‘No point in worrying over what might not happen. Since you’re restored, would a stroll along the palisade walk aid your recovery further?’

  Petronilla smiled. ‘I have my mantle to hand for just such an occasion. If you will accompany me, my lord…’ She put her hand in his without hesitation.

  ‘Hugh!’ And he raised her hand to his lips, perfectly satisfied with the outcome of his little campaign to make her smile again.

  ‘Yes, Hugh.’

  ‘Let me, Nell.’ Petronilla allowed Lord Hugh to wrap the mantle around her shoulders and fix the fur-lined collar with her brooch. How deft and capable his hands were for so large a man. She must remember to call him Hugh. A little warmth spread beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the winter sunshine. How pleasant it was to speak with a man who was so much in tune with her thoughts and concerns. Of having him kiss her fingers because he wished to, not as a matter of formal respect. And spending time with a man who noticed how she looked and considered what would give her pleasure.

  Whilst Hugh de Mortimer, in his forthright way, admitted his own attraction and set himself to wear down Petronilla de Longspey’s understandable reluctance, life in the castle at Clifford settled into an easy routine. To take her mind off recent events, Rosamund took it upon herself to set about the refurbishment of the east tower, so far ignored. Master Pennard kept pace with her in reluctant agreement. The stonework was sound enough. For the most part empty of even the most basic furniture, all it needed was a good clean. Some vigorous sweeping and scouring would make it habitable. Returning to the Hall, issuing instructions as she went, she lifted her head at the eruption of noise from across the bailey. She had heard the gates open, but this tumult was unexpected.

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Quarried stone, my lady. To replace the palisade. Lord Fitz Osbern has a mind to rebuild.’ Master Pennard left, list in hand, before Rosamund could add to it.

  Why did men have to make so much noise and commotion about all that they did? Emerging to stand on the outer stairs to look down, a scroll of provisions in her hand, it was to see that a delivery of stone had arrived in a convoy of wagons, to strengthen the outer wall. Men of the garrison were engaged in the final unloading, manhandling the huge blocks, a dangerous business with ropes and pulleys and wooden staves. She would have retreated, leaving them to their shouted orders, the roars of laughter, their oaths and ribald joking as stones slipped to crush feet and fingers. She was not unaware of the tendency of men in a group to resort to coarse behaviour as she remembered her de Longspey stepbrothers with little affection. This was no place for a woman unless she wished her ears and sensibilities to be assaulted.

  But she stayed, lured by the busy scene and the bright sunshine, despite the cold wind that continued to blow snow flurries from the north. The task was complete, the wagons leaving, making the most of the hard-frozen roads. Jugs of ale were being brought out from the buttery. Now the men were drawing water from the well, stripping off dusty tunics to drench themselves in buckets of bone-chillingly cold water to swill away the dust and grime of the newly cut stone, with bellows of shock as water splashed and drenched indiscriminately. Rosamund shivered at the thought. Where was discipline here? And ridiculous on so cold a day to soak themselves to the skin…

  Rosamund took a step forward with an eagle eye. Not only the men of the garrison were so engaged. She should have known it. It seemed that wherever she looked, he was there. Not content with issuing orders as any lord should in his castle, he had put his own hand to the ropes and levers, and was even now raising his arms to pull his tunic over his head in one fluid movement. There was Gervase Fitz Osbern, standing in his own bailey, stripped down to his hose and boots.

  Go inside, her common sense ordered.

  Not until I have looked my fill!

  What if he sees you watching?

  I don’t care. I shall have seen him. Is he not worth looking at?

  Splendid was the word that came to mind. Well, she knew that must be so, even under the heavy woollen tunics he habitually wore. Now she need no longer use her imagination as she had when he had engaged in combat with young Owen. The smooth muscles of back and shoulder flexed and stretched like water under the skin. Bronzed skin from campaigning and outdoor work glittered with drops of water that clung and ran in rivulets to soak into his hose. She allowed her eyes to play over his figure, so well displayed. Slim waist sleekly flowing into lean hips. Long powerful thighs…Her mouth dried. Palms were damp against the unfortunate scroll. What woman would not like to run those palms over the firm muscles of his chest, to see them quiver at her touch, to savour the soft spattering of dark hair that arrowed toward his groin? She would like very well to wipe the sparkles of water from his chest and flat belly, to put her hand there where she knew his heart beat, to feel the perfect match of it within her own body. She would like to…It took all Rosamund’s will power to repress the need to run her tongue along her lips. She would like to do any number of things, if only she knew how. If only she dare.

  A jolt of memory took her, refusing to be smothered. Two to be exact. Being plastered against that chest on their first meeting. The heat of it even in the cold, even fully clothed. And then, in the west tower, being pulled into his arms and kissed ruthlessly, relentlessly, until all thought of resistance had been obliterated. The sheer raw, male energy of the man.

  How I would enjoy that male energy being focused on me again.

