Ailinn stilled. His eyes burned into hers, then traveled past her shoulder. She heard a soft scuffing of shoes from behind. Slowly she turned, her stomach fisting into a knot. A second man stood behind her, bearing another trestle from the hall — the man with the huge, protruding eyes.
A cold rush swept through her. She glanced from one to the other. Their eyes seemed to fix on her, intent and filled with purpose.
The man with the trestle started toward her. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the other coming forward from behind the stairs as well.
A small sound escaped Ailinn as the space shrank between them. She dropped back a pace, her retreat abruptly halted as her heel hit the step behind her.
Ailinn’s breath left her, and her legs threatened to go to liquid as the men continued their approach. She wondered wildly if her mind played her false. Servants stalking her? Why?
She lifted her foot, backing up one step, then another, clumsily catching her gown with her heel and hearing the fabric tear. She cared not at all.
Her pulse points throbbed fiercely as she watched the men close in on her. Ailinn fought a sudden light-headedness, as inky spots danced to life, speckling her vision. She couldn’t breathe.
“Elskan mín? There you are.” Lyting’s voice broke through the haze enveloping her. He appeared in the archway, accompanied by Rurik.
Ailinn’s eyes leapt to him as he came forward, the servants no longer there. She looked to the side and found them stacking the trestle with the other, behind the stairs.
Ailinn rushed down the few steps to the security of Lyting and slipped her arms about him. Just then Brienne appeared on the stairs above and began her descent.
“Elskan mín, your hands are as ice.” Lyting covered hers with his own and began rubbing heat into them. “I shall have to warm you thoroughly, I see,” he teased, then noted the distress in her face. “Does something disturb you, my heart?”
Seeing the servants move harmlessly away in the direction of the hall for more trestles, Ailinn thought she must be unsound to have imagined they were stalking her.
“I . . . Non. C’est bien, mon amour. I am fine. Though I could do with some fresh air, I think.”
“An inspired suggestion,” Rurik interjected, seeing Lyting pause and glance back through the portal. “Lyting could use a walk himself, to take his mind from Ailénor. At the moment, she is playing a game of merles with the Saxon. Lyting has been stewing that their heads are too close over the board. It matters not at all that her siblings and cousins still surround them.”
Brienne joined them, coming to Rurik’s side, amused by his words. “A walk sounds like a splendid idea. I can think of a few good reasons of my own.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.
Rurik grinned, knowing she thought of their evening strolls at Valsemé, many often ending most enjoyably at their secluded lake.
As they followed Lyting and Ailinn toward the hall’s entrance, Rurik skimmed a final glance back toward the stairs. Something nettled at the edges of his mind. He could not recall ever seeing trestles stacked behind the staircase. Mayhap ‘twas temporary. With the ducal celebrations about to officially commence, the keep burgeoned with guests. Additional tables crowded the halls. ‘Twas likely storage space was scarce.
Still . . . Trestles stored behind the hall’s stairs? Rurik could not banish a nagging apprehension that continued to climb through his senses.
“Come, my love.” Brienne slipped her arm through his. “We have yet to discover whether the duke secretes a lake on these grounds. ‘Twould be regrettable if there is none.
Rurik smiled into her eyes as he escorted her through the entrance portal. “All the more reason to take our leave as soon as we may and repair to Valsemé.”
»«
Wimund and Grimbold emerged from the shadows of the alcove, watching the foursome depart.
“We nearly had her,” Wimund groused.
“Do not worry. She cannot have people about her all the time. There will be a better moment.”
Wimund’s lips spread to a grin over stained teeth. “A better moment and time aplenty to have our sport on her. Time aplenty to deliver her to the ‘princess.’
“Patience,” Grimbold counseled. “She shall yet be ours. Count on it.”
Chapter 3
Garreth stood watching the Normans in the practice yard, intent on their methods of training.
Earlier, Lord Rurik demonstrated varied stratagems with spears. One particular feat — catching the weapon in flight and returning it without pause — left Garreth in total awe.
