by Anne O'Brien
In the end he could not do it. With set features, he gave orders to strike camp. The siege would be abandoned. Rosamund de Longspey had won. And if he had to face Henry’s wrath, then so be it.
Petronilla smoothed the parchment as far as she could. The curled edges looked as if it had been torn from a larger document, the smears and stains as if it had travelled many miles. It wasn’t very long.
To Petronilla, Countess of Salisbury,
Nell,
We are kept apart by unforeseen circumstances. I find that I regret it. It was my intention to abjure any further romantic attachments, being unseemly, as I thought, for a man of my years. My own marriage to Joanna was fulfilling and I did not seek for more. I tell you this because you may have thought me lacking in sentiment.
Petronilla’s eyes widened in surprise. Well, that was plain enough. Nevertheless, she was charmed by it.
I would say that I have noted your absence. I enjoy your company and our exchange of views. I miss our rides along the Wye. You make me laugh. I enjoy looking at you. Every day I have spent away from you seems too long.
You might consider me old and set in my ways. I must accept that. But if you might allow me to tempt you out of your comfortable widowed state, it would give me great pleasure. Forgive me if this is too forthright. I am too old to beat about the bush.
Petronilla chuckled. How clearly she could see him writing this, frowning over the words. No, they were not flowery or poetic, but they came from the heart. And to her astonishment, they made her own heart beat that much faster.
I hope that when we meet again we can have a frank exchange of views on this. I would ask you to wed me. I can provide you with a home and every comfort to make life pleasurable for you. I will never ignore you or refuse to consider your wishes. You can be assured that you will never be invisible to me. I would like to see you every morning when I wake, every night across from me at my board. Every day when you might accompany me when I ride about my business.
With my utmost regard,
Hugh de Mortimer
At first glance a plain letter from a plain Marcher lord. Or a friend who would spend time with her within marriage. But she was not sure. It had a straightforwardness that held an appeal beneath the word. A crafty appeal to her needs, she decided. And although he had not written the word love, Petronilla felt the sense of it in every line. Did Hugh de Mortimer actually love her?
Yes, he did. Was he not willing to abjure his comfortable, uncluttered existence to take on another wife? Definitely he loved her.
A warm glow of delight spread through her veins, wrapped her around, heated her chilly blood. Was it possible? Why should she forswear love simply because she had no experience of it? Until now, that is, when the plain Marcher lord took up far too much space in her thoughts. Perhaps now was the time to take that step…if Hugh was of the same mind by the time this abominable siege was at an end!
The word began to spread within the castle, at first a flicker, then as a fire over summer heathland. By evening there was a quiet rejoicing. Some of the Fitz Osbern troops were on the move. Looked as if they were preparing to go. Was not the siege tower being dismantled? Money was wagered that soon after dawn they would all be gone. The siege would be at an end.
Rosamund heard the rumours, saw for herself. It was true.
What had happened to change his mind?
But Rosamund neither knew nor cared. If she did not act soon, he would be gone, and lost to her for ever. No longer a case of dare she follow Eleanor’s advice. It was imperative, unless she wished to accept life without him and sink into helpless misery.
Chapter Twelve
I n the dark hours when Gervase’s troops slept before their departure, his decision was thrown into rapid reverse. He was dragged from sleep by Watkins and two of the guards outside his tent.
‘My lord.’ They kept a tight hold of a wiry struggling figure between them. ‘We’ve got a prisoner. Thought he’d escape us, cut through the lines. Thought we’d all be asleep.’ They jerked him upright when he squirmed.
Gervase tunnelled his fingers through his hair, rubbed his hands over his face and beckoned them into the light of a torch, his mind racing with possibilities at this unlooked for turn of the coin.
‘Where did you find him?’
‘Sneaking through the lines. He came over the palisade.’ The guard gestured toward the river. ‘Disturbed the horses or we might not have seen him. He’s small and nippy.’
Gervase took the arm of his captive and turned him to the light. Small, indeed. Not one of the garrison, sent to get help, but a young lad. Pale faced in the torch light with a shock of dark hair. He thought he might remember him.
