Home.
Closing his eyes, he dragged in a breath, sweet with the tang of the forests. A sense of peace came with it, seeping through him, sinking into his bones.
She was there. In time, she would be as much a part of his home as the hills and fields before him. She was there—there was nothing more he needed to do. Time would soothe her, would persuade her that calling him husband posed no threat.
As for himself, it was time he took up the reins once more, and reestablished his life, much as it had been before. Little had changed. There was, after all, only one significant difference having a wife made—he wouldn’t have to bother choosing a leman to warm his bed.
Smiling, he heard footsteps, light, hurrying, tapping up the stairs. Opening his eyes, he turned, acutely aware of his anticipation, the speeding of his heart, the impatience that gripped him.
His smile deepened; he went forward to greet her.
But it was not Eloise who emerged in an impulsive rush from the stairs.
He froze, shock and spontaneous revulsion dousing his inner flame. His expression hardened. “Elspeth.” He nodded to the apparition before him.
Wide eyes so washed out that they were neither blue nor gray fastened on him with an avidity that, had he not been so used to her, would have caused him some alarm.
“Lord? Saints be praised! You have returned to us!”
A wild mane of tangled red tresses surrounded a pale, sharp-featured face. Elspeth’s slight, girlish body vibrated with a peculiar tension, a warning that his mother’s best friend’s daughter was in the grip of one of her more highly-charged flights.
Alaun frowned, holding her at bay with his look. “Behave, Elspeth.”
He noted her blue velvet surcote and the dark blotches marring it. His gaze hardened; his expression grew grimmer. “Hunting again?”
Her pale eyes gleamed. “Aye. We had very good sport. My merlin—”
“Elspeth, we will be dining soon and I have other guests. I suggest you change your gown.” With a curt nod, he moved past her, cutting short what he knew would be a disturbing tale. From the stains on her gloves, he surmised Elspeth still indulged her habit of holding the prey her hawks had killed, exulting as the warm blood flowed out of breasts and necks ripped apart by the birds’ talons and beaks. She had been thus warped ever since he had known her—which was to say all of her life. “I will see you at table.”
Hiding his disgust, he left her, quickly descending to the lower levels of the keep, and thence turning into the corridor leading to his stepmother’s sanctum.
“What the devil’s Elspeth doing here?” he growled, the instant the arras fell behind him.
Jerked from contemplation, Lanella frowned. “Oh, dear. Is she having one of her fits?”
Alaun snorted. “As far as I can tell, these days, Elspeth’s life is one long fit. Why, by all the saints, can’t Davarost see it?”
Lanella sighed. “I had hoped she might improve while she was here, away from the excitement of her brothers and sisters.”
“Maman—Elspeth will never improve.” His voice was hard, his verdict final.
“I know.” Lanella closed her eyes, then opened them, a slight frown in the blue. “Even I know that, and Maud takes great care to hide Elspeth’s worst from me. Lucilla knows it, too, but she’s a trifle indisposed at the moment.”
“Oh?” Lucilla Davarost was Elspeth’s mother, and Lanella’s oldest friend. They’d been girls together; Lanella was Elspeth’s godmother, as Lucilla was Alaun’s. He waited for the explanation he hadn’t requested, but which his stepmother knew he was owed.
“Lucilla’s just been brought to bed of her latest.”
He opened his eyes wide. “Another one?”
Aware of his opinion of Howell Davarost, Lucilla’s meek husband, Lanella pressed her lips together firmly, then airily waved. “I daresay this will be her last. She’s almost as old as I am, after all.”
Alaun sent Lanella a sharp glance. “You aren’t that old.”
Lanella smiled. “Anyway, Lucilla had to get rid of Elspeth—you know the trouble they’ve had with her before. Confinements, for some reason, send her into a frenzy.”
“So you volunteered to take her.” It wasn’t a question. Lanella, forever openhearted, once appealed to, would have offered the hospitality of Montisfryn most readily. And, despite his disgust, Alaun couldn’t fault her. Everyone in the castle was used to Elspeth’s oddities, having seen ample evidence of them during her innumerable visits through the years; no one would be surprised by her peculiar flights.