Now, as the Normans exercised their blades, his own hand itched to take up a length of steel and test his skill against them. Regrettably, he could not. To do so would reveal himself as a man of the sword and belie his purpose here.
Instead he directed his interest to the adjacent field where mounted soldiers — chevaliers — drilled with horses and sundry equipment. The Frankish penchant for mounted warfare ever fascinated Garreth. In England a man rode to battle but dismounted for the engagement itself. In Francia a chevalier remained horsed, the man and the beast becoming a single fighting unit in combat.
Surveying the field, he saw, to one side, that the younger aspiring chevaliers practiced with wooden horses. These they mounted without use of their hands — first unarmed, then burdened with shields and swords and, at times, long poles. The more proficient took turns leaping on and off the timbered forms from diverse directions — right, left, and from the rear. Only the most advanced worked with the live animals, vaulting into the saddles without touching the stirrups and with their blades drawn.
In the far right quadrant of the field, Garreth observed horsemen drill with lances, casting them at targets like spears, stabbing groundward to run through stuffed sacks, and charging straw opponents on wooden horses at speed, thrusting upward at the last moment to unsaddle their “foe.”
Garreth rubbed his jaw, impressed, then became aware of Richard’s approach.
One side of Richard’s mouth kicked into a smile as he nodded toward the far field. “Would you care to test your skill with the lance?”
“And risk making a fool of myself? Nay, I think not.” Garreth gave a small laugh, but wondered that Richard should think to make the suggestion for thus far he had presented himself to be no more than a royal collector of hallowed bones and sacred antiquities.
A slip of the tongue? A snare, perchance? Might Richard suspect his true station? Or did he simply offer genial conversation in a spirit of friendship?
Garreth chose to redirect matters.
“‘Tis said the duke stables the finest horseflesh in Francia. I would favor seeing the famed destriers of Normandy. ‘Tis my understanding the warhorses are bred for size and trained in specific war maneuvers.”
“That they are,” Richard returned with pride. “The stallions have already been put through their paces this morn, but if it interests you, we can visit the stables. Come.”
Together the two men headed back in the direction of the keep, passing near the archery range as they went. There Lord Lyting and his son, Galen, sharpened their skills with bows and arrows.
“You might enjoy this.” Richard slowed his pace and came to a halt. “Galen grows better by the day, and my uncle’s renown as an archer is excelled only by his repute as a seaman.”
Garreth directed a glance to Richard at the last of his comment, but looked back in time to see Galen’s arrow streak to the target and pierce dead center.
Lord Lyting stepped to his son’s side, smiling, and bestowed his praise. For a moment their silver-blond heads bent together, discussing some point of bowmanship. Lyting then nocked an arrow, gestured to the one embedded in the target, and appeared to explain an aiming technique.
Galen stepped away as Lyting took up his stance. Drawing smoothly back on the string, Lyting anchored his aim, released, and, with a blur of wood and feathers, split the shaft of Galen’s arrow in two.
Garreth
’s jaw dropped. Galen, for his part, only shook his head and grinned at his father, obviously having witnessed his sire’s extraordinary skill many a time before.
Father and son launched into another discussion as they strode to the target and inspected the hit, unmindful of their spectators.
“He is called Skarp-Øje, ‘Sharp-eye,’” Richard explained as he bid Garreth on.
Garreth fell into an easy stride beside him. “You say his ability as a seaman surpasses his mastery as an archer?”
“Upon the waters, he is known as ‘Sjorefurinn,’ the ‘Sea Fox.’ Lady Ailinn renders the best version of the tale that gained him that title. You might seek her out and ask her of it.”
Garreth nodded thoughtfully, then his lips pulled into a smile, and he gave a shake of his head. “From what I beheld earlier of Lord Rurik’s prowess with spears, and now that of Lord Lyting’s with a bow and arrow, I vow I hold no desire to ever offend the brothers Atlison. Od’s blood, I cringe to think what they must wreak with a sword.”
Richard chuckled. “From one who has crossed steel with them in the practice yard, I would say the word ‘cringe’ is well put.”
