by Claudia Dain
Edgar of Lisborne, a man of much experience who had earned Rowland's hard-won trust, caught his eye and communicated with eloquent wordlessness that he should be prepared. Rowland took the warning to heart and approached King Henry cautiously. Not so Kendall.
"You have been expected," King Henry began.
That was so, Rowland reasoned, for the king would know that William would send him word of his taking of Greneforde, yet the hall buzzed with a feverish undertone.
"I do not see William," Henry finished.
"Nay, my lord, for he would not leave Greneforde vulnerable in this time of transition," Rowland said carefully.
"Aye, my lord king," Kendall added with a chuckle, "'tis no easy matter to part a man and woman newly wedded."
The hall seemed a thing alive with bodies twisting to confer with neighbors and the sound of whispering barely contained. There was something amiss. Edgar's face warned of it even if the very strange behavior of the court had not. Rowland straightened his dark head and put his hand to his sword hilt.
"King Henry," he began, "William le Brouillard has secured Greneforde. The tower is sound and manned with knights loyal to you."
"And he has taken Cathryn of Greneforde to wife?" asked one of the councilors whom Rowland could not name.
Again Edgar's eyes warned him, though it was not necessary. Something was very much amiss here.
The weight with which each word fell upon the air was far too heavy.
"Yea," he said slowly and with great care. "They were married by Father Godfrey the day we did arrive."
"He acted with speed," Henry remarked, his hands folded and supporting his chin.
"My lord," Kendall said with a forced smile, for the crushing atmosphere had finally made an impression on his sturdy spirit, "any man would speedily claim such a beauty as Cathryn of Greneforde."
"As you say," Henry declared, straightening in his massive oaken chair. "Another has laid claim to Greneforde in your absence and has made a strong case for himself."
Rowland stepped nearer the king, ignoring all the flurry of talk and movement that swirled within the confines of the room.
"William is in firm possession of Greneforde, my lord," he announced in a voice unshakable.
"I do not find that difficult to believe," Henry admitted with a slight smile, "yet this other knight spoke quite explicitly of a prior claim."
"His name?" Rowland asked in a firm monotone.
"Lambert of Brent," Edgar supplied with a trace of eagerness. He was glad at heart to be able to supply the name of the man who threatened William's prize with sly manueverings.
Rowland stood unmoving and unshaken by this proclamation. Kendall was at a complete loss, but wise enough to hold his counsel and his tongue.
"Lambert's claim goes deep," the unknown councilor offered, "to the Lady Cathryn herself."
The titter that rose from the corners of the room was all that was needed to cause Kendall to gasp in shock and disbelief. Rowland did not move except to turn and face the councilor with all the blackness of his eyes. The man shrank back behind another and was silenced.
"Would William not prefer another holding?" Henry asked, not unkindly and blessedly to the point.
"Nay," Rowland answered confidently, his voice heard easily by the servants who hovered in the doorways. "William will not abandon Greneforde. He is well pleased with the king's gift."
"The marriage could be annulled. In the light of Lambert's claim... Edgar prompted, giving Rowland another opportunity to stand for William and choke off the raging gossip that had fired the court since Lambert's arrival. Rowland understood the motive behind the question. Lambert had clearly made his claims in public; it would do William no good to have his position announced in private. That would only lead to misinformation and heightened gossip and further intrigue. No, the charge had been public and so would be the denial.
Kendall moved to stand with Rowland, his face uncertain. By God's Holy Word, he had not expected such a tale concerning William's chill wife. Would William not be better off in a new holding, one of thriving vitality, and with a pure wife? William deserved better than what he had been dealt, and it was most kind of the king to try to right the wrong. What was the matter with Rowland that he so doggedly chained William to Cathryn and Greneforde?
"William has developed a bond unbreakable with Greneforde," Rowland stated with elemental force, the power of his statement striking the far-off ceiling of this grand hall. He would not soil Cathryn's name by bandying it about this hall. Let the talk be of Greneforde and of Greneforde only. "William will not give up his claim."
