Anxiety made her breathless and tightened like a band around her chest as she caught sight of the army’s leader. Fawkes seemed bigger than she remembered. Perhaps that was due to his chain mail or the huge, glossy chestnut destrier he rode. Over his mail he wore a crimson surcote, emblazoned with the white cross of a crusader. He wore no helm, and his long black hair riffled in the breeze.
Fawkes’s coloring was the reason Mortimer had chosen him to impregnate her, believing any child Fawkes sired would look enough like her to stifle gossip. She’d always found it satisfyingly ironic that Simon was as blond as a Saxon. Now the jest had turned sour. If Simon’s hair had been dark, it would be far easier to convince Fawkes he’d fathered the boy.
In the bailey, servants shouted. Dogs barked. Knights cursed as they struggled to dismount in close quarters. She finally caught sight of Fawkes again. He was on foot now. And there was Adam FitzSaer hurrying to meet him. Valmar’s castellan bowed low, formally relinquishing the castle to the new lord. Fawkes motioned for FitzSaer to rise. Then he glanced around, as if looking for someone.
Apprehension squeezed Nicola’s chest so tight she could hardly breathe. Fawkes had expected her to be there to greet him. Was he offended by her failure to do so? Had she already got off on the wrong foot with the man who was to be her husband and lord?
Old Emma had urged her to rush out to meet him and throw herself at Fawkes’s mercy, to wring her hands and weep to show her fear and sense of helplessness. But Nicola couldn’t bring herself to do it. Although defiance had earned her more than a few bruises, standing up to Mortimer had ultimately worked better than trying to please him.
The knot of tension in her chest tightened. She told herself she could delay no longer. If she didn’t go down and greet Fawkes soon, he’d grow angry.
With more than a little trepidation, she started down the stairs.
****
Where was she? Fawkes scanned the castle yard, his agitation increasing by the moment. Was Nicola deliberately avoiding him? Did she consider him unworthy of her? His jaw clenched at the thought.
Reynard came up beside him. “She’s probably in the hall waiting for you. Or maybe she’s seeing to the preparations for the evening meal.” Fawkes shot him an incredulous look. Reynard shrugged. “If she doesn’t appear soon, we’ll ask someone to fetch her.” He turned. The next moment he said, “Fawkes.”
The knights and servants drew back as Lady Nicola walked across the yard. She was a vision in a rose-hued gown. Her face was a perfect oval and her eyes shone like raindrops glimmering in the sun. Her slender figure had ripened; her exquisite features refined with maturity. Fawkes exhaled a breath of wonderment. Four years ago, he’d coupled with a maid. This was a woman.
But what sort of woman? Her face revealed not a hint of her feelings, as if her features were carved of marble. He should say something. A loathsome weakness rendered him unable to speak. When she was a few feet away she bowed. Her raven-black tresses, secured by a ruby-studded silver circlet, fell forward, concealing her face. “My lord.”
She straightened. The scent of her perfume reached him at the same moment. It curled around him, rubbing against his senses like a languorous, silky cat. Heat and woman, rare crushed flowers, wild herbs. His balls tightened and his cock grew hard, even as the rest of him seemed to grow weak.
“Lady Nicola.” His voice sounded harsh, but at least it was not the adolescent croak he feared it would be.
The tension between them seemed to make the very air vibrate. Everyone in the yard was watching. His men. The garrison knights. Servants and squires. Even the kitchen knaves and pages. Jesu! If they guessed at how nervous he was, none of them would ever respect him! He could not let them see what she did to him, how she turned him into a callow, adoring squire, ready to kiss the hem of her skirts and beg for the honor of being her champion.
He took a steadying breath and spoke in a commanding voice that rang up to bailey walls. “I claim Valmar castle and all the surrounding lands by right of conquest. And I claim you, Lady Nicola, as my wife.”
“My lord.” She bowed again. “I’ve had the bathing chamber prepared. Thomas will direct you there.” She motioned to a young, golden-haired page and looked back at Fawkes. “After you have refreshed yourself, we’ll celebrate your arrival with a banquet.”
