A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  He refused to be goaded.

  “Throw down your gauntlet, sir, for I am eager to accommodate you,” the knight continued in a snarl.

  Stunned by the man’s aggression, Geoffrey’s mind whirled as he tried to dredge up a memory of this knight. Who, exactly, was this obnoxious man? He drew a breath. “I will not be intimidated by threats, sir.”

  “Will you not?” The knight’s glinting sword moved closer. His intent was unmistakable. “Coward!” he growled.

  Not about to be drawn into a fight without knowing its cause, Geoffrey awaited the knight’s next move.

  “This day’s mayhem is deserving of Edward’s attention.” The knight’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. “The royal wrath can be counted upon to descend unerringly.”

  Geoffrey’s ire erupted at his helplessness. He was the one to dispense threats, not others. And ’twas the first time an amorous conquest had been interrupted. He liked not the disturbing sensations yet lingering in his groin. Thereto, he needed no reminder of Edward’s prickly disposition. But determined to show none of the effort it took to master his humiliation, he stepped away.

  “I should not have supposed an acquaintance of Katherine’s would demonstrate manners of common civility. Young Anne required counseling on marriage. I thought to make her a brilliant match, but she is much like her mother. Take the spineless creature.” He backhanded the air. “If Katherine is like to insist on the responsibility herself, she may have it!” Shrugging, he tried to make himself appear agreeable. “I will not hinder her.”

  “See to it,” retorted the knight with a cold glitter in his eyes that made his skin crawl. With a final threatening flourish of his sword, Sir Rhys backed away. Motioning Katherine and Anne from the chamber, he followed them, but his eyes never left Geoffrey as he withdrew.

  Left alone, Geoffrey clenched his jaw. In the future, he would find the opportunity to run that arrogant bastard through, the arrogant knight of St. Quintin. And he would delight in meting out every last measure of pain.

  In the meantime, ’twould be best if there were no more half-fledged schemes whilst this champion of Katherine’s lurked about. Rhys of St. Quintin appeared to keep his wits about him.

  And Katherine—that prideful bitch would yet feel his wrath. ’Twould be a pleasure to break her spirit and bring her to her knees where she belonged. Mayhap he’d find the opportunity to corner her. ’Twould humble Rhys of St. Quintin, thereto, if he did diddle that bastard out of a legitimate heir.

  Christ’s Toes, but he ached to wring someone’s neck!

  “Pardon me, sir, I thought the chamber empty.” A servant girl of no more than twelve summers, hesitated in the doorway, a basket balanced on her hip.

  “I am departing.” He beckoned to her and stepped out of her way.

  With a hesitant smile, the servant moved further into the chamber.

  She went about her task, sliding a three-legged stool beneath the hanging herbs and climbing up to gather them from the rafters. Geoffrey paused. Mayhap not all was lost. Her woolen skirt flared over full hips and her breasts were ripe and young. She was not particularly pretty, with pockmarks on her cheeks and forehead and round chin. But he wouldn’t look at her for long.

  He licked his lips. This damsel would thank him for his attentions on the morrow. If she proved satisfactory, he’d engage her services while he tarried at Bereford.

  Kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot, he turned and smiled. “Ah, lass, I pray a moment of your time.”

  Chapter Eight

  Weak with relief, hunched over one of the clothing chests in the castle wardrobe they shared with four other women, Katherine stared at her sister asleep on their pallet of straw. Praise Saint Winifred, Anne was safe. Thanks be to Rhys.

  Why, then, was she not happy? Why was she more unnerved and agitated at this moment, than when they discovered Anne missing? What disturbed her so greatly? Was it because Rhys did everything he said he would do? Astonishingly, he had even purchased the gown for her meeting with the king.

  Did she trust him?

  Did she—? Was this love?

  Jolted by the astounding thought, she gripped the chest as though she had lost all strength. Such a homefelt sentiment was not easily recognized. She had never experienced it hitherto.

  She loved Rhys of St. Quintin?

  She loved Rhys of St. Quintin!

  Rhys should stand as her husband, not some stranger! Hiking up her flowing gown, she ran from the chamber like an unnerved hind, down through the keep, across the inner ward and into the outer ward, where the knights and men-at-arms encamped.

