Standing in the shadowed mustiness of the largest storehouse in the inner bailey, she smiled as the chaplain and the undercook, summoned to pass judgment on the usability of remnants from years past, peered into a barrel of salt pork. Two pages, slate and chalk in hand, waited to take down the verdict, their faces fixed in concentration to make sure they missed nothing.
“Lady—I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
Eloise turned as a figure darkened the doorway. Squinting into the glare, she recognized Sir Edmund. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to finish this,” she announced, then made good her escape.
Emerging into the autumn sunshine, she smiled at Edmund. “You have discovered me, sir. Is anything amiss?”
“Nay, lady.” The steward returned her smile. “Tis merely that the carpenter is here. He had to look to some of the falconer’s perches—I wondered if you wished to speak to him about the pigpens?”
She nodded. “Aye. The sooner that matter is in hand the better. Twill do us no good to have the beasts wandering the bailey—I doubt not our lord would disapprove.”
“Indeed. The first time he backed into a sow while practicing swordplay would be the last of the sow, I make no doubt.”
“Actually”—she smiled—“he’s quite fond of pigs. I once saw him cradling a piglet in his arms.”
When Edmund looked stunned, she laughed, but when he looked his question, she shook her head. “Nay—I’ll not give away his secrets. But why not ask him yourself?”
Edmund looked intrigued enough to do so. She sincerely hoped he would. “Is the carpenter near the mews?” When Edmund assented, she laid a hand on his arm. “I can find my way there. You must have many matters awaiting your attention. I would not detain you.”
“Nay, lady.” Edmund smiled. “Tis my duty to escort you. I find it no hardship.”
Continuing beside him, she frowned. “How mean you ‘your duty’?”
“Our lord has made it clear he would not have you unattended in the outer bailey, lady. In truth, tis a sensible precaution—you’re yet new here, and there are townsfolk and sometimes strangers in the outer ward.”
“Ah.” She should, she supposed, have expected it.
They left the calm of the courtyard via the arched gateway, emerging into the merry bedlam of the outer ward. There were people everywhere, pot-boys and grooms playing an impromptu game, as well those of more sober mien bustling about their business at storehouse, forge, and armory. The stables lay to one side, with the mews beyond.
Surveying the vibrant scene, Eloise strolled towards the mews, Edmund beside her. Suddenly, Edmund made a choking sound and swung toward her, clearly protecting her from some sight passing beyond him.
“Edmund?” She was too polite to peer around him when he was so intent on sparing her sensibilities. “What is it?”
Edmund reddened, more, she thought, in anger than embarrassment. “Tis nothing as should concern you, lady.”
His next words, “And will hopefully soon be gone,” reached her on a disgusted mutter. Too curious to let that pass, she waited until they were almost at the mews to glance casually back.
Elspeth Davarost was making for the inner ward, striding along in her usual, rapid and arrogant manner. From the heavily-cuffed gloves Eloise glimpsed as the girl disappeared into the shadows of the gateway, Eloise assumed Elspeth had just returned from flying her hawks. It was, apparently, a fancy she much indulged.
That, however, did not explain the wary, sidelong glances cast her by the castlefolk she encountered. Hastening to remove themselves from Elspeth’s path, more than one glanced back, surreptitiously making the ancient sign of warding.
Frowning, Eloise faced forward.
The carpenter was waiting in the lee of the mews. A rough-hewn local, he reminded her of a knotty old oak, his hands twisted and scarred, yet still strong and deft.
“The pigpens? Aye—twould be all of ten years, maybe more, since I last had a look at ‘em.”
Nodding, he led the way to the pens, located in the corner where the inner and outer curtain walls met. Eloise waited while he and Edmund conferred on the repairs needed to reinforce the barriers against the hulking sows.
Her thoughts returned to Elspeth. A strange girl.
They had been introduced very briefly by Lanella; Eloise had been surprised to learn that Elspeth was eighteen, yet still unwed. Although they’d exchanged barely two words since, Elspeth had taken to watching Eloise, much in the manner of a cat at a mousehole, even as she visually devoured Montisfryn at every opportunity. He seemed oblivious; Eloise, however, found Elspeth’s strange, colorless stare disturbing. Sternly quelling a shiver, she turned back to the matter at hand.
