Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

  The transformation from robber baron to elegant courtier was startling.

  ‘Lord of Monmouth? Is he, indeed!’

  ‘Did you not know?’ Eleanor murmured on a chuckle.

  ‘There are any number of things I did not know!’ she admitted, soft but biting. ‘Perhaps you should tell me more, your Grace. I think my Lord of Monmouth has been laughing up his scruffy sleeve at my expense. I think he’s been playing with me, a cat with a mouse that he thinks he can lure into his claws. And I’m fairly sure I know why.’

  But anger at the subterfuge was not the only emotion to stir her blood. By the Virgin! He was strikingly attractive. No doubt a deliberate ploy, to impress the King. If she had known he would do something so underhand, she would have changed her own gown for something more becoming than her work-a-day woollen gown, lacking any decoration. But the irritation dispersed. To be replaced by another emotion that definitely had nothing to do with affection. Rosamund could do nothing but stare at the miracle below her, ignoring the choke of laughter from her mother. Ignoring the implacable stare as Gervase, hearing the footsteps on the stairs, turned to look up at her.

  There is a fire between us that cannot be denied.

  Queen Eleanor’s words.

  Now that fire flashed between Gervase and Rosamund. Almost against her will, but driven by a passion that drove her on, Rosamund found herself marching down the stairs toward him. Gervase immediately turned to her, inclined his head. What his thoughts were she had no idea.

  ‘Lady Rosamund.’

  She raised her hand, a swift movement of deprecation. Addressed him in a low whisper, not to draw attention. ‘You lied to me, Fitz Osbern!’

  ‘No, lady, I did not.’

  Infuriating! ‘You let me think you were a brigand. One of the common riff-raff that frequents the March.’

  ‘As I recall, you were more than ready to damn me as such without any encouragement from me,’ he replied drily. ‘You announced your opinion at our first meeting.’

  ‘You treated me without respect.’

  ‘And as I also recall, you were not unwilling to be kissed, if that is what you would term disrespect. On occasion I found you most accommodating.’

  Rosamund tried to ignore the heat that flowed from her breast to her temples. She could hardly deny it, could she? Yet she would make this audacious man admit his faults. ‘I have discovered much about you from the Queen. You are no rapacious pillager. Nor are you a mercenary dependent on a lord for his bread. The Fitz Osberns came with the Conqueror…’

  The dark brows lifted a fraction. ‘I told you they did. How can it be my fault if you did not believe me?’

  ‘You behaved as if you had never met the notion of courtesy or good manners! As if hot water and grooming were completely beyond your cognisance. All lies, as I now know from the Queen. Your family was rewarded with lands, vast possessions in Anjou. You are Lord of Monmouth and obviously—obnoxiously—hand in glove with the King. Your mother Lady Maude is hale and hearty and administers your estates in Monmouth in your absence. You fought for King Henry in the civil wars when Stephen had usurped the throne, earning a high reputation as a soldier. You have a flighty younger sister whom you care for mightily…’ Rosamund took a breath. ‘You played a cruel game with me!’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  His blatant, unashamed admission robbed her of a further tally of his sins.

  ‘It was the only way I could see to get you to leave of your own free will. If you thought your honour was in danger.’

  ‘And would you have dishonoured me?’

  There was the tiniest pause. ‘No, Rosamund. I would not. How could you believe that I would? You might have betrayed me, but I hold you in a far greater esteem.’

  Now as pale as she had once been flushed, Rosamund sought for what to say. A bitter wound. But the glow in his eyes warmed her heart. She would have replied but Henry, impatient, called his impromptu court to attention, forcing Rosamund to order her thoughts back into line and move toward the seat indicated for her. She dragged her eyes away from his face. Appearances meant nothing. Words meant nothing.