“Davarost is here, too,” Lanella confessed, then hurried on, “And he’s brought a female to keep an eye on Elspeth—a Mistress Martin. She’s a quiet, but watchful soul—I don’t think you need worry overmuch about Elspeth.”
Alaun grunted and turned away. He didn’t really care whether Elspeth or her father was here or not, but a household full of distractions was not what he had been expecting. A wistful longing for the privacy of his camp, surrounded by a veritable army, stole over him. He shook it off, yet his disgruntlement lingered.
Lanella eyed him speculatively, no doubt wondering how best to interrogate him. Before she could find the right words, the gong clanged.
The brassy note resounded about the castle, bouncing and echoing from the many stone walls. Frowning, Alaun lifted his head. The sound had come from outside. He headed for the window. “By St George and his dragon—”
The arras shifted; he halted. Eloise calmly entered. A smile touched her lips when she saw him.
“Ah—there you are, lord.” If she’d heard his exclamation, she gave no sign. Nodding to Lanella, she continued, “Dinner is ready to be served. In celebration of your return, lord, a feast has been prepared and the tables laid ready in the gardens.”
“The gardens?” He remained before the window, his gaze on her face. Slowly, he arched a brow. “I thought I gave orders for the hall to be prepared?”
His question was quiet, but Eloise did not mistake the look in his eye. She raised her chin, drawing righteous dignity about her. “Perhaps, lord, before you give such orders in future, you might care to consult with your chatelaine? All the saints in heaven—acting in concert—could not have cleaned your hall in two hours.”
Their gazes locked; she felt the shafts of gold lancing into her. At the edge of her vision, she could see Lanella watching; his stepmother grinned delightedly when, after what seemed like an age, Montisfryn briefly inclined his head.
“If you say so, lady.”
Breath suspended, she watched as, moving with prowling grace, he neared, stopping beside her, towering over her, his eyes still locked on hers.
She held his gaze defiantly, her eyes flashing a clear warning; she was not about to beg his pardon.
To her relief, he seemed to accept that. Lips easing, he held out his hand. “Allow me to escort you to this celebration, lady.”
“Nay, lord.” Laying her hand on his sleeve, she looked at Lanella. “It was in my mind to ask if you would carry your lady-mother to the table.”
“What?” Lanella stared, sheer astonishment in her face, then she laughed shakily. “Oh, no—you don’t understand. I haven’t been down in years.”
Alaun raised his brows. “Why not? Twould be simple enough to carry you downstairs, and you’re well enough, these days, to sit through a meal.”
“Oh, no.” Lanella gathered her shawls about her. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Alaun. I should stay up here quietly—I’m sure Maud would agree.”
“Maud has taken down cushions for your chair and awaits you at table,” Eloise calmly announced.
Lanella shot her an exasperated glance. Turning, she discovered Alaun by her side. “No, Alaun, really!” Helpless, she found herself hefted against his chest; she glared at him from close quarters. “You don’t need me down there—you’ve got a new chatelaine, remember?”
Ducking beneath the arras Eloise held aside, Alaun strode down the corr
idor, a grim smile on his lips. “Precisely. And if my new chatelaine gives orders that you should attend meals from now on”—he shrugged—“I should at least make some attempt to humor her, shouldn’t I?”
Lanella looked from his face to Eloise’s, equally determined. Then she humphed and settled in his arms.
They were the last to appear. The tables had been erected about the trout pond, the lord’s table in pride of place before a creeper-covered wall. The entire household had turned out, all, from senior vassals to the most junior maid, eager to join the collective celebration. The most eager of all was Alardice, the harper, who, Lanella whisperingly informed Alaun, had spent the months since Crecy polishing a ballad of his own composition.
“The saints grant me strength,” Alaun muttered.
Lanella’s appearance was greeted by cheers; there were few who had seen her in over three years.
