Aching over what was sure to come, Kate watched her sire stride into a hall that was no longer his. So stiff was his spine that he might have worn a lance beneath his mail tunic. His face was black as he glanced about the room, his expression so fearsome that Kate edged farther behind the doorframe. Only now did it occur to her that there were two people her sire could murder to end this marriage and regain control of Glevering.
Lord Humphrey’s gaze caught on Dame Joan as the hapless woman filled the old nobleman’s cup with watered wine. Her father’s surcoat snapped about his knees as he strode across the hall to confront the wife of his erstwhile bailiff.
“Where is that betraying husband of yours, woman?” her sire raged. “By God, I’ll have his heart out, I will! My property ceded to the Godsols when there’s not a mark of battle damage on a single wall! What did that traitor do, open the door and invite these foul worm-eaters to come in?”
The poor woman loosed a pitiful cry and dropped to her knees. Wine slopped over the edge of her pitcher as she set it on the floor in front of her. She folded her hands in supplication. Her ashen face said she expected a death blow at any instant.
In his borrowed chair the bishop slammed a fist against its thick arm. “We have a truce, Bagot! Leave off her,” he shouted in reprimand.
But Joan was already speaking, her tone that of one pleading for her life. “My lord, what were we to do? We knew not that they were Godsols, for no man among them wore a stitch of that family’s colors and every face was hidden beneath a cloak’s hood. When my Ernulf stood upon the wall yestermorn, it was Sir Warin’s horse, shield and helmet he saw. Aye, my dear husband opened these gates, but for your steward, not the Godsols.” The room was silent, every man straining to catch each astonishing word.
Lord Humphrey threw out his arms in frustration. “Sir Warin’s horse! Are you so gullible? You knew well enough that my steward was across the shire at Haydon’s wedding.”
“But my lord,” Joan cried in a voice stronger than her meek posture suggested possible, “only the previous day we’d received a message marked by your own seal, warning us to expect Sir Warin’s arrival in the near future.”
Bile stewed in Kate’s gullet as the extent of her foolishness over Warin settled heavily upon her shoulders. She’d thought his kidnapping of her a spontaneous reaction to her father’s misuse of him. Instead, just like Rafe and his brother, Warin had had a larger plan. Aye, and he’d laid his trap for her with care. No doubt he’d played the part of her courtly lover in the hope of winning her compliance to his scheme. No wonder he’d been so enraged when Rafe showed interest in her. By the same token, the thought of Warin fawning over her for nearly a month’s time when he wanted nothing more than Glevering made disgust shimmy down Kate’s spine.
Across the room her sire reeled as if struck. His mail jangled harshly in the hall’s breathless quiet as he stumbled back to collide with a table. There he stood, panting. Other than the steady snap and crack of the fire on the hearthstone, his rasping breath was the room’s only sound.
On his drawn face Kate saw that her sire understood very well what had given Warin the confidence to finally play his hand. She freed a scornful breath. That made her father double the fool she’d been. So completely had he trusted his steward that he’d made Warin a partner in a murder attempt, thus leaving himself vulnerable to betrayal.
“Nay, he couldn’t have plotted so,” her father said, his voice thready, his words quiet enough to suggest he spoke more to himself than to the room. “I was good to him, treating him more as a son than one merely oathbound to me.”
Mutters rose from his peers, echoing up into the rafters. No matter their affiliation, the good dame’s story discomforted them. No man cared to think that those he trusted might turn on him.
At the head of the room the bishop’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Rafe. “Do I assume ‘twas you who carried de Dapifer’s shield to trick your way into this place?” It was a dry and pointed question.
“It was,” Rafe agreed then held up a forestalling hand. “My lord, I think it hardly matters how I came to own Glevering now that I’m wed to the manor’s heiress.” He glanced at the men about him, his look meant to collect their attention. “Only if Lord Bagot chooses to disown his daughter will I put to your scrutiny the events by which I can now claim Glevering as mine own.”
Across the room Lord Haydon sucked in a swift breath. The countess’s knight lifted his chin with enough sharpness to indicate surprise. Even Sir Josce and Gerard stirred uneasily at his words.