As they closed upon the stable complex, Richard pointed out the various structures that housed a broad collection of horses from coursers, pacing horses, and trotters to rouncies, hobbies, and packhorses. The war stallions occupied a building of their own, while the brood mares were segregated in a separate enclosure, partitioned with sturdy palings to forestall any untimely visits from overly zealous males.
Garreth’s gaze alighted on a stable lad drawing open the gate to the mare enclosure. In the next instant a sight greeted his eyes that set his heart to racing — Ailénor riding atop a splendid golden courser, leading her brothers Brenden and Lucán out of the compound.
Seeing him, she smiled brightly and waved but did not slow her steed. Instead she reined the horse to the right and touched its flank, setting it to a light gallop as she conducted her brothers in the direction of the practice field and the palace gate beyond.
Garreth watched enrapt, unable to pull his eyes from her, nor possessing a desire to do so. ‘Twas exhilarating simply to watch her for she moved with supreme grace and fluidity, one with the creature in glorious abandon.
The mare’s legs reached out, slender and swift. The breeze its passage stirred lifted its pale mane and tail on the wind, as it did Ailénor’s rich auburn tresses to flow out behind her.
Garreth’ s heart caught in his soul, and he recognized in that moment that he wanted her to remain in his life — for now and for all time.
“I thought ‘twas the destriers that interested you,” Richard said in a voice filled with levity as he matched the direction of Garreth’s gaze.
“Destriers. Aye.” Try as he might, Garreth could scarce form a coherent thought apart from Ailénor. “‘Tis unusual she rides a courser, is it not? I mean, ‘tis a large animal for a woman, though she sits it well.”
“Do not be concerned. Ailénor is an excellent horsewoman. My uncle breeds horses of all manner at Héricourt, including destriers. He took Ailénor up in the saddle since she was a mite. Nowadays she requires a sizable mount due to her height and the length of her legs. Wouldn’t want her slippers to drag on the ground riding a palfrey,” Richard jested.
The memory of Ailénor’s long silken legs, entwined about his in the orchard, flashed through Garreth’s mind and sent a hot jolt to his loins. He cleared his throat.
“From what you have told me, I would have thought Lord Lyting would be more involved in sea ventures than horse breeding.”
“He is, in part,” Richard allowed. “He designs ships for my father, who maintains a number of vessels that trade regularly with England — from such places as Jórvík, Lindum, and Lundenburh. Now that the Contentin is part of Normandy, he is more preoccupied with improving the duchy’s stock of warhorses. My uncle foresees the region as a prime place to raise destriers. Its limestone plains will produce horses of strength and size.”
Garreth knew the Contentin, along with the Avranchin, was a recent “gift” from King Raoul. The price of Norman fealty? he wondered, but did not dwell on it, giving his attention to Ailénor instead.
Beside him, Richard continued to remark upon Lord Lyting’s experiments with crossbreeding, disclosing how his uncle had recently acquired a Barb from Spain to put to Héricourt’s mares.
But Garreth only half heard, his concentration so absorbed with Ailénor. Disparate thoughts collided in his brain, rapidly realigning themselves and broaching a course he had yet to consider.
As Garreth faced the truth of his heart and the future that stretched before him, he knew, with sudden, pulse-pounding clarity, all he must do and the inexpressible rightness of it.
His decision made, he felt invigorated, awash with joy and brimming with purpose. Just when his heart was like to burst with excitement, Kylan’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Good news, Garreth!” Kylan bellowed as he approached. “Duke William will grant you an audience this coming hour. My father will meet you on the steps of the keep and accompany you to the ducal council chamber.”
Heartened by this news, Garreth cast a last, longing look at Ailénor as she passed through the gate on her gilded steed.
He must collect himself, he knew — fulfill his mission and bring it to conclusion. Mayhap he could remain in Rouen an additional day or two, but then he must carry his accounts back to Athelstan and have done with his shaded involvement in the matters of the Frankish throne.