  Gervase lifted his head, tunnelling his fingers through his dark hair to scatter a sparkle of drops in the sunshine. Then looked up as if suddenly conscious of her gaze. Of the direction of her thoughts. Even at this distance from him, she flushed at the possibility that he might read what was in her mind. At the very moment that she decided that retreat was in order, he turned his head, his hands raising a cup of ale to his lips, his whole attention becoming centred on her before she could step back into the shadows. Brazenly he took her gaze and held it. Lowered the cup and bowed. A solemn, formal little movement, at odds with his disarray.

  Rosamund froze with a sharp stab of embarrassment at being discovered so flagrantly spying on Fitz Osbern. But not for long. So he would mock her, would he? Stamping on her discomfiture she swept her dusty, cobwebbed skirts in a magnificent and equally formal curtsy. And not once did she allow her eyes to escape the unspoken demand in his.

  Look at me. I am Lord of Clifford. I have held you captive in my arms and tasted your lips. I would do so again.

  And Rosamund was agha
st at the honesty in her own thoughts. Furious as much with herself as with the specimen of masculine beauty before her eyes.

  I know you. I know who you are. I cannot forget your kisses. I dream of them.

  ‘What’s taking your attention, Rose? Visitors?’ Seeing her acknowledgement of someone or something, the Countess had emerged, with Edith, to stand at her side. ‘Ah…not visitors!’ Following her daughter’s stare, she laughed softly. ‘He would take my attention too, if I were twenty years younger. Even ten.’ Wistfulness overlaid by playful good humour.

  ‘He’s taking the attention of every maid in the castle, for sure.’ As giggling chatter sounded from outside the kitchen, Rose turned her glare on Edith, daring her to be drawn in. ‘And I am no better than they are.’

  ‘But he’s worth looking at, Rose.’

  It did not help that her mother’s admission should repeat her own awareness of him. With a huff of breath, Rosamund escaped into the Great Hall, a flag of colour high on each cheek. She could not pretend to be unmoved by him.

  ‘What use in denying it,’ she announced to the empty Hall. ‘My blood is all on fire.’

  Now what was she doing? Gervase, standing on the battlements, studying a plan of the new barbican he envisaged to make this castle one of the strongest down the length of the March and so stop the Welsh raiding parties from crossing the Wye, could hear raised voices over by the smart new timber-and-thatch stabling. One of them was instantly recognisable, attractively husky, and entirely displeased. The other gruff, polite enough, but uncompromising. He strolled closer intrigued to hear what ruffled her pretty feathers this time.

  ‘I wish to ride, Sir Thomas. If you will saddle my mare…’

  ‘Lord Fitz Osbern’s orders are that you are not to go beyond the gates without an escort, my lady.’

  Gervase could see neither speaker, but did not need to, to hear the lady’s strength of purpose. Or her growing annoyance. He grinned at the exchange.

  ‘But I order—’

  ‘Escort or nothing, my lady, he says. Too dangerous without.’

  ‘Danger from what?’

  ‘Lord de Mortimer reports that the local Welsh tribes are restless. There’ve been attacks…’

  Gervase could almost hear the heavy sigh, the irritation. ‘Then I have no choice.’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  Continuing to smile grimly, Gervase sought out his squire Owen, then, after a brief instruction, returned to the rough sketches before him as Rosamund’s mare was saddled and a small escort of four soldiers accompanied her as she urged her horse into a sprightly walk through the gate and along the river banks. Owen spurred his own mount to catch up. For reasons he could not have put a name to, Gervase found it necessary to climb to the guard’s lookout on the gatehouse to watch her progress.

  Fleetingly—or not so fleetingly—he wished he had accompanied her himself. Bright cold had brought colour to her face. Her braids were whipped in the breeze, living flames of gold, as she kicked her mount into a canter, glowing like an autumn beech against the blue sky. It was the first day of sunshine with no hint of rain in days. Who would not wish to ride purely for the pleasure of the exercise, the lightening of spirits after days of gloom? He watched her go. She rode well, showing good control and a graceful seat on the lively mare. What man would not enjoy riding at her side? He would like to see her laugh, her eyes sparkle with sheer exhilaration. Who would not wish to feel the light brush of her fingers? Or even the warmth of her palm against his skin? Or the softness of her mouth that held such unexpected sweetness?

  ‘Thought you might join her,’ remarked Hugh, leaning comfortably at his side and equally enjoying the view.

  Gervase grunted. ‘She’d have damned me to hell and back if I’d suggested it. She didn’t relish any escort, much less my presence.’

  ‘A handsome woman.’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ he murmured, unaware of his choice of words. Unaware of Hugh’s speculative glance. And she was, creating a vibrant picture, like an image in stained glass. The rich blue mantle. Neat bay mare. All full of life and sheer vivacity, full of intoxicating laughter and animation. As he had seen her the previous day. He frowned as if it might not be the pleasantest of memories that insisted on playing through his mind.

  It was a chance view of her that had ambushed him, in the unkempt area to the east of the keep that had been fenced off to provide a kitchen garden, one that had become seriously overgrown and neglected over the years. Now in the depths of winter it looked at its worst with dead stems and mounds of rotting leaves. Presumably as an excuse to get out of doors, Rosamund had decided to beat it into shape, and it had provided him with one of those uncomfortable jolts from the past. One, with its layer of guilt, that he had not enjoyed.

