Leaving her would be hard, but Constance would refuse to stay at Hunswick if she knew their plans, even though it would be at a great personal expense to her. Bronwyn had known for some time that her old nursemaid and one of the nearby widower farmers had grown quite close of late. During her marrying years, Constance had focused so much on Bronwyn and her mother and their recovery that she had ignored any male interest or her own desires for a family. Children may no longer be possible, but Bronwyn would not deny her friend a chance at love and happiness. No, Constance had to stay.
Bronwyn was about to turn away from the window when she spied the new lord and his companion casually stroll across the courtyard, this time facing her as they made their way to the gatehouse. She could now see both men clearly, though still at somewhat of a distance.
The overly tall one was speaking but it was the other man who had her full attention. There was something about him, how he walked, how he paused when looking around, every movement impossibly controlled, how he scrutinized those who darted by him, his air of command, of self-assurance that only came from experience and mutual respect. Lily was wrong. He was the man who had assumed possession of Hunswick.
Without a doubt, Bronwyn knew she was looking at Deadeye de Gunnar, the new Lord Anscombe of Bassellmere.
Bronwyn leaned against the window frame, silently studying him as he made his way to the gatehouse. But just before he entered, he stopped and looked at the Great Hall, directly to the upper bedchamber windows it housed. One eye was closed, but the other was open and had caught her gaze, refusing to let it go. Her heart stammered and yet she could not look away. His face was a cold mask, hiding every emotion, and yet she knew exactly what he was thinking. He wanted the three of them gone, but especially her.
Then, a second later, he was out of sight. Bronwyn blinked and tried to gather her thoughts. Her pulse was only just starting to slow from its instantaneous reaction to him. He both excited and repelled her.
Constance had been right. The new Lord Anscombe was scarred and not just on the outside. Something Bronwyn understood better than anyone and just how it could change a person. Deadeye de Gunnar was not cruel, just unforgiving. He was no ordinary man and around him she would have to be careful. It was a good thing she and her sisters were leaving and even better that he had denied her request for an audience.
“I think you are right, Edythe,” Bronwyn mused as she moved away from the window and started to rummage through her things lying on the bed. Pulling out a white muslin mortarboard with an attached long thin veil, she grimaced and continued, “We should all wear our wimples. It would be best if we left quickly, quietly, and unseen.”
“And if he calls for me?” Lily whispered beseechingly.
“Then I shall be you,” Bronwyn confirmed. “I think you are right. The new Lord Anscombe is not one to be handled with flirtatious remarks.”
The last comment was made more to herself, but Edythe was too quick to let it lie. “And how do you think the new master of Hunswick should be handled?”
“At a distance,” Bronwyn answered. And without any compassion, she added to herself. From experience, she knew that sympathy was the last thing a person like him would want.
“You’re a stubborn, damn fool, Ranulf,” Tyr Dequhar huffed as he retreated back to the stables, leaving his best friend to discuss escort arrangements with his soldiers at the gatehouse. It was obvious Ranulf was not going to change his mind about evicting the three women—including his bride-to-be—from their home and without so much as a hello.
Tyr had known Ranulf for almost five years and was one of the very few who knew him well, but Tyr would never say fully. He doubted Ranulf ever let anyone know him completely. Then again, Tyr felt the same about keeping his own privacy and had found that Ranulf was one of the minority who respected that. Still, it was hard to keep silent about Ranulf’s unexpected decision to order the three women away and right before the holiday season.
Ranulf’s decision had not been out of character, and yet Tyr had been surprised at the vehemence behind it. Ranulf had not even been willing to listen to alternative ideas or even hear the old woman complete her request for an audience. And when Tyr had made a veiled attempt to ask Ranulf about his reasons, his friend had been gruff, almost severe, stating that once Laon’s daughters saw him, they wouldn’t want to stay. He was doing them a favor.
Tyr had heard Ranulf’s justification, he just didn’t believe it. His longtime comrade was not insecure and Tyr could not recall a single instance of his friend being concerned if someone was uncomfortable around him. Not his soldiers, other commanders, ladies of the court—not even the queen.
When Tyr had first met Ranulf, he had believed the scarred commander’s detachment to be a front, that Ranulf was secretly bothered by people’s reactions to him, for no one could be that emotionally remote. But after watching Ranulf’s cold demeanor for years, Tyr had come to actually believe it. Ranulf didn’t care…and yet, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was compelled to protect these women, even if it was from himself. The man was acting like a fool, and if his friend was standing in front of him, Tyr would probably say so again.
Ranulf stood mute for several seconds after Tyr left. If the insult had come from anyone else, he would have struck him, but he and Tyr had fought and led large numbers of men in several victorious battles. They both had accumulated sizable fortunes. Ranulf had let his build unknowing what else to do with it, but Tyr’s wealth had mysteriously disappeared.
Most believed that he wasted it on women, clothes, and drink, but Ranulf was never one of them. Whatever his seemingly playful and flirtatious friend was doing with his money, it was not unconscious or without forethought. Tyr’s riches had gone somewhere, but Ranulf knew better than to ask where or why. Tyr very rarely revealed anything about himself, and what Ranulf had learned about his friend came from deduction.