Noting the slight flush in Lanella’s pale cheeks, Eloise hurried ahead to arrange the cushions in her chair. The two carved chairs from the hall had been lugged out and placed at the center of the lord’s table. As Montisfryn gently lowered his stepmother to hers, on the left of his, Lanella shot Eloise a darkling glance, which converted to a grateful grimace. Eloise smiled back. She hesitated, then, holding her breath, turned to move down the table.
Hard fingers closed about her elbow.
“Wither away, lady?”
She glanced up, into golden eyes. “I thought that, as your chatelaine, I should sit beyond your guests, lord.”
His gaze held hers. “Nay, lady. Henceforth and forever, your place is by my side.”
His tone suggested he would brook no argument.
She hesitated, then inclined her head. “As you wish, lord.”
He led her to the bench to the right of his chair; his knights had left a space for her there, confirming his reading of their expectations. As he sat her, another round of cheering erupted from the lower tables.
This time, it was she who blushed.
She shot a glance at Montisfryn, which he fielded with an arrogant look. Then, beyond him, her eyes met Lanella’s, delighted and encouraging beneath raised brows. Inwardly, Eloise grimaced.
Warmed by Lanella’s welcome, she had rashly confided that she and Montisfryn expected to wed shortly, once a minor impediment had been overcome. In describing as minor the act of bringing Montisfryn to his knees, she had clearly inherited at least one of her father’s traits.
The cellarer bustled up to fill their shared goblet. She sent a supervisory glance around as the first dishes were set forth, then reached for the goblet. Cradling it in her hands, she offered it to Montisfryn. “Lord?”
His eyes met hers. He reached for the goblet, grasping it by the stem. Pushing back his chair, he stood.
“Friends!” He raised the goblet high. “We have returned victorious!” Mad cheering echoed through the courtyard. “But in so doing, we who return must give thanks to those who remained behind to hold our hearths for us while we ventured on the king’s command.”
Twisting on the bench to look up at him, Eloise listened as he smoothly acknowledged his principal retainers who had remained to hold Montisfryn for him. At the last, he dropped his gaze to Lanella, inciting another round of laughter. Glibly, he continued, thanking all those, knights and less exalted followers both, who had accompanied him on the campaign, pausing to list by name the few who had not returned.
Eloise glanced at the assembled throng. She had heard such speeches before; her father and brothers had all campaigned. Yet she’d rarely witnessed such a consummate performance; Montisfryn had them hanging on his every word, each convinced he was addressing them personally, and that he valued each and every contribution, no matter how small.
When, with a recommendation that they should now apply themselves to their meals in honor of the whole company, he resumed his seat, she met his glance with a serenely approving smile. Roland sprang to his feet and proposed his liege lord’s health, to which everyone drank deeply, herself included, her eyes meeting Montisfryn’s over the rim of the goblet.
The formalities complete, the company fell to.
“This roast kid looks very succulent, lord. Will you try some?”
When he did not immediately reply, she glanced at him. He was sitting back in his chair, his gaze on her, his expression unreadable. She raised an inquiring brow; after a moment, he nodded.
“If tis your recommendation, lady.”
She smiled and served him. He sat forward to sample the meat, well-seasoned with saffron and raisins. When he reached for their goblet, anticipating him, she had it ready.
His gaze trapped hers. She could not be sure what was going on behind the gold screens, yet she sensed he was puzzled, and not a little suspicious. Smiling sunnily, she reached for another platter. “There are oatcakes, too, lord. Will you have one?”
“But what of you, lady?”
She turned back—to be offered a portion of roast kid, poised on the tip of his eating knife.
“Twould not be to my liking were you to grow any slimmer.”
Her smile was perfectly genuine. “Nay, lord.” She let her eyes meet his, then veiled them with her lids. “Tis not my intention to deny myself.” Lifting one hand, she curled her fingers about his wrist and delicately took the meat from the knife.
She felt his instant response to her touch; her smile deepened. “An oatcake, lord?”
As the feast continued, she took great delight in playing her role to the hilt; it was pure pleasure to see him trying to fathom just what she was about. She held few illusions over how hard the task she had set herself would be; nevertheless, she was determined to prevail. That being so, making the most of any opportunity to focus his golden gaze upon her was imperative. Entrenched once more in the rounds of castle life, they would spend but little time within each other’s orbit; she needed to make each minute count.