‘Kitchens?’
‘Aye, m’lord.’
‘I don’t remember your name.’
‘Tom, m’lord.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve. He did not appear unduly afraid.
‘Escaping?’
‘Aye, m’lord. To the village. My mother lives there.’ He grinned. ‘Had enough of starvation rations.’
‘So you risked being shot down by my soldiers.’
‘Didn’t think you would, m’lord. You let me play with your hound.’
Gervase grunted at the naïvety of youth. ‘Where did you get over?’
‘Over there.’ He pointed helpfully. ‘The far corner where the palisade’s weak. Then I dropped down into the gulley that leads to the river. Used a rope.’
Gervase grinned. Even the kitchen lad could see the weaknesses in Clifford. Something he must remedy. ‘Hmm. Where’s your rope now?’
‘Still hanging on the palisade, m’lord. Until someone finds it tomorrow. Will you let me go?’
‘No. Could you get us in that way?’
‘I’m not going back!’
Coin glinted in Gervase’s fingers. ‘Think about it. You’d not be empty handed when you got home if you did.’
The eyes gleamed as bright as the coins. ‘I could, m’lord.’
‘Very sensible.’ Gervase gestured to Watkins. ‘Raise the troops. And quietly. Now, lad, come and tell me about the state of the guards within the castle. Where and how many at this hour?’
Tom squinted, an eye to the main chance. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘So I’ll feed you as well. Come on.’
It was as easy as that. At the crack of dawn when a man could just see his hand in front of his face but no further, a stealthy approach was made by a handful of men and Tom the kitchen lad, via the gulley, one man after the other. A quick climb up the palisade via the rope took the little party within. A short skirmish with no real damage done other than a bloody nose and a cracked skull or two, and the gate was opened to admit Fitz Osbern and his army. The de Longspey ladies slept unaware, dreamlessly.
Clifford was once more the property of Gervase Fitz Osbern.
What followed was a brisk, efficient disposition of troops, animals and baggage. It did not take long. Had it all not been done before, not many weeks previously? If the occupants of kitchen and Hall, dairy and stables, viewed the new regime with cynicism at least there was no disquiet. Better Fitz Osbern, known to be a fair man, than many a lord of unsavoury reputation. Within the morning Fitz Osbern soldiers had moved into their quarters, horses into the stables. The cook was roasting venison to feed a much extended household. Sir Thomas hovered to receive orders from his preferred source of authority, whilst Tom, with a reminder to his new lord, received the promised coins, and went off with a grin and a light cuff on the head for his cheek.
At last Gervase sent Master Pennard to the solar to escort the de Longspey women to attend him in the Great Hall, hardly able to contain his astonishment that they—that Rosamund—had not already been there to challenge him since the moment he had ordered the opening of the gates to his men. He shrugged. She would do as she pleased. It was clearly her choice, in the face of defeat, to remain out of his way.
He had considered accosting her in the solar, but rejected that as unseem
ly. The solar was her preserve and he would not encroach. It would drive his victory home with too heavy a hand. So it must be the Great Hall. He made sure that it was empty of soldiers and servants, having no intention of heaping even more humiliation on the lady than having his soldiers on the battlements, his hand on the reins. Her defeat would wound her, he knew, without any further help from him. He would simply tell her of his plans for her, and put them into operation. Even so, he was conscious of a tightening of tension as he waited. Why was she not already here, berating him for his actions? Accusing him of every crime short of murder.
He cast himself in the high-backed chair, Hugh prowling at his back, and waited. Contemplated sending for wine. Decided not. This would not be a celebration. And waited, fingers tapping against the crudely carved arm. What was she doing? Deliberately keeping him waiting? Intentionally stoking his temper? His request had been polite enough.
He had reached the point where he could sit no longer, was about to go and find her for himself, when there came the sound of soft shoes against stonework and Master Pennard’s appearance at the top of the stairs. Hugh nudged him. Both of them, the Countess and Rosamund, descended the steps, both of them magnificently turned out, as if for a court banquet. For an instant, humour rippled through him, replacing his impatience with blatant admiration. It had been quite deliberate, he was certain. To make an impressive gesture. To make him once again conscious of his less-than-well-scrubbed appearance after a week outside the castle gates.