Tyr was Scottish and Ranulf suspected a Highlander due to his fluent use of Gaelic. He was also educated, making him from either wealth or a prominent family—most likely both. And while he was not nearly as lecherous rumors made him to be, Tyr was quite comely and consequently, could—and did—enjoy the ladies. But not a one would ever land his friend in any type of commitment. Tyr Dequhar was the only man Ranulf knew who was even more against the idea of marriage than himself. And the reasons why were a mystery.
Secrets, however, did not bother Ranulf. Every man had them. If he didn’t, then he was either still a boy and had not lived long enough to accumulate them, or was a braggart who could not be trusted to keep them. And besides, Ranulf had several of his own. His most recent, he had almost unwittingly exposed.
He hadn’t meant to stare at Bronwyn. But her dark penetrating eyes prevented him from looking away. Even at a distance they seemed to be able to peer behind his mask and see inside his soul. She wanted answers, reasons, the truth. He had forced himself to break their connection, glad she couldn’t see the details of what he really looked like. And based upon his latest actions and methods of evicting her, his angel would probably only view him as the devil.
Today’s encounter solidified his resolve. Until he was in full control of himself and once again uncaring of how others saw or reacted to him, Ranulf had no intention of meeting Lady Bronwyn or her sisters. And if last night’s inability to sleep was an indicator, it might be a long while before that time came.
A short, burly man with curly red-brown hair and matching beard entered the darkened room in the gatehouse. “They’re ready to leave, my lord.”
Ranulf waved Magnus over to where he stood in the dimly lit gatehouse. “Tristan, Gowan, Ansel, and Drake are going with you. One of you is to return at least every two days until I say otherwise. For now, you are in charge of the women’s welfare and I will hold you responsible if anything happens to them.” Ranulf held out his arm and Magnus clutched it. “If all is ready, depart and ride swiftly. By sundown they should be back and safe where they belong.”
Tyr, who had remained out of sight since their last encounter, popped into view and sauntered over with a grin he knew would aggravate Ranulf. “You can thank me later.”
Ranulf gestured to the mass starting to make their way out of the castle gates. “You’re responsible for this?”
“It looks like more are leaving than there are. The women needed a few families to help them or did you think that they should also do without servants, ladies’ maids, or even a cook? I could just see Magnus tackling the job.”
Ranulf grimaced. He had forgotten that Syndlear had been abandoned. “Where are they?”
“The women? Your future bride? Gone. They were the first to leave. So, you can finally escape this gatehouse.”
Ranulf’s brows popped up in a high arch of denial. “Listen, friend,” Tyr continued, “I won’t pry into why you care about what these women think, but don’t ask me to pretend that that’s not the reason behind this nonsense.”
Ranulf eyed his friend for a few seconds and then decided against refuting what was the unfortunate truth. “And just what would you have me do? Force them to be in my presence day after day?”
Tyr did nothing to hide his exasperation. “Not all women are like those of court, Ranulf.”
“No, but I still have a responsibility to protect Laon’s daughters, even if it is from me. It is better they should leave and save them the trouble of pretending not to be offended. Meanwhile, do me a favor and go make sure that Drake knows to stay in the back and help with the slower in the group.”
“Where’re you going?”
Ranulf shrugged and headed toward the round tower. “You know so much. You figure it out.”
Ranulf arrived at the tower steps and was about to enter when the frizzy-haired old woman who had practically sneered at him when he had refused an audience stepped into his path. “You don’t want to be doing that, my lord.”
“I could say the same for you,” Ranulf warned.
Constance held his gaze for several seconds and then moved aside, but she didn’t do so quietly. “Men like you have too much pride and for that you’ll pay a price.” She pointed to the stairwell. “If you enter this tower, I promise that you will have wished you spent just a few minutes with my mistress to learn about this place.”
Her direct stare held no shock, pity, or revulsion at his missing eye. If anything, the woman was quite indignant at his behavior to her mistress and was openly letting him know so. Ranulf found himself surprised by her reaction and consequently, was more abrupt with his reply than he attended. “You’re one of their maids, are you not? Then why are you still here? Leave and tend to their needs. There is no one left who needs your advice or assistance.”
Constance refused to be intimidated. “Oh, you are very wrong, my lord. There is you. Then again, maybe you’re right about me leaving. I never did have the patience for fools.”
Less than a second later she was gone with the insult still hanging in the air. Ranulf considered chasing her down, but he suspected that just might be what she wanted. Besides, he wanted to watch the group—and Bronwyn—as they left. So he entered the structure and began to climb. The stone stairwell wound in a tight corkscrew up four floors to the roof. He didn’t know who lived in the tower as he had not seen anyone enter or leave the structure since his arrival. He had glimpsed a few large items at the bottom in the shadows, but they appeared untouched for some time.
Ranulf pushed open the latched ceiling door and climbed up onto the tower roof. Leaning against the battlements, he surveyed Hunswick.