Fawkes started after the page, feeling stunned. Nicola’s response to his announcement seemed very odd. He’d told her he intended to make her his wife, and she coolly sent him off to bathe.
She was probably still in a state of shock. In less than two days, her circumstances had completely changed. Her husband was dead. No matter what she thought of Mortimer, being widowed probably took some getting used to. And now she was to wed another man, a man she didn’t know. Nicola was probably unnerved, and so, good chatelaine that she was, she fell back on the formal gesture of offering a noble guest the opportunity to bathe.
But usually the lady of the household helped with the bathing, and he saw no sign she intended to do so. Did she consider him beneath her personal attention? Was he still no more than a squire to her?
The muscles in his jaw tightened as he followed the boy into the bathing chamber. A fire burned in the hearth, despite the summer heat, and buckets for fetching water were stacked nearby. In the center of the chamber stood a large tub, with sweet scents wafting from its steaming depths. Two giggling maids waited with towels and a bowl of soap.
Nicola’s absence meant nothing. She was probably busy seeing to the banquet, as Reynard had said.
The two maidservants put down the bathing supplies and sought to divest him of his armor and garments. Fawkes finally had to call a squire to help, as his height and the weight of his mail made it an impossible task for a woman, or even two, to accomplish. Once his armor and gambeson were off, he dismissed the squire and the maidservants. The young women looked disappointed, but he was firm. He didn’t want any woman’s hands on him except Nicola’s.
He climbed into the tub and sighed as his body relaxed in the heated water. What luxury. In his life he’d had few baths in a proper bathing tub. Usually it was a cold wash by the castle well, or a dip in a river or stream. The fragrant scent of the bathwater reminded him of Nicola and her exotic perfume. It was the first memory he had of her. The bewitching odor he’d smelled as soon as he’d entered her bedchamber. But even the haunting promise of her scent had not prepared him for the woman waiting in the bed. She’d been more arousing than his wildest fantasies.
She still was. He thought of how Nicola had looked in the bailey. The elegant contours of her face. Her body—as slender and fine as reed, but with a woman’s charms. Her breasts seemed fuller, but her stomach remained flat as a maid’s. His seed had never quickened in her. Nor had any other man’s. At least he hoped Mortimer had sent no other man to service her.
More than once, he’d considered that Mortimer might have decided to try again. If he had, then the man sent that time had also failed. Which suggested she might be barren.
“Don’t fall asleep, you worthless whoreson! I’m next in the bathing tub and I don’t want the water to be freezing.”
Fawkes jerked open his eyes. Reynard stood nearby, his perpetually ruddy face split with a grin. “Jesu! You startled me,” Fawkes said.
“What were you dreaming of, I wonder. Could it be the fair Lady Nicola?”
“None of your business.” Fawkes ducked his head to rinse his hair and started to rise from the tub. Curse it! The serving maids had returned. Worse yet, he had an erection. Merely thinking about Nicola had been enough to arouse him.
“Fetch me a towel,” he growled at Reynard, before sinking down into the tub.
Smirking, Reynard stepped back and gestured to the serving maids, waiting near the hearth. “Milord requires your services.”
Fawkes shot Reynard a furious glance as the two serving women approached carrying towels. Damn Reynard! There was no way he could stand without them seeing he was aroused!
“Aye,” the other responded. “I would surrender easily to such a show of might.”
Fawkes seized the towel and covered himself. The women left giggling at his glowering expression.
“Milord is saving himself for his lady wife,” Reynard said, as he removed his own clothing. “Don’t you think that is noble of him? He hasn’t had a woman in almost four years. Can you believe—”
“Shut your wretched mouth,” Fawkes growled. “Or I’ll drown you here and now.”
Reynard’s grin widened as he settled himself on the seat in the tub. “As monk-like and pure as milord is, I more than make up for him.” He motioned for the serving maids to approach.
With coos of delight, they soaped him.
Fawkes dried himself, wondering how Reynard did it. No one would call the man attractive. His hair was red as the fox he was named for, and he had an overlarge nose and mouth. But despite his lack of pulchritude, his friend always managed to have a woman, or two or three, eager to bed him.