  She followed the Queen to take her seat at the table on the dais, refusing to give the Lord of Monmouth the satisfaction of another glance in his direction, keeping her focus entirely on the King, and hoping Gervase noticed. Henry had taken his place in the centre of the board, Eleanor moving automatically to sit at his right hand. Rosamund watched them together. Despite his restless impatience, he had a care for her. He stood as she approached, handed her to her seat. When he looked at her, he smiled, his eyes softening, the lines around his mouth smoothing. Yes. There was more than affection there. Something far deeper, more intense. Rosamund found herself wishing that she might see such a gentling in Gervase’s eyes when he looked at her, rather than the habitual annoyance, the fervent wish that she was anywhere but under his feet.

  Rosamund took a stool at one end of the table, Petronilla beside her. Lord Hugh ranged himself with the Lord of Monmouth, who sat at the far end, as distant from her as possible. Like two antagonists, she considered dispassionately, about to become engaged in combat. And all hanging on the whim of the man who imposed his presence on the court between them.

  Henry lost no time in taking control.

  ‘I think I know the bare bones of this case.’ He already had the documents of Rosamund’s inheritance and dowry spread before him. Leaning forward, elbows on the table, he perused them rapidly and addressed Rosamund. ‘The castle of Clifford is part of your dowry from Earl William, with Wigmore and Ewyas Harold, all in the March. This was the only settlement made on you for your future comfort and to attract a husband. And you wish to live here.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ Rosamund was impressed. He had it in a nutshell.

  ‘No problem with that.’ Henry angled a glance at the far end of the table. ‘What’s your dispute with it, Fitz Osbern?’

  Fitz Osbern’s reply was clipped, immediate. And, as Rosamund was forced to acknowledge, impressive. ‘Quite simply, the three fortresses were not de Longspey’s property to dispense. They were filched when my father was fighting in Anjou. On your behalf, sire, I might remind you. All three are part of the original Fitz Osbern endowment by William the Norman after the Conquest. De Longspey had no claim, and, further, Clifford was dear to my father’s heart. I myself have lived here for a short time. By all due process of law the fortresses are mine. Theft is no basis for good legal cause. I want Clifford back. Besides that…’ He frowned. His mouth snapped shut on the thought.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ Henry waited.

  ‘Nothing of consequence, sire. My case stands.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The King placed Rosamund’s documents neatly in a pile, tapping them together, a groove deepening between his brows. What was he thinking now? She still had no idea which direction he would take.

  He leaned on an elbow, faced Gervase again. ‘I have a memory of this, I think. The year before I took the crown. Am I right in recalling, Fitz Osbern, that your young wife was killed in the skirmish when the castle was taken?’

  ‘That is so.’

  What was this? Rosamund turned to stare at the man who acknowledged the bitter deed with the curtest of replies. She had not known. Yes, Gervase had been wed, and his wife was now dead. But brought to her death here? In some tragedy connected with Clifford? How had she not known that?

  ‘You lived here together?’ Henry was continuing.

  ‘We did, for the few short months after our marriage.’

  ‘Who was responsible for her death?’

  And as Rosamund continued to stare, she saw all emotion drain from Fitz Osbern’s face, all trace of feeling, leaving it brutally cold and bleak, as the blood drained away to leave him pale as the wax of the candles that lit the proceedings.

  ‘It is not relevant to my claim, your Grace.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But humour me, if you will.’

  The Lord of Monmouth inhaled deeply as if to set himself to a
task he detested. ‘Very well, sire. Matilda, my wife, was trying to escape the attack on Clifford. There was news that they were about to be besieged, so she was riding to join my mother in Monmouth.’

  ‘And who ordered this attack?’

  ‘The Earl of Salisbury.’

  ‘Did he know she was here alone?’

  Gervase pressed his lips together. ‘He must have done. Nor need she have died. Matilda was ambushed by de Longspey soldiers. Her escort was insufficient to save her. They were all summarily dispatched by Earl William’s men, to prevent the need for taking prisoners. So was my wife.’

  Dispatched!