King Henry, far from being displeased, glowed with pleasure at Rowland's response. William was a man, and a man did not hand over what he had fought for and won because the taking proved difficult. Rowland spoke for William, that he knew, that they all knew, but he would see William and hear his own affirmation as well. It would be the best way to silence the speculators and the gossips.
"Nor will he be forced to," Henry said, "but a messenger has been sent to hurry him to court, and I would hear from his own lips that he is well content with Greneforde."
The subject was closed.
Rowland and Kendall, their purpose served, turned and departed the charged atmosphere of the room with a will. Just outside the door, Eustace beckoned. He was a man past middle years with a face lined with the worry that came from frequenting the court. He was a good soul. Rowland knew him but slightly; nevertheless, he followed, with Kendall at his heels. They hardly knew who was friend and who was foe now, so it was best that they stay heel-to-toe until they returned to Greneforde. Greneforde called to them sharply; William had best know what had occurred at court. His rightful ownership of Greneforde was being questioned, and he would not take that threat lightly.
"Rowland, I know you to be hand to heart with William, so I offer you this warning," Eustace said without preamble, his eyes bright with worry. "This Lambert is no man to be trusted. He presented his case to unfriendly ears, and he is clever enough to know it. He also knows of the messenger being sent to Greneforde and that William must needs withdraw from the safety of the enclosure."
"What do you say, sir?" Kendall interjected, his eyes fierce. "Is there a plan to harm William?"
"I know not," Eustace admitted, "yet I know Lambert. William le Brouillard rides toward danger when he leaves Greneforde Tower."
Rowland clasped Eustace on the arm and said, "I thank you for the warning, and we will urge William to caution, but I must tell you"—he smiled in frigid anticipation—"I know William. It is Lambert who should be warned."
Chapter 17
"Marie, slow down! I would wear a gown that falls smoothly without puckering."
"Aye, lady, but did you not just minutes ago urge me to greater speed?"
Cathryn smiled in apology and straightened on her stool to release the tension in her back. It was true. She was impossible in regard to the scarlet acca. It had to be perfect. It had to be finished. William had to find her irresistible in it. Quite a lot to demand of a single bliaut. Marie had convinced her to use the amber sarcenet as a mantle, and from there it was a short step to lining it with ermine. Cathryn was well aware that her fine costume, so close to completion, echoed the colors of her bridal ring. The connection had been intentional. She wanted to glow for William. She wanted him to be consumed with desire. And with love.
He was very tender with her, loving and gentle and amusing, but he had told her time after time that he was a man who kept his vows, and he had made a vow to God concerning her. That was a comfort, surely, but... she was not certain how much of his own heart was given to her.
He was a man who did right, no matter the cost or the reward; that she knew clearly, as did all who knew him long. He had an agreement with Henry that he felt bound to keep concerning Greneforde. He had sworn to love and protect her before God; such a vow was not taken or cast aside lightly. She should be content; nay, she should be well pleased w
ith the man God and king had sent to her, and she was.
She was.
But did he love her of his own will and inclination? If he did not, she would never know it, for he was assiduous in protecting her from hurt, remembered or actual, teasing her until she laughed with giddiness, stroking and caressing her until she shouted out her blood-mad pleasure. He would never tell her if he did not truly love her for herself, because the knowing would rip at her, and he would never do anything to cause her pain. Yet the uncertainty was surely a pain of its own.
So she was set to win him, this husband who showed all signs of being already won. Yet she would be sure.
Marie did not look up from her task; it was entirely possible that Lady Cathryn would politely scold her for dawdling. Cathryn was not as she had been. She was still uncomplaining and brief of speech—that had not changed—but she was more highly charged. Gone was the woman of cool and withdrawn composure. She had been supplanted by a woman of ready fire and a quick grin. And William le Brouillard had been the tinder to ignite her.