  “Rhys!”

  She burst into the knight’s campaign tent and promptly collided with Simon. A conical-shaped metal helmet flew from his arms as he sprang back. It spun across the matted grass and bounced to a halt against a leather-bound traveling chest. From his corner where he lay curled in a tight ball, Zeus lifted his massive head. His long coarse tail thumped a greeting against the hard ground. But Rhys was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is your master?” she demanded, gasping for breath.

  With a grimace, Simon hefted up his load of chain-mail armor that threatened to shift out of his arms. “He went ahawkin’ with the king.”

  “You do not attend him?” She couldn’t help the dubious brow lifting in amazement. Simon and Rhys were inseparable.

  “Nay, he allowed me a moment to myself.” Simon dropped the armor on a leather hide beside the alan. “’Tis my right, you know.”

  She had no time for the squire’s self-righteous indignation. “What direction did they take?”

  Retrieving the wayward helmet, Simon squatted down beside the armor. “The north road, past the fish pond.”

  Katherine ran on feet made desperate by the royal command. The king expected her to be joyful? His decree forbade it.

  She must not lose that most chivalrous knight. Rhys must demand an audience with the king. He must be given her hand. And Haughmond. Would he not savor such a boon? Being unlanded, he was sure to marvel at his good fortune.

  Her breath grew labored as she raced to the stable and demanded the stable boy’s help. While Simon’s horse was saddled, she paced through the mud.

  Rhys was all she envisioned for a husband—chivalrous and trustworthy—an archangel, like Michael with his avenging sword. Forsooth, she had not trusted him when first they met. ’Twas difficult to put her trust in any man. She might have felt differently had she known her sire. But Sir Robert had favored warfare and conquest and had been absent much of her early years.

  And unlike her father, Geoffrey de Borne rarely went awarring. His guidance was not credible. Thereto, he tended to be boastful, vaunting oft of his prowess with a sword. ’Twas difficult to pin her faith on any man in the wake of such painful memories.

  Yet Rhys had proved himself beyond reproach. He made her laugh when she wanted to weep. He quieted her fears and made her confident. He bestowed hope when despair threatened.

  The stable boy finally brought out the cob. She flung herself into the saddle, kicking her boot heels against the horse’s ribs. They swept past the guards with their long bows, past the village of colorful tents pitched in the shadow of the castle wall and out through the gate. She flew by the fish pond, where ice held rushes captive and where fishermen balanced themselves in flimsy boats, casting their nets into the middlemost part of the water that yet flowed free.

  Beyond, a hillock with tracks in abundance, gave evidence that King Edward had loitered here with his huntsmen and falconers. She scoured the countryside, the fallow fields and hedges, shielding her eyes against the winter glare. No hunters were within sight. Sweet Jesu! With a cry of despair, she tore on into the forest with fear nipping at her heels.

  * * *

  King Edward was not one to dally in the hunt or in matters of state. He had already decided who would be the new lord of Haughmond. It had not necessitated much thought, once he realized the knight was newly arrived at Be
reford. Sir Dafydd had served him on crusade and had proven himself on the field of battle.

  He grew uncharacteristically still as he awaited the knight’s appearance, his memories growing fresh. Dafydd had rescued him from an assassin’s knife. But slaying the would-be killer with two mighty swings of his sword had fetched Dafydd his own wound. Queen Eleanor nursed them both, not leaving them to another’s care. ’Twas the one time he had almost died, the poison from the knife blade sapping his strength. Pondering Dafydd’s swift and unselfish act invariably left him moved. And so he anticipated this reunion as a father with a cherished son.

  ’Twas long overdue that his young champion did receive a rich reward.

  Thereto, Robert de la Motte would be pleased. In the heat of battle, Dafydd had deflected an infidel’s sword, saving Sir Robert from a grievous wound. Edward had knighted the young squire in the aftermath of the fight. Lady Katherine should feel honored to wed the man who saved her father’s life.

  “Sir Dafydd!”