Well, he would not be impressed. Not when she had thrown back in his face every offer of compromise he had placed before her.
But then Rosamund was standing before him on the dais, on a level with him. He could not take his eyes from her. She filled his whole vision. As she had intended. Not of a poetic mind, having had little time for it in his turbulent youth and adolescence when a sword came more readily to hand than a book of French poetry, yet he could not be unaware of her striking beauty, or how she had chosen her garments to enhance it. The rich blue of her gown was the exact colour of bluebells in spring sunshine. The soft fabric skimmed over her neat figure, breast and waist and hips, leaving him in no doubt of her feminine curves. A linked belt cinched the narrowness of her waist, whilst rich embroidery banded her sleeves to draw attention to her fine-boned hands. If he had ever forgotten, she had chosen to remind him. She was Rosamund de Longspey, adopted daughter of the powerful Earl of Salisbury. Not some unimportant girl from some minor landowning family, but a young woman of taste and education. The long transparent veil was held in place by a jewelled filet that could do nothing but draw his attention to the gleaming ribbon-bound hair that reached down to her waist.
He wished her face was not so pale. That he was not aware of the faintest of violet smudges beneath her eyes on her delicate skin. Did he not know how soft and delicate it was? Her eyes might be clear and direct, but guarded, as if she did not wish him to read her thoughts. Soft and alluring, her mouth was carefully controlled as if her lips might give too much away.
‘My lord. You have my castle.’ He had forgotten how intoxicating her voice could be, how arousing with its husky overtones. Mentally he shook his head to dislodge such treacherous thoughts.
‘As you see, lady.’ He might as well get it over with. As soon as she was out of his sight he could be comfortable again. He kept his voice low, dispassionate. This was not the occasion to be overheard. He kept his face set in stern lines as if addressing a recalcitrant sergeant-at-arms.
‘This is the end of our acquaintance, lady. You refused my tokens of friendship. You rejected my offers of marriage and questioned my honour, my integrity, my sincerity.’ He set his jaw. He would not ask her again, as if he were a beggar petitioning for crumbs from a lady’s table. ‘You will leave tomorrow. I shall personally send you with an escort to Salisbury to ensure your safety. And don’t even think of defying me! I shall personally carry you to a travelling litter, tie you to it and deliver you to Earl Gilbert’s door! That is my decision. You have time to organise your possessions. If you need help, I will provide it.’
‘Yes, my lord. I shall be ready to go at dawn.’
Gervase felt his muscles stiffen. What? No arguments? It seemed to him that her face had grown even more pale, her lips even more tightly pressed together. Her hands were clasped one on the other before her, her fingers white-knuckled.
‘I know that I am beaten,’ she continued, soft voiced. ‘I will not stand in your way, my lord.’
By the Virgin! He controlled a sharp inhalation. To his utter amazement Rosamund’s eyes, green as new spring grass, glimmered and tears began to slide down her cheeks. Her breath caught as she buried her teeth in her bottom lip.
‘Forgive me, my lord.’ The words hesitated with heartbreaking grief.
And Gervase found himself stretching out his hand toward her.
‘Ah, no, lady…It was never my intent to—’
But Rosamund ignored his hand, on a little sob dashed the tears away with her fingers.
‘I shall be ready to leave at dawn.’
And before more tears could fall, she turned and fled from him, up the stairs, vanishing through the archway at the top with a swirl of blue skirts.
Astonished, pierced by sharp guilt, all Gervase could do was stand and stare after her. This was not the Rosamund he had come to know. Had he reduced her to this?
‘What?’ Startled, he looked to the Countess for enlightenment.