“I would say the end of the week, lady,” the carpenter replied in response to her query. “Should not take longer.”
“Good.” She raised her brows. “The normal rates?”
After three minutes’ brisk haggling, they agreed on a price. She and Edmund were turning away when the carpenter stopped them.
“A word in your ear, steward. For the lord. About those chairs he ordered—the one to match the one in his chamber and the dowager’s chair for the hall. He’s in luck—the wood can be had in the town, so I won’t need to go to Worcester as I’d thought. He said he wished for them as soon as may be—you could tell him both should be ready by the end of the week after next.”
“I’ll do that.” Edmund nodded, clearly pleased.
Behind her calmly impassive expression, Eloise wondered.
As if in answer to her thoughts, Montisfryn emerged from the inner bailey. Scanning the throng, he saw them, and made straight for them, the smile on his face making it clear he wasn’t after his steward. It seemed doubtful he even saw the older man.
Edmund took his invisibility in good part. With a bow, he smilingly withdrew.
Montisfryn halted before her, his gaze caressing her face. “I am bound for the demesne, lady. I’d thought to check on the colts and fillies born since my departure. Are you busy—or can you spare an hour to accompany me?”
Her heart leapt. Rarely could they spend time together during their busy days. She returned his smile. “Aye, lord. I will make time.”
His brows rose arrogantly; his eyes teased. “Even should it mean taking time from your herbs and potions, lady? You surprise me—I had thought such matters were pressing.”
“Aye, they are. But I have an assistant now, lord, as you might recall, and one needs to preserve some perspective in life, think you not?”
He smiled, his gaze lingering. “Aye, lady, that I do. Hurry and find your cloak. I’ll get the horses and meet you by the keep steps.”
She needed no further urging. Walking briskly back to the keep—it would never do for the castlefolk to see their chatelaine running—she hurried through the hall and up the stairs.
Turning into the upper corridor, she saw a slim figure coming toward her. The rapid gait and the tangle of straggly red tresses identified Elspeth.
Eloise slowed. Without a sound, Elspeth came on. Although she had not conquered the ladylike art of gliding, her footfalls were silent. Half an accomplishment, presumably better than none.
To Eloise’s surprise, Elspeth didn’t slow, but continued past her. Elspeth’s expression remained distant, her features registering no awareness of Eloise.
A chill sensation swept Eloise’s nape. Pausing, she turned, studying the younger woman. Elspeth had changed into a fresh cote of ice-blue. The color heightened the insipidity of her slack features and emphasized her pallor.
Without a backward glance, Elspeth disappeared around the corner.
Eloise shook her head; wondering, she continued on her way. Only as she pushed open the door to the anteroom did she realize that that corridor led to Montisfryn’s chamber—and nowhere else.
Frowning, she lifted her cloak from its hook on the wall and swung it about her shoulders.
But she forgot Elspeth, and the unease the girl raised in her
, in the sheer exhilaration of riding out with Montisfryn. Only in their more intimate moments did she think of him by his first name; strong and impressively large, mounted on his gray alongside her, he returned the townsfolk’s greetings as they rode through the cobbled streets. Glancing at him, allowing her eyes to feast, she decided he was the embodiment of the most important of the lordly virtues—strong, admittedly arrogant, but protective, too.
The very opposite of Sir Howell Davarost. The baron had moved to sit beside her at table. Despite her best efforts, she had succeeded in coaxing no more than a few colorless phrases from him. He held a wealthy manor not far from Worcester, yet he was so retiring, so very weak, he melted into the paneling in the presence of Montisfryn and his robust knights.
Patiently sitting her palfrey while Montisfryn spoke to the guards on the bridge, Eloise surveyed the mounted troop of men-at-arms behind them. Reconciled to the inevitable, she hadn’t even commented when they’d fallen in as she and Montisfryn had crossed the outer bailey.