  The royal herald stepped forward, making the announcement with a shout, for the great hall of Bereford was as congested with the lords and ladies of the court as any day. But this day, the buzz of voices, punctuated with frequent laughter, throbbed with the exaggerated accounts of the day’s hunt. A festive air had settled over the chamber, his subjects responding to his good mood. A successful hunt always made for a splendid celebration.

  A knight stepped out of the crowd and came forward. Tall, lean, broad of shoulders and arrayed in full armor, he strode toward the dais with a purposeful gait, drawing a hush from those nearby. He stopped just short of him, pausing to stare at him a moment longer than was polite. Then in a swift flourish, he bent to one knee in a bow.

  Edward knew the look, understood the emotion behind it. ’Twas the same for himself, meeting after all these years. So eager was he to see the knight, he had not taken time to change from his hunting clothes. He yet wore his plain yeoman’s jerkin and muddy leather boots.

  Stepping forward, he clamped a heavy hand on the chain mail shrouded shoulder. “Arise, friend.” The knight came to his feet and he caught Dafydd to him in a close embrace.

  “You have changed greatly. I hardly recognized you.” He stepped back to thoroughly examine the younger man. “You are dark and scruffy!”

  Dafydd grinned back at him, his thick brows lifting. “I was a mere lad when we went to the Holy Land. Life has changed me.”

  Edward searched for the broad smile he remembered. But the knight’s mouth was nigh obscured beneath a thick and drooping moustache.

  “You are looking hale, sire. Happy I am to see you in good health.”

  “Mayhap a bit older and wiser,” Edward said with a sigh and motioned for wine.

  “You are beset with difficult decisions, no doubt.” Dafydd arched his brow, taking a silver goblet from the servant and saluting him. “To honorable considerations, sire. May you be led down the righteous path.”

  Edward chuckled and raised his own goblet. “Yea, and may you follow my lead as you did in times past.” With a quick toss of his head he swallowed the costly French import, then grew serious. “Dafydd, I have need of your good offices.”

  The knight bowed and made a flourish in mid-air with his hand. “At your service, sire.” He straightened, his face alight with interest. “At last you take up the sword against Scotland?”

  “Nay!” He roared in mirth. “I have a wife for you, Dafydd. A comely lass shall receive your most diligent services. You needs marry and produce knights for England.”

  Dafydd, his bushy brows almost disappearing up into his mail coif, stood speechless.

  “You aren’t pleased?” He barely contained his mirth as he motioned to his manservant, who made haste to refill the empty goblets. “’Tis time you wed.” He held aloft his silver chalice. “A drink to you and your bride—Lady Katherine da le Motte!”

  His pronouncement was met with stunned silence.

  “Sir Robert’s daughter?” the knight finally asked.

  Edward achieved precisely what he had hoped for—Dafydd’s amazement. He chortled with glee.

  “Certes, she won’t accept me. Sire, ’tis not a matter for jest.” Dafydd’s dark brows lowered into a scowl. “Does she know who I am?”

  “’Tis of no consequence!” He waved away the question. “Should you not worry about the lady’s appearance? Do you not wish to know if she possesses good teeth, a fair complexion, a meek disposition?” ’Twas Edward’s turn to be amazed. “In the past you were very discerning with the ladies. Why do you not ask of her beauty?”

  “I-I am taken aback, sire, ’tis all,” the knight stammered and tried to smile through his frown. “Verily, I am most interested in the lady’s appearance. Is she comely?” His words were unaccountably rushed. “You needs point her out to me this eventide. But— ” The knight paused and his frown deepened. “—I am perplexed as to why you wish me the bridegroom.”

  “Sir Geoffrey of Myton Castle demanded her hand.”

  Dafydd looked incredulous. “How could he think to marry his wife’s daughter?”

  “Ah, I appreciate that you see my predicament. I must be absolved from this ill-timed hobble! Sir Geoffrey has diligently defended Haughmond these many years. He cannot be set aside easily. But if he persists in his demands, Rome will be meddling in my business. Mark my words, the pope will perceive this as an opportunity.” He shook his finger. “I shan’t stand for it!”

  “Entirely so, sire. But, God’s bones, I cannot believe my good fortune. Sir Robert’s daughter!” The knight’s eyes narrowed suddenly and caution imbued his voice. “Haughmond is to be part of the marriage contract?”