Oh, Marie knew well the signs; Cathryn was in love, and with her husband. That was far from a bad thing, yet... she lacked the calm center that had so clearly marked her before his coming. Marie had never seen her like this; she was so changed. John remembered well the time before the death and departure of her parents and assured Marie that this new Cathryn was closer to the woman that God had fashioned her to be. Still... she did not think her lady happy, truly happy, in her love.
Ah, she was a fool. Did she not know, and from her own experience, both the pleasure and pain of love? Ulrich even now hurried through his tasks to steal time to court her—a light courting to be sure, but a pleasant one for all that. She bent her head closer to her task. If she could just finish this scam, the bliaut would be complete and whole, and Cathryn would rush to her chamber to try it on, and then she could slip down and saunter by Ulrich and then—
"Marie, you look flushed," Cathryn noted with gentle concern.
"Nay, lady," she denied, "but I am finished." Lifting the scarlet from her lap, she displayed it across her arms.
It glowed and sparkled hotly in the warm light of the solar. Cathryn reached out eager hands to clasp it to her. Such was the effect it had on her; she never could keep her hands away from it. With God's goodwill, it would have the same effect on William while she was sheathed in it.
"Think you I have time to try it before my lord returns from the fields?" Cathryn asked with dark eyes shining.
"Yea, Lady Cathryn," Marie encouraged. "If you hurry."
It was all the prompting that she needed. William had already brought back a doe and four pheasants from his morning's hunt, which Lan had accepted with his usual high humor. William then had joined the men of Greneforde in clearing the distant fields of their wild seedlings. He would be hungry and fatigued at the meal after his full day. He more than deserved a visual treat for all his pains. Her heart hammered at the thought, sending its beat to heat the apex of her thighs. She bolted up from her stool, her newly fashioned finery draped carefully across her arms, and rushed to her chamber.
Marie watched Cathryn leave with blue eyes twinkling, sitting as still and quiet as a hare on her stool until she was alone in the solar. Then she, too, bolted for the door and rushed down the stairs at a pace that would have shamed Ulrich. At this time of day he was usually at the quintain...
Cathryn was ripping at her laces, eyeing the scarlet acca with its amber mantle of sarcenet and ermine draped across the bed, when she stopped. She was a poor wife to see to her own pleasure when she knew that the men, her husband included, were laboring in the frozen earth and would soon come to have their hunger appeased. The acca would wait. The meal would not.
Hurriedly tugging at her laces, quietly mouthing a plague on Marie that she was not near to aid her, Cathryn donned her old mantle of brown wool to cover the white bliaut she wore and rushed down the stairs. In truth, she was becoming as bad as Ulrich about rushing up and down this tower. Where was the stately step that had marked her passage a week ago? Gone, she answered herself with a grin, and William was the thief.
She dashed across the courtyard at a brisk walk and darted inside the kitchen. The warmth and smells of the room were heady after the cold of the open air. All heads turned to her as she entered. Clearly she was unexpected.
"John, did you remember to add honey to—"
"Yea, lady." He smiled, cutting her off. "The honey, the pudding, the pasties, the venison, the hot pepper sauce, the pheasant, the hares that Ulrich snagged this mom—all are near ready and all prepared most deliciously."
At her crestfallen appearance, John added, "We each have our duties, Lady Cathryn, and are well able to perform them. The meal will please you... and Lord William," he added with a smile.
"Lady," Lan called as he turned the venison on the spit, "if you seek to occupy your hands, I would give you my place at the fire."
"And what would occupy you then?" Alys asked, stirring the pepper sauce.
"Why, the stool would occupy the bulk of my bottom, or my bottom, the stool. 'Tis no matter; I would be well and happily occupied,"
"Aye, I catch your meaning," Alys said seriously, "and would add that my arm tires of stirring and would seek other occupation. That of thwacking a head that has grown too big on a steady diet of meat!"
Christine laughed, as did John and Cathryn, to see Alys walk with heavy and purposeful step toward the fire and Lan, her long spoon held threateningly aloft.