  So brief, so cold a recounting of a young girl’s tragedy. Rosamund shivered at the bleak finality of it, now understanding, where before she had questioned. He had lived here at Clifford with Matilda. Had he loved her and mourned her all these years? Was that why he had not wed again? And she had been needlessly killed by de Longspey men. Hardly surprising, then, that he had no wish to see a de Longspey woman lording it over this castle, in the place of his lost wife. What had he thought when he had watched her, Rosamund, take on the tasks that his wife had once held dominion over? Simple things. Cleaning out and renewing the rushes. Pruning the herbs. Ordering the digging of the kitchen garden, the care of the livestock. Discussing the daily needs of the household with Master Pennard. All the daily demands on the time of the lady of the castle. What had he thought when he saw her usurping the tasks his wife had once done? When her father-by-marriage, whose name she bore, had been responsible for the terrible deed? She could read nothing in his face, his eyes hooded by heavy lids. There was nothing there but firm control, a well-constructed façade.

  She wished she had known of this. Death came frequently and easily, through accident or design, but this waste of a young life was hard to accept. She felt the weight of sorrow on her heart for him and the unknown girl.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Henry broke the silence that had fallen on the room.

  ‘Yes. She was very young. She did not deserve to die in such a manner. She was no threat to de Longspey or to his plans. He could have ransomed her to me without difficulty. He had no pity.’

  ‘No. She was no threat.’ Henry went back to frowning over the parchment.

  And how would Henry judge now, in the circumstances? Gervase had a strong case. So would the King go for strength, to hold the castle against Welsh marauders? For soldierly camaraderie? In the name of Gervase’s dead wife who had lived and loved here? Rosamund feared he would be so influenced, and could not entirely blame him in her new bleak knowledge. She looked down at her clasped fingers, white with tension, and awaited her fate. And was grateful when the Countess rested light fingers on her arm.

  Queen Eleanor leaned to whisper in the King’s ear. Henry nodded. Then brought the flat of his hand down on the table, drawing all eyes. The bright blue gaze appraised Rosamund, then Fitz Osbern.

  ‘Here is my judgement. It would please me to have these border castles in strong hands. It’s a dangerous area for insurrection, and there’s no doubt Fitz Osbern’s claim is strong.’ Rosamund’s heart sank. ‘But conquest has its own strengths, as I know. Earl William took it fairly in battle—that can’t be argued against. Therefore it was his to dispose of in his will. As he did to the Lady Rosamund.’ Henry inclined his head toward her.

  ‘Fairly in battle?’ Fitz Osbern all but exploded, would have surged to his feet if Hugh had not clamped a hand on his sleeve. ‘Nothing was fair about it. Just the usual de Longspey deceit and cunning. He waited until my father was out of the country in Anjou—’

  Henry held up his hand. ‘Your late father should have seen to the castle’s defence. As for these present circumstances, you took the castle by force, Fitz Osbern, putting the lady under considerable distress when she had no one to come to her aid. Enough distress that she felt she must turn to me.’ The King’s face set into condemnatory lines. ‘You were at fault, Fitz Osbern. You conducted your attack on the lady in a brutal manner…’

  No! Rosamund, it would seem perversely, clenched her hands against the edge of the table.

  ‘You acted without chivalry. You stole her lands, rode roughshod over her rights and treated her with a disrespect, not worthy of a knight of gentle birth. You denied her authority written in law. You have shown yourself to have no compassion for her situation and have treated her despicably, without restraint…’

  What was this? Distress? Disrespect? Lack of compassion? A tally of sins that Rosamund barely recognised when painted by the King.

  ‘No! Not so!’

  Nothing could prevent Rosamund from leaping to her feet. She shook off the Countess’s hand that had changed in the blink of an eye from comfort to restraint. She heard the King’s accusations with mounting horror. She might not condone what Gervase had done, but he was not the…the monster, to use her mother’s words, of the King’s accusation. Furthermore, she now had an understanding. She saw his anger and determination in another light, in a desire to restore family pride and avenge his wife’s name. And, of course! The ambush when he had ridden to her rescue. So angry he had been. Had he feared that she would meet the same fate as his wife? She had blamed him for his temper, for his unwillingness to accept her apologies. If only she had known. But she did now and it was not right that the King should heap the blame on his head so totally. Had she not played her own part in the conflict between them?

  She would not—would never—condone such an unjust blackening of his character!

  So without further thought, Rosamund found herself on her feet. She did not even wait to be invited to speak. She would defend him whether he wished it or not.