  “Yea, so you see my quandary. Sir Geoffrey petitions me for the holding. Since he wed Lady Constance, he has seen to his duty, and provided his number of men per annum.” Edward leveled a piercing stare. “I have no wish to bedevil him into stirring up another baron’s war.”

  “But ’tis Lady Katherine’s by birth. What says she?”

  “’Tis not her place to own an opinion.” Edward gave a weary nod of his head. “I informed the lady I would find her a husband. You are my choice. Sir Geoffrey will not challenge his own son. I needs not worry that Haughmond will be under siege from Myton.”

  Dafydd snorted, and quaffed down his wine. He slammed his goblet upon the trestle table and turned to the king with a hard look. “You don’t know Sir Geoffrey. Is Lady Katherine aware of my paternity?”

  “Well— ” He shrugged, wishing the thorny question had not been asked. This was the sticking point of his plan. “The subject confounded me. Perchance you could speak of it in the marriage bed?”

  Sir Dafydd’s laugh held no humor. “’Tis an ill favored plan, methinks.”

  Frustrated with the knight’s reluctance, Edward flung up his hands. “By all that is Holy, I depend on you to absolve me!”

  Suddenly laughter spilled from Sir Dafydd’s lips. His eyes sparkled beneath his shaggy brows. “If it were a military strategy, your brilliant mind would have found a right swift answer to this hobble. So you seek to shackle me with it? In truth, the damsel must be ugly and old!”

  Snorting at the barb, he eyed Dafydd, seeking to find a fissure in his provoking defenses. Pride seeped through the younger knight’s stance, wounded pride.

  “Know you Sir Geoffrey has never claimed me.” Dafydd squared his shoulders and stood tall.

  He nodded, understanding the reason for the somber tone. With Lady Katherine, a strong-minded and intelligent damsel, at his side, ’twould be a boon for Dafydd’s lacerated pride.

  “You’re a man grown. You and Sir Geoffrey can set aside your differences, for England’s sake. With you at Haughmond and Sir Geoffrey at Myton, the shire will be secure. Wales is unruly again. There has been trouble near Chester. And I have mine eye on Scotland. When I am on campaign, I will have need of you. The western borders must be well protected. And Lady Katherine requires a champion. This alliance eliminates both tangl
es.”

  “Do you command it, sire?”

  He grimaced, disappointed at the man’s reluctance. “The hearts of men are hard to rule. Nay, Dafydd, you are too dear for me to command you.”

  Dafydd eyed him with suspicion, fingering his moustache.

  Edward leveled his harshest look, hoping to intimidate the knight.

  “Exactly how old is the lady?”

  On Saint Peter’s thigh, he had not daunted the knight in the least, the rascal. Grimacing in frustration, he replied abruptly, “Younger than you.”

  “What is wrong with her?”

  Stepping closer, he towered over Dafydd and scowled down into his face. “Lady Katherine is outspoken.”

  “Is that the extent of her troubles?”

  Edward nodded.

  “Sir Geoffrey could not find a suitable gudgeon to take her off his hands?”

  “According to the lady, he did not try.”

  “The hobble lengthens, does it?” Dafydd murmured. “’Tis likely the lady will compound your tangle, for she has no father to gainsay her. She’s a troublesome piece of baggage, is she?”

  Edward growled in frustration, knowing the reason for her mischief. She much resembled his daughter. With a strong and loyal husband at her side she would impart a far different disposition. “A troublesome piece of baggage that does come with a splendid castle and prosperous lands!” He let that consideration sink in a moment before continuing in a lower voice, “’Tis not wise to disrupt Sir Geoffrey’s good offices. With you at Haughmond, he will not be offended when he must remove himself to his own holding. ’Tis a solution that avoids conflict. I am pressed for time with the borders of Scotland and Wales in turmoil.” He vented an exasperated sigh. “An unwed damsel places Haughmond in peril.” He peered into the knight’s thoughtful face and felt a glimmer of hope. “What say you?”

  The knight returned his regard with a forthright expression and with a smile building on his face. “For years I followed your standard. Methinks ’twould be imprudent to change my colors at this late date.”