Selecting a plump fig from a bowl of sweetmeats, she turned to place it on his plate, only to feel his fingers fasten about her wrist. His eyes trapping hers, he lifted her hand and, with lips and teeth, gently plucked the fig from her fingers.
It was impossible to suppress the shiver that shook her.
His eyes held hers; he did not release her hand.
“Lady, I would apologize for your welcome.” A frown played behind his eyes; he spoke softly, just for her. “Twas not as I would have had it. I’m sore vexed Lanella chose thus to make her point with me, and so marred your arrival here. I would apologize for her—tis in my mind she will not have done so.”
Her smile came from her heart. She leaned closer so her words would not carry. “Nay, lord—I need no more apologies. Indeed”—she arched a brow—“I’m thinking twas a very good thing—a most fitting and helpful welcome for your new chatelaine.”
His frown materialized. “How so? I cannot see that an uninhabitable hall is any great recommendation.”
“Not a recommendation, lord.” She smiled into his eyes. “Think you I needed one?”
Before he could answer, she continued, “But as to its usefulness, through the challenge of dealing with it, your stepmother’s welcome has allowed me to establish my credentials with your people.” She gestured at the company. “Those of your household I had not met before. By the end of the day, I warrant they’ll be in no doubt as to the caliber of chatelaine you have brought them.” She glanced at him, one brow arching. “Who knows? Even you might be impressed.”
His frown evaporated. “Nay, lady—you have no call to further impress me. I was convinced of your talents the instant I laid eyes on you.”
“Aye—but this time, tis your intellect I seek to impress.”
He choked. When she rescued the goblet from his hand, he shot her a heavily gilded glance. Coughing, he shifted in his chair.
She waved the cellarer forward, then, the very picture of a dutiful wife, solicitously offered her lord the full cup.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where would you ha
ve this, lady?”
On the dais, Eloise turned to see Rovogatti standing in the body of the hall, her chest clutched in his arms. Jenni hovered beside him, carrying Eloise’s herb-box.
Before Eloise could answer, Bilder hurried past. “The lord’s chamber be up those stairs, lady. To the right.” With a nod, Bilder indicated the stairs Eloise had climbed earlier with Montisfryn, before rushing on down the hall.
Eloise grimaced. Mired in the mammoth task of rejuvenating the hall, she had had no chance to explore. However, given her objective and Montisfryn’s opinions there seemed little doubt over where her chest should rest.
“Come with me.” Dusting her hands, she led the way up the private stair. Warned by Lanella, she’d sent six women upstairs to deal as seemed best with whatever they discovered. Turning right, she wrinkled her nose at the dust.
“Aye, but tis much improved, believe me, lady.” A middle-aged woman of generous girth nodded respectfully. She was rubbing a tapestry rod with an oiled rag. “They’re beating the hangings now. We thought to scrub the walls and floors before rehanging them.”
“Aye.” Eloise cast a swift glance over the walls and arched windows. “I would have you do so.” With a nod for the woman, she walked on.
Three women were on their hands and knees, scrubbing the antechamber floor. Two young squires Eloise had not previously seen huddled in a corner ready to move the heavy furniture at the women’s behest. All turned to stare with varying degrees of curiosity; she nodded and glided on.
Lanella had recognized the wisdom in allowing Montisfryn’s chambers proper to be regularly cleaned and kept ready, a boon for which Eloise had thanked the saints. The door to his bedchamber resisted her tentative push. Exerting more strength, she felt it give, the hinges groaning. Making a mental note to have the carpenter in, she set the door wide.
Sunlight poured through the unshuttered window, highlighting a low table set before the hearth. Upon the table stood a handsome chess set, marble pawns as big as her fist, the exquisitely carved nobility standing six inches high. Smiling, she glanced back. Rovogatti was still negotiating the outer doorway. Slowly, she wandered into the room, taking note of its understated beauty.
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