She was not as lost for words as her daughter. With terrible formality she addressed him. ‘What did you expect? You have treated her abominably, my Lord of Monmouth. You should be ashamed to reduce so spirited a lady to the depths of emotion by your words and actions.’ The Countess, without even a glance in Hugh’s direction, curtsied with impeccable grace and heavy irony. Then, with a hand on Fitz Osbern’s arm, leaned close, her voice low. ‘If you’re half the clever man I think you are, Gervase, you’ll watch your step in this contest and keep your wits about you. I’ll petition the Virgin for the outcome. One word of warning. If you take my daughter as your wife, you’ll deserve everything you get.’
On which, with a compassionate pat on his arm, she stalked away. The enigmatic advice was not lost on the Lord of Monmouth. Conscious of heat in his lean cheeks, all he could do was stand speechless, looking after them, thoroughly unnerved.
Until Hugh guffawed with laughter. ‘This should be a victory. It does not feel like one.’
‘It should and it doesn’t,’ he admitted. ‘And instead I feel as if I have just been found guilty and condemned for drowning a bag of unwanted kittens!’
He could only remember the hurt on Rosamund’s face.
Throughout the day whilst Gervase nursed his grievance at unpredictable women and inspected his defences, Rosamund, it would appear from her deliberate absence, kept to her chamber. He might listen for her vigorous step, her bright laughter, look for her slight figure, the brilliance of her hair, the splash of colour of her gown against the grey stone. Not a sound, not a glimpse. Perhaps as well, he decided, trying to shuffle off the heavy weight beneath his breastbone. By tomorrow it would all be over and life would settle back into its habitual routine. Fighting off an attack from Welsh tribes would be far more acceptable than dealing with Rosamund de Longspey. At least he would have a fair idea that he would win the contest.
He had won! He set his teeth against the constant tingle of disquiet, hot down his spine, as irritating as the itch of a flea after a hard campaign.
If he could only get her tear-drenched eyes out of his mind. If only he could banish her from his heart. But she was there, in every breath he took, every decision he made. She haunted him, shadowed him down every corridor. Were these the much-lauded delights of love? They had brought him nothing but pain, worse than the gut-wrenching agony of a sword wound.
Noisy, intent on celebration, the Fitz Osbern garrison took their seats in the Great Hall for supper. The serving girls thumped leather flagons of ale on each b
oard. Master Pennard approached the high table. Bowed low.
‘Does it please you that I serve the food, my lord?’
‘We will await the lady,’ Gervase replied, a line beginning to dig between his brows. The Countess had taken her seat with cool graciousness, as if her sharp words had not been delivered with the assurance of a dagger blow earlier in the day, and was now engaged in some trivial matter of conversation with Hugh. Gervase frowned at the stairs. He had not looked forward to this final confrontation, but surely they could eat together calmly, if not amicably. They would apply an acceptable standard of good manners to sup and converse and then tomorrow she would be gone.
Gervase glowered again at the empty staircase. Nothing. God’s wounds, where was she?
The voices of hungry men rose around them.
He could hang on to tolerance no longer. ‘Master Pennard. If you would be so good as to tell your mistress that I expect her to…’ He swallowed the words. Perhaps not the best approach. ‘If you would invite the lady to attend the meal, I would welcome her presence.’ He thought a moment. ‘Make it a request, Master Pennard. It is not an order.’
‘Yes, my lord. No, my lord.’ The steward departed.
To return promptly, alone. Agitated.
‘Well?’
‘My lady says…’
‘Says what?’ Gervase leaned forward, his tone like the threatening growl of a hungry wolf.
‘She says…she says she’ll not eat with a thief in her own Hall.’
‘Does she now?’ Soft, dangerously so.
Then softness vanished, patience dissipating as smoke in a gale. Had he not given her every chance? Had he not shown her more understanding then he would ever have thought possible? Most men would have clapped her in a dungeon and had done with it if she had played the tricks she had used against him. Had her tears, her soft trembling mouth, not disturbed his equilibrium all day? And now she would issue her challenge as if he did not hold her captive in her own castle. As if he could not demand her obedience. She would insult him with her blatant refusal, would she? Without a word, he surged to his feet. Strode across the dais and mounted the stairs. His fluid movements might still contain the dignity expected of the Lord of Monmouth, but his eyes were ablaze.