Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  The sudden turbulence beside her resolved itself as, cursing beneath his breath, Montisfryn brought his stallion back under control. That done, he leveled a narrow-eyed glare on her. “Lady, unless you wish to divert as far as that copse on yonder hill, to discuss the precipitousness of my reactions to your sharp tongue, I suggest you tease this lion no more. Perhaps you should seek entertainment back along the train?”

  She smiled placatingly, feeling slightly guilty. “Aye, lord. Perhaps twould be best. There is much I would learn from Sir Eward.”

  Finding balm not only in her mysterious eyes but in the fact that she had teased him at all, Alaun curtly nodded. He watched her draw away, then turn back down the column, Rovogatti close behind.

  His lips slowly curving, he faced forward once more. More than once, he had been on the verge of commanding her to dispense with her ‘lords’ and, instead, use his name in private, yet she had a wealth of ways in which she uttered the simple title, infusing it with nuances both evocative and, quite often, erotic. Deciding he had yet to hear her full repertoire, he fell to considering how best to coax it from her. It was certainly one way to pass the miles.

  Deep in thought, he merely grunted when Roland spurred forward to fall in by his side.

  Eloise had an ulterior motive in riding down the column that morn. Despite her comments about Sir Eward, she did not stop by Montisfryn’s commissary, but rode further along, eventually slowing to an ambling walk so that her keeper could come up with her.

  When he did, keeping his horse a little behind hers, she turned to throw him a smile. “Tell me, Rovogatti. How do you come to be with Montisfryn?”

  “Twas after Crecy, lady.”

  She turned in her saddle so she could speak directly to him. “He hired you then?”

  “Nay.” A quick grin lit the Genoese’s dark features. “I was a prisoner.”

  There was nothing remotely prisonerlike in Rovogatti’s present status. “How did that come about?”

  With an eloquent shrug, Rovogatti grimaced. “I was one of the many Genoese hired by the French king to meet the English Edward at Crecy. We are arbalesters—crossbowmen, lady.”

  “What happened?”

  “With my men—I was a captain, you understand—we advanced on the English right. I even recall seeing the dragon and lion banner—twas beside the Prince of Wales’ standard, which we were ordered to attack.” The Genoese made a disgusted sound. “Twas calamity, lady. The goose-feathers rained thick and I—we—went down. I was shot many times and left for dead on the field. I know not how I survived, for the charges must have rolled over us. And I’ve been told the night was chill, as it is in those parts.”

  “But you were found and made prisoner?”

  “I was found by sheer luck. Twas the lord himself—he was assisting those who took the tally of the dead the next day. He told me he stooped to check my captain’s badge—it used to be here.” The Genoese pointed to a blank patch on the breast of his padded leather jerkin. Then he crossed himself. “Praise be to the Holy Mother, he realized I still lived. His squires carried me from the field and I was given into the care of the women in the train.”

  Eloise frowned. “If you were his prisoner, how is it you weren’t ransomed?”

  “Me?” Rovogatti’s amusement was plain. “Nay, lady. There’s little ransom to be gained from a poor captain of mercenaries, particularly not one from the losing side.”

  She raised her brows. That was a fact of which Montisfryn must have been aware, yet he’d given orders for the man, an unknown mercenary, to be cared for. “What, then, is your relationship to Montisfryn? Are you in his pay?”

  Rovogatti grimaced. “I would follow him without coin, you understand. Twould be fitting, for he saved my life. Yet he insists I take an archer’s pay, even to the point of my rank, though he has no arbalesters I could command.”

  Eloise nodded; facing forward, she resettled in her saddle. If Montisfryn had deemed the Genoese worthy of his payroll, and as he obviously considered Rovogatti trustworthy and able enough to act as guard to herself, then presumably there was no reason for her to disapprove of Jenni’s liking for the man.

  Nor his liking for Jenni. Eloise pursed her lips, still not entirely sure she approved. Jenni was yet very young to be lying with a man.