Located in the woodsier portion of Cumbria, the castle and the lake behind it were surrounded by trees. This made local game plentiful, but farms more distant, enemies invisible, and a strong defense difficult. At least the key defense structures had been converted to stone. But the castle had been originally built around a village and therefore was not laid out for protection, but for improved living. The place had several niceties, such as a chapel, a dovecote, and several wooden lean-tos so that villagers could just come and live practically in the lap of their lord.
The people of Hunswick were far from numerous, unlike some large castles where one could hardly move around the yard without tripping over some child, person, or object. Here there was ample room in the spacious bailey, perfect for the upcoming Twelfthtide festivities.
Ranulf had never really participated in the merriment that made up the season, but he suspected that these women did and that their people looked forward to each day’s events. For a second, he felt a brief pang of guilt that he was making them move when it was obvious all the revelry would be at Hunswick. Then he remembered how people had reacted the handful of times he had participated in the holiday and his resolve once again grew firm.
They and I will be better off if they are in their own home and not mine, he promised himself.
Bronwyn pushed aside a low-lying branch as she moved through one of the thickets outside Hunswick. Giving her reins a light tug to the right, she nudged her horse out of the group’s way before pausing to yank off the uncomfortable headdress.
“Stopping?” Edythe asked, halting her own progress.
Bronwyn gave her head a shake. “Just for a minute or two. Never could stand these things,” she said, tossing her wimple into the satchel hanging off her horse’s right hindquarters. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up in a while. I want to make sure everyone is doing well.”
Edythe looked back at Hunswick and shrugged. She had always preferred Syndlear to Hunswick and was glad to be going back to her childhood home. She didn’t have the memories Bronwyn had of the place or Lily’s aspirations of going somewhere new and exciting. She gave Bronwyn a wave and squeezed her lower legs until the horse loped off out of sight.
Glad to be alone, Bronwyn reached up to massage her scalp and untangle the dark gold out-of-control waves as best she could with her fingers. The morning sun was almost overhead, proving only a half hour had passed since they had vacated Hunswick. Besides the one or two nearby villagers that had made clear their disapproval of the situation, no one had approached them or caught up to them, requesting their return. And judging by the stone-faced soldier who had paused on the other side of the clearing waiting for her to continue, no one was going to be coming.
She wasn’t surprised. Whatever his reasons, the man she suspected to be the new Lord Anscombe was not someone who appeared to be indecisive or who made a habit of changing his mind. Normally, she liked an unwavering firmness of character in a person, and found it to be an unfortunately rare quality in several leaders—the previous king for one. Today, however, the unyielding decision had cost her the one place she had ever felt safe and at peace.
Bronwyn gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that the new lord had not taken anything from her that she was not just about to relinquish in a few days and in fact had done her a favor. She was about to urge her horse to rejoin the group when a loud yelp followed by several half curses broke the silence. A second later a bedraggled Constance came into view. Leaves were in her hair and her short legs were squeezing the horse she was riding so hard it forced her plump body forward on the saddle, making her off balance. To compensate for the unsteady feeling, the old nursemaid had a tight grip on the horse’s mane with one hand and, with the other, clutched the leather reins so firmly that the poor animal could hardly turn its head or make adjustments to avoid most of the thick foliage on the path.
“Damn man, forcing me to do this,” Constance hissed. “And you, too,” she aimed at the horse. “Remember that I found a way on top of you and I won’t be getting o
ff until I’m ready.”
“Well, I hope that is soon,” Bronwyn chuckled, causing the old woman’s head to snap around with such force she almost fell off. “Whatever are you doing, Constance? I thought you would want to stay with that new farmer you’ve been so keen on.”
Once the horse had stopped, Constance released the mane clutched in her palm and smoothed back her own crazed strays, which were now glued to the sweat on her forehead. “Oh, he can live without me for a few days,” she replied, trying valiantly to sound calm and serene and not the harried picture she presented. “Wasn’t so sure if you could, though. No one knows you like I, so I came to see after you myself.”
Bronwyn cocked a single brow and crossed her arms, mocking her. “Really? On a horse?” she asked, knowing how much her nursemaid hated riding.
“Obviously on a horse. How else could I catch up to you? And don’t look at me that way, I can ride. I haven’t fallen off once.”
“That’s because you’re riding Merry and she is too tolerant and too old to buck you off despite your grip and your seat,” Bronwyn chided, ignoring the old woman’s confusion as she looked down at her saddle. “Constance, you hate riding so don’t ask me to believe you are here by choice. I know you. If you truly thought I needed help, you would have perched yourself on one of the carts before it left. So get down off that poor animal and tell me exactly what really prompted this supposedly selfless stunt.”
Constance grunted and slid off the gentle horse’s back. She moved several steps away, took a deep breath, and released it, visibly showing a decrease in tension. “I had about as much choice in leaving as you did. Someone must have told the new master what I was to you three, so after I warned him about the North Tower, he ordered me upon this beast and bade me to catch up to you. The man shouldn’t be called Deadeye but Dead Fool.”
The Christmas Knight Page 6