The bishop looked no more pleased than they. “In that you are right, Sir Ralf,” he replied, his voice as tense as his face. “Best that we discuss the marriage first, hoping to leave the other where it lies.”
“No marriage,” her father rasped out, his face as colorless as a dead man’s. He held a fist against his heart as if that organ pained him and dragged in a ragged breath. “No marriage,” he tried again, but his words hardly came any louder.
For the briefest of instants concern for her sire jolted Kate, but the emotion swiftly ebbed. This was the man who cared so little for her that he wouldn’t have her in his presence, the same man who wanted her husband dead for no greater reason than that Rafe bore the Godsol name. Her sire had stolen Pelerin from the Godsols and killed Rafe’s sire. He’d even destroyed Warin’s honor in order to shield his own misdeed. Nay, he neither wanted nor deserved her care.
Concern marked Bishop Robert’s narrow face. “Do you ail, Bagot? Sir Reginald.” He gestured to one of his knights. “Aid Lord Bagot to a bench and help him sit.”
His face impassive, the young knight named by the churchman started toward the bent nobleman. Before he reached Kate’s sire, her father’s fist opened. Although his head yet hung, Bagot’s lord waved off the man, then struggled to reclaim his composure, just as he had done at the picnic. He wasn’t as successful this time. When he finally managed to straighten, his face was yet gray.
“I need no aid,” he told the room, his words louder now, but his voice still hoarse. “Not from any of you. All I need at this moment is my daughter at my side. Katherine?” he called out, an overly sweet tone to his voice.
Kate’s feet froze to the floor. Her father didn’t want her, only control over her person. Aye, and once he owned her again he’d find some way, fair or foul, to keep her from Rafe.
“Katherine,” he called again, more power in his voice this time, “come to me.”
When still no movement stirred in any corner of the hall her father frowned and glanced about the chamber, seeking her. So too, did those four judges who’d chosen to stand. Not so those who sat. Lord Haydon waved a miraculously restored Dame Joan to him to fill his cup while the old nobleman made his way, slice by slice, through the cheese.
At the center of the room Rafe turned without hesitation toward the bedchamber’s door. The corners of Kate’s mouth lifted. Of course he knew where she was. Love bound them, soul to soul, and so it would continue until the moment of death’s parting even if they were separated today.
Yet clinging to the shadows, Kate studied the man she’d wed, cherishing every line of his fine body and handsome face. Rafe’s stance was proud, his shoulders held in a way that only days before she might have called arrogant. Now she knew it for what it was: a reflection of Rafe’s boundless conviction of success.
Their gazes met. Rafe’s mouth softened. Pleasure warmed his dark eyes, his reaction both a reminder of his love and an encouragement for her to do as she thought best.
Whereas Rafe owned hope and confidence, grim resignation claimed Kate’s heart. Unfortunately, what she knew was best to do was what she least wanted to face. No matter what she wanted, it was time to face these men and pay the piper for her misdeeds. If her condemnation as ill-mannered and a lightskirt actually bought her marriage to Rafe, then it was a small price indeed.
Giving her borrowed overgown a nervous brush, Kate took a single step outside the bedchamber door to att
ract the attention of the room. Every head swung in her direction, including that of her sire. Mild surprise touched her father’s face as he took in what she wore. As he found the lingering redness along her jaw, all that remained of Warin’s slap last night, satisfaction lit his gray eyes. His mouth curled upward in a grin beneath the concealment of his wiry beard as he interpreted the mark as proof of Rafe’s force.
“There you are, daughter. Come to your sire’s side,” he bade her as if she were like unto his dog.
“That I shall not do, my lord,” she replied, her voice raised so that all the men could hear.
Aye, and she might well have been a talking dog, so great was her sire’s surprise at her refusal. For an instant he wore a mask of startlement, brows sharply peaked above his eyes and mouth round. Then his mouth snapped shut, and he closed his fists. Bright red spots marked the centers of his lean cheeks. All sign of his previous weakness dissolved.
“What do you mean, shall not?” Gone was his false warmth. Instead, his words were strangled and hoarse.