  When the little maid had come to her that morning, Eloise had initially assumed Jenni’s frequent blushes were due to Eloise’s own state—in sympathy, as it were. There had certainly been reason enough to suppose so, with her clothes in a heap by the table and the bedclothes wildly a-tangle. Only when it had dawned that Jenni was blushing at nothing, or rather at her own thoughts, had Eloise seen the light. Released from attendance on her, her robin had spent the night much as she had.

  Her shock had been ameliorated by the pleasure she herself had found in the night’s long watches. Deciding that her only quibble was over what manner of man Jenni had given herself to, Eloise now deemed her questions satisfied. If Montisfryn trusted Rovogatti, then presumably she and Jenni could, too.

  They had rounded the end of the column, dutifully wheeling ahead of the rearguard to ride forward along the column’s other side, when a thin, high-pitched wail reached Eloise’s ears. When the plaintive cry continued, she spurred forward to come up alongside the wagon from which the pitiful sound emanated.

  It was an unremarkable conveyance indistinguishable from most others, with narrow boards covering the wagon’s spine and rude vertical planks for sides. Drawing in beside it, Eloise looped Jacquenta’s reins around one plank. “That child is ill. Show it to me.”

  Only as she looked up did she realize that she’d joined the whores of the train. Bright eyes and pale faces regarded her with an astonishment far greater than her own. Most of the women in the wagon were young—younger than Eloise. Subduing her momentary fluster, she allowed impatient command to creep into her tone. “Come—I have many herbs with me that might help the babe, but I cannot tell until I see it.”

  “‘Deed, and I have many herbs, too, but I know not so much of babes. Know you more, lady?”

  Eloise stared at the peculiar apparition that rose before her eyes. After a second’s sheer astonishment, she realized the old woman, kneeling on the cart floor, had been bending over her patient.

  A faded, but clean linen cap was perched over wispy, iron-gray curls. Remarkably bright hazel eyes regarded Eloise shrewdly. The woman’s face was heavily-lined and tanned, but her gap-toothed smile and birdlike gaze suggested a still sprightly mind.

  Eloise blinked, then calmly replied, “I have no babes of my own, but I’ve treated a whole castle for five years. There’s little of children’s ailments I have not seen.”

  “Five years?” The old woman looked her down and up, even as she lifted and held out a swaddled bundle. “In truth, lady, you seem older than that.”

  Reaching for the child, Eloise absentmindedly replied, “I spent many years in a convent.”

  The old dame snorted. “Waste!”

  Nervous giggles came from the other occupants of the cart.

  Eloise studied the babe, who blinked weakly up at her from the old wraps wound tightly about it. “Is it boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” came a weak voice.

  Eloise looked up. A fair girl struggled up from her previously supine position, anxiously watching the babe. The girl’s face was wan, but flushed. Eloise reached over the wagon’s side and laid a hand on her brow.

  The movement was greeted with startled surprise.

  “You’re burning with fever.” Eloise sat back. “How long have you been so?”

  The girl glanced worriedly at the old dame.

  “Three days she’s admitted to me.” The old woman’s expression was reproving. “But I wouldn’t swear twasn’t more.”

  Under the combined stare of dark and hazel eyes, the girl hung her head. “Perhaps twas five. I’ve lost count.”

  “Humph!” The old dame pressed the girl back to her makeshift bed. “Whichev
er it be, rest you there while the lady sees if there’s anything she can do for your littley. Twill be a load off your mind and help you heal quicker.”

  In complete agreement, Eloise beckoned Rovogatti forward. “Here—hold him.”

  The Genoese looked stunned, but she gave him no chance to argue. Placing the half-unwrapped, weakly squirming bundle in his large hands, she bent over the small body, noting the slackness of the babe’s soft skin, the dullness filming his pale blue eyes, and the weakness of his suck when she placed a fingertip in his tiny mouth. Gently, she palpated his belly, but could find no constriction.

  With a sigh of relief, she straightened and relieved Rovogatti of his burden. Turning back to the wagon, she found all its occupants watching her anxiously.

  “Tis not serious.” She handed the child back to the old dame, who promptly rewrapped it and returned it to its mother.