Once in England, he would need delay committing himself to a bride and explain his intentions to the king — tactfully and without offense to the sovereign’s kinswomen. Then, upon the conferral of his new titles and lands, he would return to Francia, present himself to Ailénor and her family, and offer for her hand in marriage.
Ideas sprinting through his mind, Garreth took leave of the twins and strode back toward his chamber to prepare for his meeting with Duke William Longsword.
»«
Lord Rurik conducted Garreth to the upper portion of the tower keep and proceeded to a massive oak door, banded with iron and flanked by two men-at-arms.
Acknowledging the Baron de Valsemé, the guards moved promptly to open the heavy door, obviously expecting the two men.
The council chamber proved stark in comparison to the Great Hall below, Garreth thought. Lime-washed walls glared at him, white and naked. Directly opposite stood the duke’s imposing highseat, positioned at the head of a row of simpler, low-backed chairs that faced one another in two strict lines. In a far corner squatted a brass brazier, unlit in this warm season, and against the wall, beside the entrance portal, sat a small service table holding a tray of fruits and a glazed pitcher of wine.
Garreth’s gaze traveled across the chamber to the room’s single window. There stood William Longsword, Count of Rouen, Duke of Normandy.
He turned at their entry, one arm still bent behind his back, the other half raised, a goblet in hand. Garreth had seen Duke William at a distance last night, but now, viewing him in close proximity, he realized the man to be younger than he’d guessed, younger than even himself.
Their eyes met, and Garreth felt the duke’s needle-sharp scrutiny. It lasted but an instant, then William’s countenance altered. The crease between his brows dissolved, and his mouth eased into the semblance of a smile.
“Ah, the Saxon who saved our dear Ailénor from her plight in the pear tree — Athelstan’s thegn.”
“Garreth of Tamworth, Your Grace.” Garreth gave a short bow from the waist.
“Tamworth.” William considered that, coming forward partway across the room. “King Athelstan grew to manhood at Tamworth, I am told, raised up by his aunt, the famed ‘Lady of the Mercians.’”
“Aye, Your Grace. Athelflaed was King Edward’s sister and wife to Athelred, Lord of Mercia. Truly a remarkable woman.
“‘Remarkable’?” William choked out. “I understand she was utt
erly formidable. Fierce as a griffin!”
Garreth repressed the smile that threatened to curl the corners of his mouth at the accuracy of that statement.
William downed a mouthful of wine and regarded Garreth with a close, penetrating look. “You also were raised and schooled at Tamworth, were you not? You must have known Athelstan when he was yet an atheling, a prince.”
“Aye.” Garreth shielded his surprise at William’s knowledge, instantly wary.
“Interesting.” William tapped a thoughtful finger on the side of his goblet. “You are Mercian, then?”
“At heart,” Garreth allowed, deflecting the query for it riddled deep into his soul.
In truth, his father had been a Kentish nobleman — the heah gerefa, high reeve of Aylesbury — his mother, a Mercian lady who once attended Athelflaed herself. Garreth’s mother died soon after he had been placed in fosterage at Tamworth. In time his father remarried and begat other sons. Who could have foreseen the events to follow?
Upon his father’s death, the second wife contested the validity of her husband’s first marriage and, with the support of her powerful Kentish kinsmen, successfully seized her late husband’s estates and titles for her own offspring, disclaiming Garreth.
Inflamed by the deceit of the woman and the injustice of the Kentmen, and disdaining the assault upon her former lady-in-waiting, Athelflaed sheltered young Garreth beneath her wing, refusing to return him to Kent and providing for him from her own coffers when his stepmother would not.
Aye, a true griffiness was Athelflaed, Garreth reminisced — part eagle, part lioness — furiously protective and ready to deliver a swift, sharp justice to anyone deserving of it. Athelflaed’s power did not extend to Kent, however, and she could do naught to help him regain his rightful lands.
“Mercian at heart,” William echoed Garreth’s evasive words, then folded them to mind. “And how fares your lord, Athelstan?”
“He enjoys robust health, and prays the Duke of Normandy does as well.”
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 7