Across the room the bishop’s hand flicked, the gesture bidding her sire to silence. True, her sire said no more, but Kate thought it was the greatness of his rage that held his tongue, not any command. The prelate glanced from sire to daughter, a single brow lifting as he studied them.
“Why is it you refuse your noble sire, my lady?” he asked, his tone surprisingly mild.
As was due to one of his rank Kate offered him a deep bend of her knees before speaking. “I do so at my husband’s instruction, my lord. He commands that I respond only to your own call or, barring your protection, that of Lord Haydon.”
“What is this?” her father growled, once again in control of his tongue. “You’ll come to me as I demand, or I’ll have a piece of your hide for disobedience, girl,” he threatened, taking a step toward the child he’d spawned.
“Hold where you are, Bagot,” the bishop commanded, his tone sharp, indeed.
Her father whirled on him. “You cannot control me in this,” he cried, truly aggrieved. “This is my daughter.” His tone made it clear that he equated kinship with possession, as if she were a piece of furniture like Glevering’s chair. “It’s my right as her sire to correct her when she’s errs.”
“No longer is she your daughter but my wife,” Rafe called out, his voice riding over his better’s. “The loyalty and obedience she once gave to you she has now vowed before God and man to give to me.”
“Not your wife!” Lord Humphrey screeched.
“Enough, both of you!” the bishop shouted.
When her sire’s mouth opened as if to protest the churchman rose to his feet. “This is not yours to decide, Humphrey, and no amount of shouting on your part will change that. Any more of this sort of argument, and I vow here and now I’ll decide in the Godsol’s favor to be done with you.”
Even though rage yet seethed in her sire’s gray eyes, his mouth snapped shut. The bishop dropped into the chair and rubbed at his temple as if it ached. He turned his sharp gaze on Rafe. “What cause have you to command her to disregard her own kin?”
Rafe took a half-step nearer to the churchman. “My lord bishop, as you see before you this day, it’s an ancient hatred shared by Godsol and Daubney,” her precious husband said, his voice calm and sincere. “It will take time before Lord Bagot accepts me as his son-by-marriage.”
“Never!” Lord Humphrey muttered, but even whispered the word held emotion enough to be both curse and vow. Both the bishop and Rafe shrugged away the quiet interruption.
“Considering that,” her husband continued, “I’d ask your lordship to offer my lady wife your custody as she is for all purposes the crux of this dispute. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, I’d not willingly let her within reach of a man determined to keep her from me at all costs. I warn you all,” he added, turning now to look across the faces of the men gathered in the room, “she’s come to be precious to me and not just for Glevering’s sake. If you take her from me, I’ll spend my life’s blood to reclaim her.”
A quiet rumble of amusement broke from the men sitting at the tables. Behind Lord Haydon Gerard cupped his hand over his mouth as if to conceal a smile. Sir Josce stared in open astonishment at his friend.
“Aye, listen you well to my brother,” Will seconded Rafe from his post near the hall door, speaking over the fading echo of their laughter.
The smaller of the Godsols strode along the hall’s outer wall until he stood near to Lord Haydon’s kin. “Know that I’ll spend all I own to support my brother in reclaiming his wife. Take this as my vow. If she is wrongly separated from my kinsman there will be no peace in this shire until she is returned to him.”
Rafe pivoted far enough to shoot his brother a smile then returned his complete attention to the bishop. “Now if you wish to hear the tale of how the lady came to be wed to me call for her, my lord bishop, and she will come.”
“Nay!” Her father’s refusal was a high-pitched cry. Emotions flew across his face--fear, hurt, jealousy, then determination. His mouth twisted into a snarl. He strode to stand abreast of Rafe as if nearness to the bishop somehow guaranteed success.
“If my daughter will not come to me then I say she shall not speak at all. By the Godsol’s own words does he reveal that he’s already destroyed a daughter’s natural affection for her parent.” He held out a hand to the prelate as if pleading. “It isn’t right, my lord, to ask her to speak when no matter what question you put to her she’ll answer in the Godsol’s favor.
