The Princess

by Elizabeth Elliott

  Grizzled old Sir Roland had been the ideal captain of my English guard, a veteran of countless campaigns. He knew how to fight, but more important, he knew how to train soldiers and manage troublesome men. Better yet, he was well past his glory days and had been ready to settle into the monotony that goes with an assignment to my guard. Sir Crispin, on the other hand, was no aged soldier in search of a soft bed. He looked to be a knight in his prime, as did his second, the much younger Sir Walter. What paths had led them to my doorstep?

  “Tell me your story, Sir Crispin. Who are your people, and what brings you to my service?”

  If he was upset by my bluntness, he disguised it.

  “I am from Almain,” he said. “My older brother, John, commands Lord Aleric’s garrisons, and I was John’s second for many years. The earl recommended my service to your father, and I had hoped to be considered for this very post when you arrived in England. Instead I received command of a garrison at Windsor Castle, while Sir Roland gained the position at your court.”

  I remained silent and kept my expression neutral. Silence often bought more answers than direct questions, and Sir Crispin soon fell prey to the tactic.

  “I captained the garrisons at Almain only in my brother’s absence,” he went on, “but I have already proved my skills as a commander in the months I have been at Windsor Castle. I happened to be present at the hunt with your father and Lord Aleric when we learned of Sir Roland’s untimely passing. Lord Aleric was kind enough to remind your father that I would welcome the post, and I was honored to accept the appointment.”

  I supposed a post in my household was preferable to one at Windsor, and worth the effort to obtain it. My father preferred to retreat to Leeds when he was not traveling, or stay at the Tower when he was in London. There was even less opportunity for an ambitious knight in an all but abandoned royal residence than there was in my retinue. I was a step up in Sir Crispin’s life, but not a very high step.

  “Will you return to Windsor before you begin your duties here?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “The three of us were in London with my brother to attend the king’s latest hunt with Lord Aleric. My servants are already on their way to Windsor to gather our belongings and bring them to Ashland. I am ready to assume my duties here, as the king commands.”

  “My father tells me that Lord Aleric is fond of tourneys and hunts at Almain,” I said, “as well as the occasional armed argument with his neighbors. I fear you will find your duties here rather dull by comparison.”

  “London is rarely a dull place,” Crispin murmured. “Nor is Wales.”

  Faulke made a noise behind me that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

  Crispin’s gaze slid to Faulke in response to the sound, and a look of pure contempt washed over his face, then just as quickly disappeared. My instincts went on alert.

  “Are you familiar with my betrothed, Sir Crispin?”

  “We have not met,” Crispin admitted, “but I know of him.”

  He looked over my shoulder and gave a curt nod in Faulke’s direction. I would wager any amount of money that what Sir Crispin knew about the Segraves was not positive.

  Although they stood behind me where I could not see them, I could almost feel the tension rise in Faulke and Richard. I suspected Crispin would tell me anything and everything he knew, if I gave him leave to speak freely after Faulke left the palace. And that spoke volumes about Sir Crispin’s character. If my instincts proved correct, Sir Crispin and I were not destined to be friends.

  I turned my attention to the wife and brother-in-law. “What should I know of you and your handsome brother, Lady Blanche?”

  The handsome brother stood a little straighter. His sister treated me to a serene smile and spoke for them both. “We are at your service as well, Princess. My brother and I came to Almain when Lord Aleric wed our cousin Lady Francis, now your cousin by marriage. Sir Crispin and I met at Almain and wed a year later. When my husband announced his plan to join the king’s service, my brother decided to accompany us. We look forward to joining your household, Princess.”

  “You are welcome to join my ladies in the afternoons, Lady Blanche.” I swept my hand toward Gretchen and Hilda. “We gather in the solar to sew, or here in the gardens when the weather permits.”

  “You honor me,” Blanche murmured, bowing her head.

  I suspected Lady Blanche’s company could prove interesting. She would have news of Almain and Windsor, if nothing else. I nodded, and then turned to Gerhardt. “I am certain our new captain and his family are anxious to see their quarters.”

  “I will take you to Sir Bernard,” Gerhardt said to Crispin. “He is one of Sir Roland’s knights, now yours. He will show you to your quarters.”

  “Excellent.” I clasped my hands together and pretended enthusiasm. “Sir Bernard will see you settled. I look forward to your company at the evening meal.”

  Sir Crispin looked confused, likely wondering how he had been dismissed without actually being dismissed. The men bowed and Lady Blanche gave me a low curtsey, and then the trio followed Gerhardt from the gardens.

  I glanced over my shoulder and met Faulke’s gaze, but for only an instant. There was a silly sense of relief that he was not watching Blanche’s retreat. Indeed, he looked at me so intently that I doubted he’d even noticed the other woman’s departure. A tendril of warmth began to unfurl in my stomach.

  I hastily lowered my gaze. The staring contests we’d had were bad enough. If simply touching him set my thoughts to wandering, what sort of blathering idiot would I turn into if we looked into each other’s eyes again?