"They need me no longer, John," Cathryn observed quietly.
"Lady," he answered softly, "they need you, but in not so urgent or desperate a manner. If you find yourself at a loss for something to occupy your time until the meal, a bath should be waiting in your chamber for Lord William. If you are quick, you might make use of the water first."
"Thank you, John." Cathryn smiled with tender sincerity and rushed away from them as quickly as she had come.
"'Tis well you told her of the bath," Christine commented. "She will want to look her best when she first wears the scarlet bliaut that has eaten the hours of her waking these past days."
They all nodded heartily at that. There was none who did not know of Cathryn's fervor over the scarlet and her hurry to fashion for herself a costume worthy of her beauty—none except her husband.
The knights in the yard slowed in their practice to watch Cathryn run with light steps across the dirt. They slowed to watch her whenever she passed. She was a beautiful woman. She was so obviously in love with William. For both reasons, she was a pleasure to see. The word from Ulrich was that she would wear the scarlet today. It was high time. They had waited for nearly a week to see her in it and to see William's reaction to her in it. They anticipated the meal with more than usual eagerness.
Cathryn was across the yard and up the stair tower at such a brisk pace that she would wager Ulrich would be fairly winded to keep up with her. It was a simple matter to remove her bliaut; she had hardly managed to fasten it before, and it slipped easily from her now. The scarlet glimmered on the bed, and she brushed her hand against it just once before hiding it away in her chest and sinking into the water.
It was well that she hid it. No sooner had she soaped herself with the scent that William preferred than he entered the stair tower. He made no noise or shout, but she knew that he was near. She could not explain this sense she had of his nearness; perhaps it had always been so and she had buried it as she had buried so much else within her. Something else she knew: she knew that he sought her. He always sought her out upon returning. He always found her.
The curtain at the door trembled as he entered the chamber they shared. He did not look upset that she had stolen his bath, the bath that awaited him each day before he supped. He did not look angry in the least. William walked across the floor as quietly as he had mounted the stair, stripping the clothes from his body as he came. Cathryn waited, her eyes dark and huge in the smallness of her face.
His mantle was the first to be discarded. William let it fall to the floor—quite unlike him. His hands were dirty, the dark soil of Greneforde sticking to him, as he pulled his tunic up and over his head. For a moment it looked almost like a banner waving in his hand before it, too, fell to the floor.
Cathryn sat straighter in the water, letting her breasts rise above the waterline. The water trickled away from the mounds slowly, almost reluctantly, to lap against her narrow rib cage and form a clear table on which the fruit that was her bosom was displayed for his pleasure.
William, his gray eyes as dark as storm clouds, kicked his boots into a corner of the room and slid down his hose with some difficulty, as the sword of his passion was largely in the way.
He stood over her. She felt quite small against his size. A tremor of passion swept through her at the look in his black-fringed eyes, and she relished every delicate beat of it.
"'He who finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favor from the Lord,''' he murmured huskily.
So he would quote God's word to her? This time she was prepared.
"'I am my beloved's and his desire is for me,''' Cathryn answered with a sultry smile.
William's surprise was reflected on his face. It was a very sweet moment, and she had Father Godfrey and his patient tutelage to thank for it. If she was going to live with a man who quoted Holy Writ, then she had better prepare herself against the day when he might be tempted to use his knowledge and her lack of it for his own gain. She hardly thought him capable of it, but then, he was a man. And French.
"Father Godfrey?" William asked as he reached for the fruit she so temptingly offered.
"Father Godfrey," she answered, arching toward his hand.
"'An excellent wife, who can find?''' William challenged, caressing her face with his hand. "'For her worth is far above jewels. The heart of her husband trusts in her and he will have no lack of gain.'''
He trusted her. Sweet, sweet words from a man so wronged with an impure wife. How much vengeance he had denied himself to so accept her. She would never cease to be grateful for his merciful compassion toward her. She would never cease to want him.