Finally quitting the town, they rode south, then splashed across a ford a mile below the castle and climbed toward the higher pastures devoted to the most acclaimed of Montisfryn’s possessions—the warhorse stud.
Shifting to a canter, they let their horses stretch their legs on a long upward slope. She drew the crisp air deep into her lungs; the scents of summer’s demise rose about them, rich and earthy. Leaves piled in drifts beneath the trees; shrill birdcalls echoed through the branches. The clump of hooves on the lush ground thudded like a heartbeat around her.
It was the turn of the season, the fruit of summer’s fecundity poised at the moment where the lifeblood would ebb; soon, it would wither.
But today, life was rich and full, and all about her.
When they drew rein at the top of the rise, she glanced back at the town and castle, then exchanged a glance with Montisfryn, delight in her eyes. He smiled, amused. As one, they set their mounts along a shady path between the trees.
They ambled, the men-at-arms hanging back to afford them greater privacy. The chill of the shadows reminded Eloise of another chill lately encountered. She glanced at Montisfryn. “Lord, is there anything amiss with Elspeth Davarost?”
Alaun blinked, and rapidly canvassed his options. “She is not, perhaps, the most conventional of young women.” He glanced at Eloise, his expression impassive. “She has been much indulged, I fear.”
“Aye, but Lanella has told me she is gone eighteen.” Frowning, Eloise met his gaze. “Tis very old, lord, to be unwed.”
Reading the questions writ clearly in her eyes, Alaun hesitated. When it came to it, he felt no more at ease explaining Elspeth’s affliction than did her sire. He might rail at Davarost’s inability to face reality, but he, too, shied from stating the truth in plain words. He recognized Elspeth’s illness for what it was, but given Elspeth would be leaving soon, he could see no reason to burden Eloise with the knowledge. No more than he would she be comfortable with the fact—worse, she might think to help Elspeth in some way.
That thought was unsettling; the possibility of Eloise drawing close to such strangeness was not one he would countenance. “Tis not something I would have you concern yourself with, lady.” The words came out as a brusque command, harsher than he’d intended. Seeing her surprise, he grimaced. “Nay, Eloise. She will be leaving soon, and is of no importance to us.”
Eloise was puzzled, not least by his uncharacteristic abruptness. “But tis most unusual, lord, to find one of her station so poorly-prepared. She has no accomplishments that I’ve yet discerned, and seems ill-inclined to learn. Are her parents so disinterested that they seek not a marriage for her?”
She glanced up in time to see Montisfryn’s expression grow stern.
“Nay, lady—leave be. You have concerns aplenty without adding Elspeth Davarost to the list.” He let only a bare second elapse before commanding, “Come—let us ride.”
Distracted by the need to keep pace with him, Eloise mentally consigned Elspeth Davarost to the nether regions of her mind, only too ready, when all was said and done, to fall in with his suggestion.
They broke from the trees following a well-beaten track over a broad sweep of open ground. Ahead stood a formidable wooden palisade, within which a stone tower rose high above the treetops. As they cantered toward it, Montisfryn explained, “The fields closest to the fort hold the yearlings. These enclosures”—a broad sweep of his gauntleted hand indicated the fields on either side—“hold the mares in foal. That way, if an attack is feared, the guards can get the most vulnerable animals inside the compound before any raiding party gets close. The tower is visible from the keep, so a signal to the castle will call the garrison to their relief.”
Casting her eye over the terrain, Eloise recalled how well he played chess. “Do the Welsh raid this far?”
“Aye, but they rarely come close to us—our horses hold little temptation for them. Destriers are not agile, and their mountain tracks require great nimbleness. Nay, tis English, outlaws and others who should know better, who have ever been the stud’s greatest threat.”
“But where are the stallions? Aren’t they the most valuable stock of all?” She turned to see him smile.
“Aye, but tis not advisable to approach a stallion trained for war while he is with his mares. The few who have tried…” He shrugged. “We have rarely found enough left to bury.”
Eloise grimaced.
They’d reached the heavy gates of the hill-fort. The retainers who held the stud were a blend of soldier and herdsman; they knew how to fight and they knew horses. Leaving their mounts within the palisade, she accompanied Montisfryn as, together with the master-in-charge, he strolled the nearest paddocks examining the newest arrivals with a keen and critical eye.