“Moreover, if she’s so easily turned against me,” he went on, his voice gaining angry power with each word, “then she is no longer any daughter of mine. I am done with her.”
At his words the four standing men near the bishop’s chair shifted in conspicuous agitation. At the table the old nobleman’s face whitened to the color of his hair, a morsel of cheese held partway to his open mouth.
“Nay,” Lord Haydon cried out in what almost sounded like a frightened protest.
The bishop came slowly to his feet. “Have a care with what you do here, Bagot,” he warned. “Disown your daughter, and I’ve no choice but hear the whole of how Sir Ralf came into possession of Glevering.”
Kate caught her breath in understanding. Rafe was right. To a man these peers all knew what her father had done. They worried that Rafe’s tale might begin with the joust or that Sir Warin’s would, which would completely damn her sire.
Confusion was a pin’s prick. True, what her sire had done was heinous, but no one had been hurt by it, not even the man he intended to harm. What drove them in their fear? It surely couldn’t be the risk of war between Bagot and those who called its lord a liar to his face. Not even in her sire’s hatred for the Godsols could he be so blind as to challenge six of his neighbors at once.
“Did I mention that I hold Sir Warin de Dapifer prisoner in Glevering’s barn?” Rafe offered to the room in a quiet aside.
Lord Haydon jerked back on his seat as if struck. His bench shrieked against the floorboards. With a quiet gasp the countess’s man took two swift steps nearer to the bishop’s chair, as if he meant to protect the prelate from attack. Of those standing with him one man bowed his head as if in prayer.
Her father froze, his face blank. His eyes blinked rapidly. Even at that there was a stubborn jut to his bearded jaw.
Startled by yet another round of strange reactions, Kate glanced at their faces. All this to protect her sire from his own misdeed? It couldn’t be.
At the room’s center Rafe shifted just long enough to send her an optimistic glance. For reasons Kate couldn’t comprehend, the very look in his eyes teased Ami’s voice out of the recesses of her memory. It was a different sort of war her new friend had mentioned, one against their king.
Only then did the jumbled pieces in her brain solidify into a whole. It wasn’t a war waged by Bagot’s lord against the Godsols or against any one of them that the men here feared. Nay, they worried that the dispute over her marria
ge would become the spark that ignited a rebellion against England’s king.
Shock jolted through Kate. She stared wide-eyed at her husband. Surely Rafe wasn’t mad enough to think he could exploit their fear of civil war to force them to confirm this marriage?
Across the room Rafe’s smile was slow and pleased as he saw she understood. Oh, but he was. Kate wasn’t certain if she should faint in fear or scream in rage. Wishing her reeling head would steady, Kate again surveyed the men in the room.
What she saw stunned her. For this one day these noblemen would bow to a single knight. Aye, so they would but only if Rafe and his new wife were very careful in how they played their hand.
“Call my lady wife and hear her tale, my lord bishop,” Rafe prodded, his soft voice sounding like a shout in the tense room.
“Nay,” her sire once again tried to protest.
The bishop paid him no heed as he fell back into his borrowed chair of state and turned his raging gaze on Kate. His expression left no doubt that he knew the sort of manipulation Rafe was using and liked it not one whit.
“Lady de Fraisney, come and tell me how it is you became captive of Bagot’s steward, then wife to your lord sire’s dearest enemy,” he demanded, the boom of his voice great enough to fill every corner of the room.
Her knees knocking, Kate started toward Bishop Robert. God help her, but Rafe was going to be the death of them both! Odd, but even as she cursed her husband for what he attempted, she longed to feel his arms around her. So strong was the desire that it carried her across the room to his side.
When her father saw where she intended to stand he made a deep and raging sound. That only hurried Kate’s step a bit. If nothing more she needed Rafe as barrier between her and her sire if she was to speak at all.
She stopped at Rafe’s left hand then glanced up into her husband’s face. Rafe frowned as he read the fear in her gaze and gave a brief shake of his head, as if to tell her there was no cause for concern. Kate’s breath hissed from her in irritation. No cause? He was worse than mad. He didn’t know her well enough yet to realize she owned no talented tongue. This would fail all because she wasn’t as glib as he.
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