  Standing in her stirrups to peer over the wagon’s side, Eloise addressed the girl. “Tis just that, with your fever, your milk is too thin for him—his body is trying to grow lustily and there’s not enough going in to let him thrive. Twill be as well to start him on gruel and cow’s milk. And mashed turnip, if there is. But he’s weak, and will not feed well yet—if you will bring him to me when we make camp, I’ll give him a dose that will let his body take nourishment more readily.”

  The girl’s smile was weak, but full of relief. “My thanks, lady.”

  “Aye, but you need treatment, too.” A question in her eyes, Eloise glanced at the old dame.

  The old woman understood. “Nay. She’s not got that, that I do know. My girls are clean and stay that way if they know what’s good for ’em.” The edict was uttered in a growl, but elicited quick smiles from the other women in the wagon, even the patient. The old woman humphed. “I’ve been treating her with chamomile thrice daily. Tis generally effective.”

  “Tis sound,” Eloise acknowledged. “But I have feverfew and yarrow with me. Together with your chamomile, they should act more quickly.”

  She glanced down at the sick girl. “Think you you can come to the fire by Montisfryn’s pavilion once we make camp? I will not have my herb-box until then, and we’ll need boiling water.”

  There was an instant’s hesitation; the girl looked at the old dame.

  Who nodded. “I’ll bring her, lady. And the child. Yet”—the old woman’s lips pursed—“tis in my mind that the lord might not like to see you with us.”

  Eloise waved dismissively. “If tis in my power to help child and mother, then clearly tis my Christian duty so to do. Montisfryn will agree. As you are part of his train, you are also his responsibility. Tis not in question—I will expect you once we make camp.”

  She twitched her reins free of the wagon, but paused to ask, “I would have your name, good dame, in case I need send for you.”

  The old woman’s face creased into a wide smile. “Tis Old Meg, lady. Even the lord knows it.”

  Eloise nodded. With a regal wave, she rode off.

  Stopping on her way forward to ask certain, highly specific questions of Sir Eward, absorbed with considering the best diet for weakened babes, she rejoined Montisfryn at the head of the column.

  The afternoon passed swiftly. They made camp early in the lee of a wood with the wind rising about them. It brought with it the first autumn leaves and the smell of rain.

  As soon as Bilder appeared with her herb-box, Eloise laid it on the oak board and sent Jenni for a wooden bowl. Opening the camphorwood box, she selected a stoppered vial and a small metal spoon, then quickly sorted through her packets. When Jenni returned with the bowl, Eloise sent her to set a kettle on the fire just leaping into life in the dip below the big pavilion. Crumbling feverfew and yarrow into the bowl, Eloise wrapped a scarf over it, picked up the wrapped bowl, the vial, and the spoon, and carefully carried all to the fire.

  As she reached the welcoming blaze, Old Meg appeared with the baby in her arms. The sick girl came behind, supported by two other women. Eloise nodded in welcome, then tipped water from the steaming kettle onto the herbs in the bowl; leaving the brew to steep, she turned to the babe.

  The infant was crotchety, but lacked the energy to cry. Eloise held up her vial. “Tis a strengthening mixture in honey, and twill also ease his stomach.” She poured a small amount into the spoon.

  Meg, anticipating her, slipped her thumb into the babe’s mouth, opening it. Deftly, Eloise tipped the mixture down, letting the babe suck on the spoon.

  “There.” She extracted the spoon, stroking the downy cheek with one finger. “That should deal with your problems for tonight.”

  Gently, she tucked the tiny hand that had come to grip hers weakly back into the wrap. Lifting her gaze, she spoke to Meg, “Sir Eward says he has honey, and some powdered oats and barley for gruel. Twill have to be with water tonight, but I’ve heard we’ll be hard by Gloucester tomorrow evening—it should be simple enough to get milk for him there. I will see to it.”

  “Thank you, lady,” came from the slight figure huddled by the fire.

  “Nay.” Eloise returned to her bowl. “Tis nothing more than what should be.” She checked her infusion, then set the bowl in the girl’s hands. “Sip slowly, and try not to drink the leaves.”