To her, the colts and fillies appeared much as young horses everywhere, skittish, high-spirited, and gangly. The mares in foal, however, were undeniably elegant beasts, sleek and powerful, muscles rippling beneath sheening coats as they ambled about their paddocks. Nevertheless, it was only when, remounted and led to a large paddock some way from the fort, she set eyes on a prize stallion, his brood mares about him, that she fully comprehended the awesome reality.
“He’s beautiful,” she breathed in response to Montisfryn’s raised brow. The destrier stallion stood watching them suspiciously even though they had halted well back from the fence. Montisfryn held Gabriel tight-reined, preventing the gray stallion from issuing challenge.
As if to gauge their intent, the destrier stallion lowered his head and pawed the ground, one heavy hoof churning the rocky turf like a spoon going through custard. Muscles bunched and flowed beneath his black skin.
“Don’t move.” Montisfryn’s words were a whisper.
In the presence of true majesty, Eloise was quite content to sit and stare.
When they made no response to his taunting, the stallion tossed his head and, in a clear show of indifference, turned toward his mares.
Eloise studied the horses grouped in a loose bunch beyond the stallion; each had a padded cloth secured over their back. “Why do these mares have blankets? The mares in foal didn’t have such protection.”
She glanced up to see Montisfryn’s lips compress, then ease as he replied, his voice devoid of expression. “Tis to protect them from the stallion’s hooves.”
For a moment, the point escaped her. Then a blush rose to her cheeks. “Oh.”
As if he had heard, the stallion chose that moment to demonstrate—amply. Resisting the impulse to turn away—or at least close her eyes—Eloise refused to succumb to the fluster that threatened. It was, after all, a scene she had witnessed oftimes before, albeit never performed with such gusto. Destrier stallions, it was glaringly obvious, were bred for their staying power. Resolved to show no embarrassment, she let her gaze unfocus, not, however, before an unexpected thought flowed across her mind.
How would it feel…she suddenly felt very warm.
Beside her, Alaun frowne
d, the impromptu demonstration bringing vividly to mind what he could not accomplish with his own chosen mate. He did not dare approach Eloise from behind; the memory of how she had reacted on the single occasion he had was permanently etched in his mind.
He slanted a glance at her; the ache in his loins intensified. Swallowing a curse, he swung Gabriel about. “Come. It’s getting late. We should return.”
Side by side, the small troop at their back, they cantered through the paddocks and down onto the track to the ford.
Glancing at Montisfryn’s profile, Eloise found it stern, patriarchal. “I’ve been thinking, lord, that twould be useful to order a second chair for your chamber, so that we may both be comfortable of an evening. Twill be winter soon, and we’ll have long hours to spend so. Think you I should speak to the carpenter?”
Eyes innocently wide, she looked up at him.
Frowning, he slanted her a glance. “Lady, I have yet to hear that you will call me husband.” He waited; she said nothing. With a fleeting grimace, he continued, “Tis clear you need more time—we will wait until you are ready.” Looking ahead, he added, “I do not wish you to feel pressured by such things.”
It was a very good thing that he wasn’t looking at her, else he’d have seen the love that lit her eyes. “Aye, perhaps you are right.” She hoped he wouldn’t wonder at the brilliance of her smile. She looked around. “Are all these fields part of the demesne?”
His frown easing, he nodded. They ambled on through the sunshine, she questioning, he answering, their thoughts very much on each other.
High above on the roof of the keep, Elspeth hung over the battlements, studying the riders avidly. Eyes used to following the flight of hawks had no difficulty discerning their expressions.
“My lord looks content—doubtless he’s tumbled her in the grass somewhere.” Ignoring the gasp that elicited from Mistress Martin, the only one near enough to hear, Elspeth continued, taking a perverse delight in the consternation she knew she was causing her keeper, “I wonder if they did it while watching one of his stallions mount a mare? I would wager he took her the same way. She’s smiling, too, so I warrant she’s had her pleasure.”
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