  “I must return to my townhouse and prepare for my move to Ashland,” he said. “We will be forty in all, twenty of my soldiers, eight knights, four squires, my three daughters, their three servants, Richard and myself. I trust your steward or Chiavari’s steward will prepare quarters for our arrival tomorrow.”

  I tried to think of an appropriate response to that astonishing list. Before I could make any reply, he lifted my hand for a perfunctory kiss. “Good day to you, Princess.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Wedding

  Dante and Avalene were married the next morning.

  Apparently the idea of Faulke Segrave living under the same roof as Avalene was all the incentive Chiavari needed to spur him into action. He and Avalene were already betrothed. The king provided a written request to the church to dispense with the reading of the banns. All they needed was a priest’s blessing to finalize their marriage. Chiavari found a bishop.

  From the looks exchanged between the two men, and the obvious fear on the holy man’s face, Chiavari knew something interesting about the bishop. That, or he’d threatened some dire consequence if the bishop refused to perform the ceremony. Either way, Chiavari got his wish and the two were wed in a small ceremony in Ashland’s chapel with less than a score of witnesses present, which included Avalene’s father.

  I intended to enjoy all the delights of the feast I had purchased, particularly a washtub-sized boat made entirely of sugar that held hundreds of prettily colored almond comfits.

  Faulke had sent word this morning that he and his men would not arrive at Ashland until late afternoon, and his daughters would not take up residence until he had time to see to their quarters personally. That meant there were still a few hours before I had to face him again, and a few days to think through my first meeting with his daughters.

  In the meantime, everyone at the feast looked cheerful. The hall was bedecked with sweet-smelling flowers and garlands, the rushes were sprinkled with fresh herbs, and my musicians filled the hall with lively songs. Avalene sat next to me with Dante to her left, then his knights, Oliver and Armand, to his left. Avalene’s father, Baron Weston, sat to my right, then Gerhardt, and finally Sir Crispin.

  I had toyed with the idea of allowing Lady Blanche a
seat next to her husband, but decided against it in the end. There would be other occasions when she would be seated above the salt. Her rank hardly justified special seating at this affair, so I had placed Lady Blanche and her brother after Gretchen and Hilda at the next lower table.

  Lady Blanche’s expression as she watched her husband converse with Gerhardt looked sour with envy. Just then she caught me looking her way, and suddenly she was all sweet smiles.

  I needed to keep an eye on that one.

  A sudden screech drew my attention to a buxom serving wench who held an enormous pitcher of ale. As I watched, a dwarf jester poked her backside with his mock scepter, which resulted in another screech. The bells on the jester’s hat and shoes chimed merrily as he danced around her in his rolling gait. In solid colors, his clothing would have been considered finely made, but everything he wore was deliberately sewn into a riotous motley pattern. His hat was a mock crown, stuffed with wool to make the points stand upright. Without the hat, I don’t think the top of his head would have reached much past the serving woman’s waist.

  “How did you convince Muckle Muck to entertain at this feast?” Baron Weston asked from my right. “He is quite famous throughout Wales.”

  I had to think a moment to connect the name with the dwarf. “Reginald found him. Ashland’s steward,” I clarified. “Apparently Muck’s former master passed away, and the new lord turned him out. He is in London seeking a new post, or so I am told. Reginald tells me we were quite fortunate to get him on such short notice.”

  “His former master was Robert Wrockwardine,” Weston confirmed as he leaned a little closer. “Wrockwardine was a friend of mine, a Welsh marcher lord long loyal to the English crown. I have heard that the heir is not as fond of Muckle Muck as his father had been. If you have no objections, I would like to offer Muck a place in my household before I leave the feast.”

  “You have my permission, of course.” I looked back toward the scene of Muck’s foolery.

  The wench with the empty pitcher was now seated on the lap of a doused soldier, her head thrown back in a hearty laugh while the soldier’s hand casually crept beneath her arm to cup one of her breasts. There was a moment in every feast when a celebration could shift from merry yet respectful to downright ribald. I had a feeling we were at that threshold.

  Chiavari seemed to have the same thought. He stood and made a short speech thanking me for their feast before sweeping Avalene into his arms and taking their leave, amid cheers from the drunken soldiers.

  I turned my attention back to Avalene’s father, who nodded toward the door that Chiavari and Avalene had just passed through.

  “Your first wife was Welsh, was she not?” I asked him.

  “Aye, she was a cousin to Llewellyn, the last Prince of Wales.” He gave me a frank look. “Surely you are aware that her lineage is the reason Faulke Segrave wanted Avalene for his bride?”

  “Oh, most definitely,” I said. “I am curious why you would sign a betrothal agreement with Faulke, when you must have known my father would never agree to the match. Tell me, how did Faulke convince you of his suit?”

  Weston had little liking for the blunt question, that much was clear. Anything he said to me could be easily repeated to my father, or to Faulke. He studied his hands for a time in silence. “The Segraves’ allies surround me,” he said at last. “My lands are rich, and my neighbors would need little convincing to join a siege, if the Segraves imagined some slight on my part.”

  “Ah, covetous neighbors,” I said in a sympathetic tone. “I am familiar with such a plague.”