  On the hill above, Alaun stood in the entrance to his pavilion, watching the scene below through narrowed eyes. It was easy enough to guess what was passing; he would wager his witch was lecturing Old Meg on what to feed the girl and how to care for her. Amazingly, Meg, cantankerous old biddy that she was, was accepting the advice peaceably, nodding as she rocked a bundled baby in her arms.

  The toast of the castle whores in his father’s day, now long past the age of active service, Meg played the role of abbess, keeping a shrewd eye on the flock of girls who made their way by accommodating Alaun’s knights. As Meg was more than a match for any over-lustful knight, Alaun tacitly encouraged her. Despite the size of his following, he was rarely called on to settle disputes over wenches, nor wrestle with charges brought by whores against abusive men. A man abused one of Meg’s girls at his peril; in many ways, he regarded her as his lieutenant in such affairs.

  That did not, however, mean that he approved of his wife-to-be’s acquaintance with the old biddy.

  Satisfied she’d done all she could, Eloise turned toward the pavilion, then stopped to ask, “How many other young children are in the train—ones who should be getting milk?”

  Meg’s brows rose. “Bella!” One of the women by the fire looked up. “How many young’uns have we now?”

  The woman began to enumerate, using the names of mothers to define the children. Eloise kept count on her fingers, astounded to find the tally filling hand after hand. When Bella and her friend stopped naming names, the count had reached thirty-three.

  “By all the saints! And you’ve had no milk for those off the breast?”

  “Nay, lady. But most girls keep their young to the teat for as long as maybe.”

  Eloise knew why. “Aye, but they’ll be needing more. I will speak to Montisfryn and see what can be done.”

  With a nod, she left them, quickly climbing the hill in the gathering gloom.

  She entered the pavilion to find Montisfryn at the table. Bilder had already fetched their bowls and bread. With a nod for Montisfryn, she washed her hands in the basin on the chest, then took her seat. After pouring their wine, Bilder left. Engrossed with her discoveries, she opened her mouth—

  “I would prefer it, lady, did you not associate with the women with whom you were recently speaking.”

  She glanced at Montisfryn, mildly surprised. “Nay, lord—tis not my intention.” She picked up her spoon. “However, while there’s sickness in your train, you must expect to see me use the skills the saints have granted me. Tis my duty as a Christian so to do—and you, of course, must be sorely grateful for my assistance.”

  Alaun choked.

  Eloise watched him, her gaze wide and innocent.

  Coughing, he grumbled,
“I can imagine being sorely tried by you, lady, but grateful?”

  She shrugged. “Tis your train and your people—twill not aid your enterprise if they sicken.”

  Frowning, he took up his spoon. “Is it serious?”

  “Nay. The girl will recover well enough, but the child needs better nourishment. And its fellows, too.”

  He foresaw what was coming, but could not stop his, “Oh?”

  “Did you know you have thirty-three babes in your train, lord?”

  “That many?”

  “Aye. And you have no source of milk for them.”

  “Tis common knowledge—” He stopped.

  She waved her spoon dismissively. “Oh, aye. There is that. But the majority of these babes are many months old and need more than the women have to give. Would you not rather have thirty-three strong and healthy villeins than thirty-three sickly and poor-grown? Even once we reach Gloucester, I hear twill be at least six days’ more marching to your castle.”

  For a pregnant moment, he held her limpid gaze, then he raised a hand. “Enough, lady. Clearly the brats have a savior in you. Just tell me shortly what’s required.”

  Pushing her plate away, she gifted him with a glorious smile. “Tis simple. If you will be so good as to give Sir Eward orders to get a milch cow—or if one is not available, a goat—and some ground cereal and turnips from Gloucester market, the matter will take care of itself.”

  He stared at her while trying to imagine Sir Eward’s face if he approached that long-serving vassal with orders about milch-cows, goats, and turnips. Then he thought of Roland’s face should he hear of it. “Nay, lady. I know not enough of your requirements should Sir Eward have questions. Twill be best do you see him directly. You may say you have my authority in the matter.” As a wife would.

  The smile she bent on him was full of feminine triumph. He hid his own, allowing her a moment to savor her victory before adding, “Of course, in return for this boon, I would ask a boon of you.”