  Matilda had worked in that garden in the brief early days of their life together. He seemed to recall her tucking up her skirts, clipping herbs into a basket, pulling onions and other such feminine, domestic tasks. Delighted with her first home, her new position as Lady of Clifford. She had told him with such naïve enthusiasm that she enjoyed growing plants in her own garden, making her own choices without her mother’s interference. She had laughed as the boughs from an old pear tree tangled in her veil, pulling it from her fair hair. How young she had been, how hopeful of their life together, whilst he had been gently indulgent. Long ago now, but it was one of those tender memories that had stayed with him.

  And suddenly there was Rosamund, imposing her own arresting presence on the bleak space, scattering his fond memories so that he knew not what he felt. She was supposed to be clearing out the rank foliage, cutting back, raking the debris, wielding a sickle with impressive skill. A charming scene, he supposed, until distracted by the laughter of the younger servants from the kitchen who were intent on driving chickens back into their run. Bryn too had abandoned his master to join the hunt. Gasping for breath as the hens showed a cunning aptitude for escape, laughing at the clumsy attempts of one of the kitchen lads, Rosamund grabbed the hound and held him back as they were herded into their coup. Any lingering tender thoughts of Matilda had been swept away by the blaze of desire that swept through Gervase’s body. He wanted her, a need that could not be banished. In that moment Rosamund filled his vision, his imagination. He knew the softness of those curves. Would like to know them even better.

  What was it his father had once said, after a third cup of ale when he felt moved to give his young son some plain advice based on experience? Gervase remembered it perfectly. Wed a young girl. Train her up to your ways to please you, like a young horse or a hound puppy. Wed an older woman and all you have is trouble for life. Independence gives a woman ideas, opinions. A liking for her own way. Wed a young girl and your household and family will be managed to your liking. Well, he had wed Matilda with his father’s advice in mind, had he not? He had not loved her, he realised with hindsight, but had an affection for her. He supposed they would have been comfortable together and raised a brood of children to carry on the Fitz Osbern inheritance.

  Gervase blinked at the image that he could not quite bring into focus. Truth to tell, he could no longer imagine growing old with Matilda, despite the uncomfortable prick of guilt. Now Rosamund de Longspey…She had every unfortunate trait of character his father had warned him of. And more. A damned uncomfortable wife she would make. Yet he could imagine returning home to her. Looking for her on the battlements at Monmouth. Riding with her. Of her welcoming him with a smile in her glorious eyes and an infant in her arms with eyes green as new beech leaves…

  Gervase scowled at the retreating figures. She should not be here. It should be Matilda. The guilt was uncomfortable to live with, that his mind, his physical responses, should forsake Matilda’s memory so readily, to be replaced by this unpredictable creature who had got under his skin. And not just his! Against his will Gervase laughed aloud as he saw, in the distance, loping along beside the mare, that Bryn had again forsaken him for the lady. So much for loyalty. The hou
nd was won over by a soft hand to scratch his ears and feed him scraps when she thought she was unobserved.

  He wished she were so forgiving toward him. He wished he did not feel the shame that Matilda should pale into insignificance beside Rosamund de Longspey. He had not realised he was so fickle. Gervase shook his head as if to dislodge such disloyalty. Nothing to be gained from dwelling on it. Matilda was in the past and his future did not contain Rosamund de Longspey.

  ‘They should be safe enough.’ He pushed himself away from the wall with a shrug and a friendly punch to Hugh’s shoulder. ‘Enough of the scenery. Come and tell me what you think of the plans to—’

  Distant shouts.

  Gervase whipped round, black hair swirling in the wind. Blood turned to ice. Sharp memories stained with blood.

  It can’t happen. Not again!

  A compact band of men, moving fast on small ponies from the north. Flash of sun on metal. Gervase and Hugh stared narrow-eyed, the better to assess the danger. They could not make the raiders out with any definition, but could imagine the bows they carried, primed with wicked arrows

  ‘Ger…! An attack…and so close? Surely not.’

  But Gervase was gone, leaping down the steps, shouting orders as he went to raise a force. Outraged that the Welsh should feel strong enough to attack so near to home. Did they think they could do so with impunity? But the outrage was forcefully obliterated by an overwhelming deluge of fear. It gripped him, cold and deadly, enough to paralyse him if he allowed it to take hold.

  It was Matilda, all over again. He had not seen her death, only her body, bloodied and torn. Her face cold, smeared with dust and blood. Had it been in this exact place? Could fate strike twice in so devastating a fashion? Could lightning strike the same blasted oak twice?

  Would Rosamund too be lost to him?

  Gervase dared not stop to think.

  The little party was hopelessly outnumbered. God grant that Owen had enough sense to take shelter. And surging through his heart, white hot as a bolt of lightning, was the self-recrimination that he had allowed her to ride out of the castle at all. His men were already grabbing weapons, saddling horses. The gates were opening. His mind circled in a never-ending loop. Pray God the escort and his squire had their wits about them. He should never have let her go. Then they were out of the gate, riding hard. It wouldn’t take long to reach the distant mêlée. But would they be in time?