Fawkes looked around for his clothes. When he didn’t see them, he called to the women. “Where are the garments I took off?”
“Thomas carried them to the laundry,” one of them answered.
“What am I supposed to wear?”
“I brought your saddle pack.” Reynard gestured. “It’s by the door. You might as well don your court tunic. Since you’re to be married.”
“You think I should marry her now? Today?”
Reynard gave him a look of exasperation. “If you want to have the lawful right to take Lady Nicola to bed tonight, the ceremony has to be performed right away.”
“But I—” Fawkes stopped. Why was he protesting? Marrying Nicola as soon as possible was the logical thing to do. But somehow he didn’t feel prepared. What if she didn’t want to marry him? Shouldn’t she have some say in the matter? She obviously wasn’t consulted when she was forced to wed Mortimer. He wanted things to be different this time. But even if she didn’t wish to wed him, how did that change anything? Would it not be better to wed her and then seek to win her affections?
But what if there was no hope of that? What if Mortimer’s words were true and she was so hardened that she was incapable for caring for any man?
He would not accept that. Somehow he would win her over, no matter what it took.
He grabbed his saddle pack. “I suppose the damned tunic is hopelessly crushed,” he muttered.
****
The chapel was stifling. Knights, villagers and servants filled the small church and spilled out into the yard. Everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of the new lord as he said his vows with the heiress of Valmar.
Fawkes sweated in his tunic of blue samite and wondered why he’d even bothered to bathe. But the heat didn’t seem to affect the woman beside him. She looked cool and regal. Her hair, held away from her face with the ruby and silver circlet, flowed over her shoulders like a blue-black river. Her skin was the palest, finest alabaster. Against its creamy purity, her lips appeared as rich and red as the rubies in her headpiece. In the soft light filtering in through the chapel’s rose-tinted windows, her eyes were silver.
He must stop thinking about the way she looked and concentrate on the woman herself. So cool and aloof, she was. An icy princess, regal and self-contained. He had absolutely no idea what was going on in her mind.
The thought dampened his desire, which he decided was a good thing. He needed to rein in his emotions and reason things through. Take Nicola’s measure as if she was a man and he was evaluating her as an ally. Or an enemy. If there was any truth to Mortimer’s mocking words, he must discover it and deal with her accordingly.
He should have dealt with the matter before he pledged his troth with her. But, as Reynard said, everyone expected him to wed Nicola immediately. With Richard imprisoned, his hold on Valmar and Mordeaux was tenuous. Prince John was already taking advantage of his brother’s situation and trying to seize power. Fawkes knew his only real claim to the demesne was if he put a babe in Nicola’s belly.
What if she was barren? How would he hold onto the demesne then? And what if she didn’t want to be married to him? According to Mortimer, she’d already betrayed him. What else might she do to be rid of her new husband?
But it was ludicrous to think she preferred Mortimer to him. If only he knew more about this woman. For the past four years he’d seen her as a victim. But what if she wasn’t? What if she’d actually been content with her lot as Mortimer’s wife?
Mortimer had called her a viper, a cunning witch, as if she was the one who had manipulated him. Maybe that was the way things had ended up. Perhaps when she found herself married to a drunken lout—which all agreed Mortimer had become—Nicola had seen a chance to seize power and live her life the way she wished. Under those circumstances, she might have no desire to see Mortimer killed. He must discover the truth. And soon.
Fawkes looked up and saw the priest was prompting them to move toward the altar. The mass was finished. Now it was time for them to exchange their vows.
Nicola said hers in a soft, refined voice, promising to love, honor and obey. He responded that he would love, honor, keep and guard her.
The priest pronounced them wed, and everyone left the chapel. Outside in the sunlight, the women showered them with flower petals and the men shouted crude innuendos regarding Lady Nicola’s fertility and his sexual prowess. Fawkes endured the bawdy remarks, wishing Nicola didn’t have to be subjected to such coarseness. She was a lady and shouldn’t have to endure leering comments.
They started toward the hall. Fawkes felt a tug on his arm. He turned and saw a plainly dressed woman with a scattering of freckles on her cheeks and coppery brown eyes that matched her ruddy curls. “I’m pleased for you, milord.” She dipped into a deep curtsy. Fawkes nodded and prepared to move away, but the woman caught his arm again. “Don’t you remember me?” she asked breathily. “It’s Alys.” She winked, and Fawkes suddenly recalled the feel of her plump, full-breasted body beneath his.
Aly’s full lips curved in a teasing smirk. “I must say, I barely recognized you. You’ve changed so much, Fawkes. Now you’re a fine knight and ruler of the keep where once you were merely a squire, albeit a very handsome one.” She winked again, and her voice dipped to a smoky whisper. “Do you still remember what you did to make me scream?”
He exhaled sharply and looked around to see who might be watching. He was horrified when he saw Nicola looking at them. She was probably too far away to hear, but even so…
He removed Alys hand from his arm. “Things have changed. I’m now married to Lady Nicola.”
“Hah, to the biggest bitch in creation, you mean. You won’t get any good of her. She poisoned Mortimer, you know. Fed him something to make his ballocks wither and his cock shrivel.”
Fawkes nodded numbly, then turned to look for Nicola. She was walking away, not toward the hall, but the opposite direction.
Chapter Five
Nicola’s head ached as she made her way across the bailey. The wedding ceremony had reminded her far too much of her marriage to Mortimer. That day she’d also stood next to a handsome, imposing knight and said her vows. She remembered feeling pleased that Mortimer was young and comely. So often when a woman was married by the king’s decree, her new husband was some ancient, battered warrior, with a thick belly and breath that stank. Although he was massively muscled, Mortimer had not been fat when they wed, and his teeth were white and strong.
But her enchantment with her fair-haired, muscular bridegroom hadn’t lasted. All too soon, he’d revealed what a devil he truly was. She wondered as she approached the kitchen, would Fawkes be any different? No longer was he the boyish squire who had loved her well. Now he was a powerful knight who had survived untold horrors to return to England and defeat Mortimer. Only a man who was very ruthless and
determined could have risen so far so fast.
Nicola reached the crowded and chaotic kitchen and approached the burly Saxon cook. Movement to her right distracted her. A bunch of pages were gathered around the wine tuns. Instead of filling pitchers, they were watching one of the squires as he gestured wildly with a kitchen knife, holding it like a sword. “You should have seen him,” the youth, Will, crowed. “Fast as lightning he was. Feinting this way and that. Fat old Mortimer couldn’t keep up with him. Fought hard, Mortimer did, but he was overmatched. And then de Cressy got him down and thrust his sword clean through Mortimer’s throat. I vow, the bastard bled like a pig at butchering time.” Will paused and gazed around at his audience with bright, excited eyes. “I’ve never seen a knight fight so fiercely and with so much skill.”
“They say he was a hero in the Holy Land and admired by even the king himself,” someone chimed in.
“I heard he killed a hundred men at Acre,” another exclaimed. “That’s why Richard knighted him.”
“A hundred men?” The kitchen wench Berta gave a snort of disgust. “That’s not possible.”
“Yea, it is,” the squire protested. “They were Saracen prisoners. They were all lined up, bound and trussed. The king commanded they be killed to show Saladin how we deal with men who fail to honor their oaths. The knights moved down the line of Saracens, cutting their throats one by one. I heard there was so much blood it reached up to the knights’ ankles.”
Nicola’s gorge rose at the image painted in her mind. One of the other squires, a youth named Robbie, grabbed her by the arm. “Milady, are you well? Let me help you to a bench.”
Aided by Robbie, Nicola made it to the bench by the bread ovens and sat down. The cold savagery of the tale she’d heard made her stomach roil. What sort of man had she wed?
“Milady?” She looked up to see Agelwulf. The cook was holding out a wooden dipper of water. “Drink. And don’t worry about the food, milady. Everything is well in hand. Go to the hall and sit beside your husband. I promise he’ll be pleased with the banquet we’ve prepared.”
Lady of Steel Page 5