  “The king could not intervene in an argument among so many of his barons,” Weston went on. “Not without the risk of turning his vassals’ swords toward the crown. There is also the fact that the king’s army is well occupied in the north these days with the Scottish situation. My castles would eventually fall, and my neighbors would absorb my lands into their own.”

  “So a marriage meant Faulke would stand with you against the other marcher lords?” I asked.

  Weston frowned. “My neighbors would not have turned upon me in the first place, unless they were already aligned with the Segraves’ cause. All they lacked was an excuse.”

  “The Segraves’ cause?” I echoed.

  He picked up his goblet and scowled at the empty cup. I signaled to one of the pages, and the boy hurried forward with a pitcher to refill the goblet. It was a delaying tactic, but I was patient. Weston took a long drink of wine before he continued.

  “Your father should be the one to tell you these things,” he said. “The king, or one of his advisers. And your betrothed, of course.”

  My father had spoken in generalities about the Segraves, and I could not imagine Faulke sitting down with me for any sort of lengthy discussion about treason. So far, Avalene had proved the most valuable source of information. Surely her father would have even more insight.

  “My father’s time is precious,” I argued, “and I feel certain he would consider you an expert in the matter of Welsh politics. Will you act as my adviser, Baron Weston?”

  Weston used his dagger to prod at the contents of his trencher. A few pheasant bones remained that he had already picked clean. The longer he poked at the greasy mess, the more obvious it became that this was another delaying tactic to decide what, if anything, to tell me.

  Finally, he leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice. “I do not know the knight next to me, but I am familiar with the new captain of your guard. This is not the place to discuss such matters.”

  So, Baron Weston had something of interest to tell me. I wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass. I leaned forward and caught Gerhardt’s attention, and then spoke to him in German. “Baron Weston would like a private word with me. Perhaps you could make a round to ensure our people are well fed and their cups full. My new English captain should do the same.”

  “As you wish,” Gerhardt said with a slight bow of his head. He passed the message along to Sir Crispin.

  Soon Baron Weston, my ladies, and I were the only ones left at the head table.

  I gave him an expectant look. “Do not worry, my ladies speak only a few words of French.”

  Weston nodded, and then looked over his shoulder as if someone might be behind us. He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Muck was the fool at Cherleton for years until Lord Robert died, and I knew both men well. There are rumors that his son Landon intends to throw in his lot with the Segraves. Indeed, I heard gossip that Landon had sent Muck to London to find his way into one of the courts loyal to the king where he could act as a spy. That is why I found it interesting that Muck found himself in your hire, with a petition to join your household.”

  “You think Muck is here to spy upon me?”

  “You are new to England and will want to fill your court with more Englishmen, now that you have returned home,” he went on. “ ’Tis the perfect opportunity for both your father’s enemies and Faulke’s to plant spies in your midst. I suspect your gates will soon flood with distant relatives, soldiers, servants, and entertainers of all sorts who hope for a place in your court. There will be spies among their numbers, and Muck is unlikely to be the first.”

  “I appreciate the information, and I will refuse Muck’s petition to my household, if you want him.” I wondered how many of my English servants and soldiers were already spying upon me. I would speak with Gerhardt, tell him to be on his guard and to watch for anyone suspicious. Spies were a way of life for me, but I did not intend to make their jobs easy. Stupid spies could be molded to fit my own purposes. Clever spies were dangerous.

  When it came to political machinations in England, I was woefully ignorant of everyone and everything. It had been almost refreshing to be free of the political gamesmanship that had dominated my life in Rheinbaden. Now I realized that I had been living an illusion. Politics had been at work al
l along, and I had best reawaken to that fact.

  Weston’s loyalty to my father would color his opinions, but he had information I needed. “Tell me more about these marcher lords.”

  * * *

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, I had a much better understanding of the political climate in the marches.

  According to Weston, two marcher lords were definitely aligned with the Segraves, and five were of questionable allegiance if war broke out. Landon Wrockwardine was now a sixth questionable lord, a man likely to back whomever he thought would emerge the victor. Interestingly enough, my cousin Aleric was among the questionable numbers. I found that extremely interesting, given that he was one of my father’s favorites, as well as the fact that one of his men was now the captain of my English guard.

  I would not put it beyond Aleric to place a spy in my court, but murder was a bit extreme to accomplish it, even for my family. So far, I had nothing more than Weston’s word that my cousin Aleric might be doing…something. Indeed, I had no idea what grudges Weston might hold against Landon Wrockwardine or Aleric of Almain that might have colored his opinions. The implied accusations might warrant a message to my father, but now I knew to be careful of any messages I sent through Sir Crispin.

  Weston took his leave of the feast, and I asked Sir Crispin to escort the baron and his men to the gates. That gave me a chance to invite Gerhardt to the head table for a quiet conversation with him and my ladies about Sir Crispin.

  “Keep a close eye on all three,” I told them in German. “I do not trust that their assignment here is a coincidence. One or all of them could be spies for my cousin Aleric.”

  It sounded silly when I said it aloud, but I was still suspicious. Aleric’s involvement with Landon’s conspirators was too coincidental.