  ‘No, sire. That’s not so.’ Rosamund halted the brutal accusations. ‘I must speak for my Lord of Monmouth. There was no distress. I was not harmed, nor was I treated harshly.’ She swallowed as she was forced to admit the truth. Dare not look at him as she made this amazing volte face. ‘Although my lord would not agree to leave my castle, he allowed me to remain and to order the running of the household to my own wishes.’ Refused to look in his direction as she made that admission. ‘I have always been treated with respect.’

  ‘I thought you felt yourself to be beleaguered?’ Henry stated with querulous astonishment. ‘Held under an unacceptable power? If not, what was your need to write a petition for justice at my hands? What am I doing here when my time is precious? If relations are so smooth between the two of you, it seems to me that you do not need my help, lady.’

  Rosamund flushed rosily at the flicker of royal anger, but she would not be deterred from making her plea. Her innate honesty demanded it. ‘Lord Fitz Osbern has always dealt well with me. He took the castle, true, but he treated me with care and respect and concern for my comfort. It would not be justice for me to claim otherwise.’ She felt the force of his concentration. A little laugh of sheer nerves surged in her throat. Fitz Osbern was quite as astonished as the King at her sudden defence, but no matter. ‘I can never claim that I was ill treated. Perhaps I have been intemperate. I did not know the full facts of my Lord of Monmouth’s previous connection with Clifford. All I would ask from you, sire, is an acknowledgement of my rights.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He did not appear to be convinced. Again the Queen found a need to murmur in Henry’s ear. Upon which he frowned at Fitz Osbern from under heavy brows ‘So be it. I note the lady’s defence of my Lord of Monmouth. Nevertheless, I can’t condone such an attack on a defenceless female. It was a bad move. Nor do I like the repercussions. If I take the land from the lady, it leaves her dowerless. That would not be a chivalrous action on my part. I will not be accused of dishonouring defenceless women. Therefore, Fitz Osbern, my judgement goes against you. My decision is that you have occupied this castle without just cause or right. You will pay the lady a substantial fine in coin for the injustice done to her. You will take your men and leave Clifford tomorrow morning at first light. On pain of my severe displeasure.’ His frown deepened. ‘Do I make this judgement clea
r?’

  Gervase bowed to the inevitable. ‘You have made your wishes more than clear, sire. Perhaps I too must admit that I dealt with the lady less than fairly.’

  ‘Thank you, sire.’ Stunned by Gervase’s admission, the relief that washed through Rosamund like a summer shower after a drought was heartfelt, but still failed to wash away her regrets for all that she had learnt.

  ‘Excellent! A good day’s work. A cup of wine, if you please, lady, then I must be on my way.’ Henry beamed down the table in enormous satisfaction toward Lord Hugh, ignoring the flat stare from Fitz Osbern. ‘Will you ride with me to Hereford, Hugh? It will save time. We can talk over security matters in the March.’

  If Hugh regretted the invitation that could not be refused, he gave no indication. ‘I will, sire.’

  Henry stood. ‘Then my work here is done.’

  But it was not done for Rosamund and Gervase.

  It was as if a barrier between them had been demolished, a curtain stripped away. The air between them stretched thin. Whilst those around them stood and moved away from the dais, the King and Queen intent on rapid departure, the two remained as they were, the length of the table apart. Their eyes met, could not look away, shimmering green, gold-flecked grey. An unspoken acknowledgement between them, a connection they could no longer ignore. A recognition of the undertow that had been pulling them toward each other, despite all their efforts to deny and resist, dragging them together as vicious and unrelenting as a river in spate. Inexorably, since that first meeting when Gervase had pulled her into his arms from the path of the wagon. Rosamund knew that she had misjudged the force that drove him, ignorant of his grief. Gervase saw only that she had leapt eloquently to his defence against what she saw as an injustice at the King’s hands, even at the very instant that victory was tossed into her lap. A long moment held them, in which the swords of the past were sheathed. To be replaced by what, still undetermined when the King demanded Gervase’s presence and Rosamund felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder.