Lady of Steel

by Mary Gillgannon

Nicola felt a pang of longing. If only she could think of some reason to go with him. It had been weeks since she’d seen Simon.

  She could see Fawkes was growing impatient. Unable to think of anything else, she said, “Will you be back for the evening meal tomorrow?”

  “I will.”

  He watched her, his onyx eyes unreadable. She took a deep breath. “Fare thee well, milord.”

  He nodded curtly, then turned his horse and continued out the gate. Six mounted knights followed him.

  Nicola watched him go, feeling resentful. Fawkes could go to Mordeaux any time he wished, while she had to make elaborate plans ahead of time. And what was he doing at Mordeaux? How would it affect Simon? Somehow she would have to find out.

  ****

  “Jesu, you are a rich man, Fawkes,” Reynard said, as they rode through the countryside of golden grain fields bordered with strips of brilliant green pastureland. “I had no idea the demesne was so vast, your holdings so fertile.”

  “Grain in the field is not flour in the storehouse,” Fawkes reminded him. “Until the harvest is actually reaped, I cannot count on it.”

  “But it’s not merely the thick stands of barley, millet, and wheat. I’m thinking of the orchards down by the river, so heavy with apples that you can almost hear the trees groaning with the weight. And the hay fields everywhere, promising excellent forage for livestock over the winter. Nearly every family seems to have chickens and a goat or cow, and that bunch of pigs we saw rooting in the forest will make for plentiful bacon and ham this winter.”

  Fawkes had to admit he’d been astounded by the plenty all around them. On their visit to Wilford they’d seen two mills—one for grinding grain and one for fulling cloth, as well as an alehouse, a chapel and a cluster of neatly kept houses. The sunburned, buxom goodwives of Wilford had welcomed them with fresh-brewed ale and hot bread spread with creamy butter and golden honey. The children of the village looked well fed and healthy, and their livestock was also in fine condition. Then they’d gone to Mordeaux and found the area around it to be equally prosperous, and the castle in excellent order.

  “Aye, I can have no complaints about how my holdings have been managed,” Fawkes said. “I’d feared with Mortimer in control, the demesne might be neglected. But the area has obviously prospered.”

  He inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh scent of new-mown hay. On either side of the trackway, huge haystacks rose above the stubbled fields where crows and magpies were busy picking insects from among the gleanings. Overhead, a goshawk circled, searching for mice or voles in the newly disturbed landscape. From behind him, Osbert the reeve called, “Milord, do we go back through the village? It would be pleasant to sit in Maude’s ale yard and rest for a time.”

  Fawkes turned to look at the thick-bodied reeve. The man’s face was bright red and he was sweating profusely.

  “You haven’t made an official visit to the village yet.” Reynard said.

  Fawkes nodded. “This seems as good a time as any.”

  They approached Valmar by way of the river. The smooth surface of the millpond glittered in the bright sunlight like polished steel, and as they neared the mill, a man came out to greet them. He had lank ruddy hair and whiskers, a pointed nose and currant-black eyes. “Milord, I’m Ethelbert, the miller.” He glanced up at the cloudless blue sky. “It’s very hot, sir. You must be thirsty. Can I have my wife fetch you a drink of buttermilk?”

  “We are headed to Maude’s ale yard. But thank you, Ethelbert, for the offer,” Osbert called from his mule. Now that they were in his home territory, the reeve seemed to sit up straighter and not droop so much in the heat.

  The miller gave the reeve a peevish look and then stepped forward to stand at Fawkes’s stirrup. “Are you going to hold manor court soon, milord? Lady Nicola always held it in conjunction with the Lammas celebration.”

  Manor court? Another responsibility he had not considered. “I’ll consider doing so.” Fawkes urged the destrier away from the miller.

  As they left the river behind, Fawkes guided his horse near to Osbert’s mule. “Did my wife really hold manor court?”

  “Indeed, she did,” the reeve answered.

  “And the people accepted her judgments?”

  “Since her mother died ten years ago, Lady Nicola has been mistress of Valmar. Besides, there was no one else to see to things. Mortimer was piss-eyed with drink most of the time and never troubled himself with anything happening in the village.”

  His wife had done it all: managing the castle, holding manor court, overseeing a vast and prosperous demesne. Nicola seemed to be a part of the very heart of Valmar and the countryside surrounding it. It was unnerving. If he ever opposed her, he suspected almost everyone would side with her.

  They reached the village. At the first dwelling a young woman with yellow braids flapped her apron to shoo a gaggle of geese away from a flush-faced toddler playing in the dirt. Seeing Fawkes and his escort, she picked up the toddler. The boy shrieked and squirmed as they passed, but the woman smiled at them.

  “That Avisa. Her husband’s the smith,” Osbert said. “He has his shop down by the river.”

  Nearby, another woman sat cross-legged in front of her hut, shelling peas. She paused and wiped her brow, then hastily dumped her apron full of peas into a bowl and stood to greet them. “Welcome, milord,” she said, fussing awkwardly with the strands of dark gold hair creeping from under her sweat-stained linen coif.

  Fawkes nodded to her.

  “And that’s Hawise, widowed these past five years,” Osbert said, when they had moved out of earshot. “Her husband died from an ax wound that putrefied.”

  “Ax wound?” Fawkes asked.

  The reeve shook his head. “Not in battle. I think he was chopping wood and the ax handle slipped and struck him in the foot.”

  They continued on, the reeve introducing people and telling Fawkes a little about them. Finally they reached the aleyard and were seated at a table in the shade of a huge oak. Fawkes raised his brimming pewter cup and took a swallow of the rich, yeasty ale. He smacked his lips in satisfaction. Nowhere else but England did they brew this beverage to such perfection.

  “Manor court is traditionally held at the Lammas celebration, which is only a few days away,” Osbert said. “Of course, there are other festivities you will be expected to take part in, milord.”

  “Such as?” Fawkes asked.

  “Nothing too onerous, I assure you.” Osbert stood. “In fact, I need to speak to some of the villagers regarding the celebration. Are you content to stay here for a short while, milord?”

  Fawkes nodded.

  “After what we’ve seen the last two days, you should be content,” Reynard said after Osbert had left them. “Yet I sense there are things worrying you.”

  “I’m still trying to get used to my new circumstances. Nothing is the way I expected. I came to Valmar thinking to rescue this helpless damsel, imprisoned and abused by her cruel husband. Instead, I discover Lady Nicola does not need rescuing. That she has somehow managed to reduce Mortimer to a worthless tosspot, and, at the same time maintain a rich and profitable estate. Furthermore, from what you say, except for a few sour-minded servants who would find fault with any mistress, Nicola appears to be well-liked and respected by almost everyone at the castle.”

  “These are all excellent things, are they not?”

  “As long as Nicola and my objectives are the same, then, yea, it is excellent. But if Nicola ever decides to undermine or defy me, I dread what would happen. Other than my men, I believe almost everyone here would take her side.”

  “Then it’s clear you must learn to work with Nicola.”

  “But it makes me uneasy to think she has so much power. I’m already in thrall to her beauty and allure. Now I must accept I am the weaker partner in our marriage in every other way as well.”

  “Is that why you still refuse to share her bed?”

  “She has such a potent effect on me. Until I k
now for certain I can trust her, I’m loath to risk entangling myself even more.”

  They stayed a while longer, then rode back to the castle. As they dismounted Nicola appeared. “Milord, if I might speak with you.”

  Fawkes instantly tensed. “Is something wrong? Did something happen while I was gone?”

  “Nay. Nothing is amiss. Can you come to the solar?”

  “Why not speak to me here?”

  Nicola glanced around the crowded yard. “I would like a bit of privacy, milord.”

  “Very well. Let me wash off the traveling dust and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I wonder what that is all about,” Reynard said after she left.

  “I’m half afraid to find out.”

  “Perhaps she means to seduce you.”

  Fawkes shot his friend an incredulous look. Although he supposed the idea was not impossible. Perhaps Nicola could not forget the incredible pleasure they’d experienced on their wedding night any more than he could.

  The thought tantalized him as he washed at the cistern. He’d vowed not to bed Nicola until he was more certain of her. But if they were alone and she gave any hint of wanting him, he wouldn’t be able to resist. An image filled his mind, of himself and Nicola, naked and entwined on the thick sheepskin rug on the solar floor.

  He shook his head to banish the bedeviling thought. There were a dozen boring, tedious reasons Nicola might want to speak to him. It could have to do with food supplies or a problem with one of the servants. He should not assume anything.

  He entered the castle and started up the staircase to the solar.

  ****

  Nicola took a tiny stitch in the tunic she was making for Simon and tried to control the trembling of her hands. She worried she was making a mistake. Sir Guy had said it might only be a rumor that Fawkes meant to make FitzSaer the castellan of Mordeaux. She should probably not say anything until she knew for certain what Fawkes intended. But now it was too late; Fawkes was most likely already on his way.

  She fought the urge to get up and pace. If she appeared anxious, he would immediately suspect some sinister reason for her mood. By the saints, dealing with this man wore on her. Every conversation was like a walk across a thawing pond. At any moment she expected the ice to give way and pitch her into freezing water. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to calm herself.

  “Nicola.”

  She started at the sound of his voice, and opened her eyes to see Fawkes standing in the doorway of the solar. “Come in.” Her voice came out breathy and strained. “Sit down.” At least sitting he would seem less intimidating. Although perhaps not. His lanky body seemed too large for the chair. His dark hawk eyes were now level with hers. They bored into her, as if he would look into her soul.

  “I asked you here because… It’s about Adam FitzSaer. I heard you were sending him to Mordeaux.” She met his gaze, waiting breathlessly. He said nothing. Forced to continue, she said, “I wouldn’t presume to advise you in such matters, but it seems to me that—”

  “But you do presume. You’re doing so now.”

  She lowered her gaze and stared at the half-finished garment on her lap. She’d purchased the beautiful and expensive blue wool fabric because the color exactly matched Simon’s eyes. The thought of him gave her courage.

  Once again, she met Fawkes’s gaze. “’Tis true these matters aren’t my responsibility. But I’ve been here the last four years while you have not. I think I’m a better judge of FitzSaer’s abilities than you are.”

  ****

  A muscle twitched in Fawkes’s jaw. “I suppose since you command everyone else at Valmar, you think you can tell me what to do as well.”

  “Of course I don’t think that! I’m only saying I have knowledge of FitzSaer that you may not be privy to!”

  “I see. And what exactly has FitzSaer done to win your loyalty?” Why was Nicola defending FitzSaer? The man had done everything he could to ruin her reputation.

  Nicola lowered her gaze, and he could sense she was thinking hard. She obviously hadn’t put much thought into her argument for keeping FitzSaer on. Did she really think she had so much power over him that she had only to suggest something and he would listen? Once that might have been true, but he refused to be that weak and foolish now.

  She finally looked up at him, her gray eyes flashing silver. “Surely you can see Valmar is thriving because of FitzSaer. Mortimer did little more than drink and take up space in the hall. It was FitzSaer who actually saw to the defense and running of the castle.”

  Fawkes gave a snort of disgust. “If Valmar is prosperous, it’s because of you, not FitzSaer. As for the security of the castle—can you think of an instance when Valmar was ever under threat? Not counting when I arrived here, of course.”

  “Nay. But that’s because Valmar has a reputation as a formidable fortress that would not be easy to attack.”

  “A reputation that was built by your father and well in place when FitzSaer arrived. I stand by my assessment of the man. He’s made no effort to see that the garrison knights keep up their skills. He’s done nothing to prepare Valmar for a siege, should it come. All he’s done is maintain what your father already put in place.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. He sat back, wondering what she would say next. Everything he said was true, and she knew it. Which meant Nicola had some ulterior motive for not wanting FitzSaer sent away. Was it possible they were lovers? He could not see it. FitzSaer clearly disliked Nicola. But if it wasn’t that, then what was the connection between them?

  “If you want to be rid of Sir Adam, it is certainly within your rights to do so. But if he is such a poor castellan, why inflict him on Mordeaux? You know as well as I that if an enemy were to seize control of Mordeaux Castle, they would have the perfect base from which to attack Valmar. The current castellan at Mordeaux, Gilbert de Vescy, was raised to that position by my father. Although I haven’t been to Mordeaux recently, I’ve heard nothing to suggest De Vescy’s competence has declined. So what is the point of replacing a good commander with a mediocre one? Or, do you mean to bring De Vescy here?”

  She looked as if the idea of having De Vescy come to Valmar displeased her. Why? What was he missing? “I’ll make you a bargain, Nicola. I won’t interfere in the running of the household, if you will cease meddling in issues regarding the defense of the castle. We should both keep to the areas in which we have expertise.”

  Her expression remained troubled, but her words were placating. “Of course, milord. I’m sorry to have questioned your decision. I’m certain you’re trying to do what is best for all involved. But I do ask that if you make changes like this, you give me some warning.”

  “Why do you need warning? What difference does it make to you who is castellan here, or at Mordeaux?”

  “I care not what you do with FitzSaer. But Gilbert de Vescy…his wife is a childhood friend of mine. I don’t want to see her life disrupted. Or that of her children either.”

  So this was what was bothering her. Why hadn’t she mentioned this childhood friendship when she first brought up the matter? Did she see him as such a fiend she believed he would not consider her feelings when making his plans?

  The thought made him resentful, but then he realized she likely had good reasons for her doubts. In many of their interactions, he’d been indifferent to her feelings. He’d coldly interrogated her on their wedding night and even mentioned disciplining her. No wonder she didn’t trust him enough to ask him for things outright, but constantly matched wits with him.

  His anger softened, and he began to regret he’d spoken so sharply. As he was trying to think of a way to make it up to her, he noticed the blue fabric in her lap. It looked like she was sewing a child’s garment.

  “Who’s that for? The small tunic in your lap?”

  She stiffened. A simple question, and yet it immediately put her on alert.

  “It’s for Hil
ary de Vescy’s son.”

  The fabric looked costly. Not the sort of thing usually made into a child’s garment. Perhaps it was a scrap left over from one of her gowns. But why use it to make a child’s tunic? Why not gift the fabric to Lady Hilary?

  “How old is the boy?”

  Again, she hesitated. He could not credit it. Why did the discussion of her friend’s child alarm her?

  “Near four years, I think.”

  He stared at her, disbelieving. If there was one thing he knew about women, it was that they paid attention to details, especially those involving children. If this was her friend’s child, she undoubtedly knew the very month of his birth. Once again, her response seemed false. She had to be concealing something from him.

  This was why he didn’t trust her. Because she continually lied to him. Even about the most trivial details!

  Or were they trivial? Her concern about De Vescy losing his place. Her worries for his wife, Hilary, her good friend. And now the lie about Hilary’s son. There was a mystery here, one he definitely needed to investigate further.

  But not now. Right now he needed to be away from this woman. He couldn’t think clearly in her presence. Nay, in her presence he didn’t want to think. He wanted to give into his desire and yield to his longing for her. The attraction was marrow deep. If he let down his guard for a second, he would be undone.

  He asked sharply, “Will there be anything else?”

  She gazed up at him, and for a moment her beautiful eyes looked distraught. Then the cool mask slid back into place. When she spoke, her voice was brisk and emotionless. “Nay, milord.”

  He tore his gaze away from her. But as he rose and crossed the room, the carpet beneath his feet blurred and he once again imagined the two of them sprawled there, naked as they made love with wild abandon.

  “Good day, madam.” He strode rapidly from the chamber.

  ****

  Nicola let out a sigh. Talking with Fawkes had been a waste of time. Although for a moment she’d sensed his attitude toward her softening. Then he’d noticed the tunic.

  What a cunning, wary man Fawkes was, questioning and scrutinizing every detail. Clearly she should have kept the tunic well out of sight and embroidered an altar cloth or something safe. But she’d never imagined Fawkes would pay any attention to what she was sewing. Damn his hawk eyes!