The Warrior's Queen

by Cecelia Mecca

  “There’s been more talk of bribes,” Geoffrey continued, “which undermines the process. Many believed that electing Matthew Hedford as the new Lord Warden of England would calm the tensions. And while I agree it was a strong choice, his appointment does not seem to have made a difference.”

  “Then we are in agreement?”

  “We are. Consider Kenshire an ally to Clan Scott. And to peace. From what I’ve heard about you, Kenshire could not have a more loyal ally in the north.”

  It was enough, for now. Though soon they’d be forced to move beyond talk.

  Graeme put out his hand, and Geoffrey shook it. No sooner had their hands dropped than he saw her.

  The girl from the garden last night. The one who’d watched him.

  But this was no girl. She was all woman. Approaching Sara and Emma with another woman, she knelt beside them, her hair a shade lighter than Emma’s raven black. Her face was perfectly proportioned and sweet, much too innocent to have been watching him with such frank interest from the shadows.

  “Who is that?” he asked Geoffrey.

  His host looked at the women holding court among a bed of flowers.

  “Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood. Or do you mean her sister Allie standing behind them? And a dear friend of my wife’s.”

  Lady Gillian.

  “A marriageable sort,” Geoffrey warned, as if reading his thoughts. “As is her sister standing behind them.”

  Which meant she wasn’t for him.

  “And soon to be married herself, I believe.”

  “To?” He didn’t care. Or shouldn’t care. But he found himself asking anyway.

  Geoffrey hesitated. “The Earl of Covington.”

  He didn’t bother to hide his shock. “The Earl of—”

  “Aye. And I do believe my wife is attempting to talk her out of the match. But it was, or soon will be, arranged by her father. I don’t believe Sara will win this battle.”

  The Earl of Covington. Graeme didn’t know much about him, but none of what he’d heard was good. And he must be . . . “How old is he?”

  Geoffrey shrugged. “I’ve not asked the man, but at least Peter’s age.”

  He watched Lady Gillian hand Emma a flower and tried to imagine such a woman paired with the decrepit old earl. What could her father possibly be thinking?

  Just then, all four women looked up. Directly at him.

  Sara smiled. Emma winked, the little minx.

  And Lady Gillian simply stared. Did she recognize him? She clearly did for she looked down just as quickly as she’d glanced his way.

  So she was shy today? That had certainly not been the case last eve when she’d watched him pleasure the girl he’d walked away from moments later.

  Had Lady Gillian been in his arms instead, he had a feeling he may have just stayed.

  4

  “Out with it.” Sara knew her too well.

  “I don’t believe I—”

  “Your cheeks are as red as that dress you wore that one year when—”

  “Is he still looking?” There was no use denying anything was amiss, so she might as well enlist her friend’s aid in escaping.

  “Who?” Sara looked back up while Gillian handed Allie a flower, pretending to finish the wreath in front of her. “Graeme?”

  Graeme. So that was his name.

  “The one talking to Geoffrey.”

  When all four of them immediately glanced at the men, Gillian whispered, “Don’t look,” and put her head back down.

  “Emma, did you just wink at him?” Sara asked.

  “Indeed. I had thought it might be awkward to see him again, but his smile is just as charming as I remember it. I thought mayhap it would ease the tension.”

  “Tension?” Allie asked.

  The women resumed their ministrations as Emma told them of her encounters with the Scotsman. Gillian listened with interest.

  She loved weaving flowers onto the wreaths that would decorate the hall for this evening’s feast. Everything about May Day at Kenshire made her happy, and despite the bleak future that awaited her when they returned home, she was determined to enjoy herself.

  “He’s watching you,” Emma said in a hushed tone, as if the men could hear them clear across the courtyard.

  She would not look up. She would not look up. She would . . .

  And yet she did. “My. . . he’s tall,” she blurted.

  She’d thought Geoffrey impressively tall, but Graeme outstripped him. He looked even more handsome in daylight, if possible, but it was his unflinching gaze she noticed now. Directed at her.

  Gillian turned to Sara. “So who exactly is he?”

  “You never answered my question. Why did you look as if you saw the Monk of Byland’s spirit when you spotted him?”

  Should I say such a thing aloud? Will Emma think poorly of me?

  “Gillian . . . ,” Sara prodded.

  “Please don’t think ill of me,” she said, turning plaintively toward Emma. The other woman looked the picture of innocence with a primrose in her hand.

  “I suppose you don’t care what I think of you?” Sara teased.

  Gillian turned away from both Emma and Allie, and blurted, “I saw him last eve.”

  “That is quite scandalous.” Emma smiled at her.

  “Indeed, sister,” Allie agreed.

  “I saw him . . . kissing a woman.”

  Now she had their attention.

  “After you left, in the garden,” she said to Sara. “I heard a noise and, well, I followed it.”

  “Let me guess.” Sara tossed a finished wreath into the growing pile. “The noise was our very own Graeme de Sowlis.”

  Gillian didn’t recognize the name. Was he English?

  “And so you,” Emma continued, “immediately walked away when you came upon them. Giving them privacy to conduct . . . wait, were they just kissing? Or something else?”

  “Emma Waryn!” Though Sara admonished her sister-in-law, she looked as if she’d burst into laughter at any moment.

  Gillian felt her cheeks grow hotter. “Unlike the two of you, I’ve never even kissed a man,” she said in an undertone.

  Sara already knew as much, but Emma was clearly surprised.

  “Never? Not so much as a—”

  “Not even.” Allie giggled.

  When some of the other women who’d gathered in the courtyard looked up from their ministrations, Sara stood from her work. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more private.”

  Gillian followed, barely resisting the urge to look back at him as they walked from the courtyard.

  “I understand the garden is quite lovely this time of year,” Emma said, falling in beside her.

  Although Sara made a face at her sister-in-law, Gillian couldn’t help but laugh. She very much liked Emma, who was even less reserved than Sara. She’d never imagined such a thing were possible.

  Just before they came upon the keep’s entrance, Sara’s maid, Faye, stopped her. The kindly, plump woman had been a part of Gillian’s life for as long as Sara had been, and she spared her a smile before speaking. “My lady, Mary would like to begin bringing the flowers and wreaths inside. We fear it will take hours to get them all hung before tonight. All else is ready. The musicians are preparin’ already, in the hall.”

  “Very good, Faye. And can you please see if Cook needs additional help in the kitchen? She tossed me out this morning before I could speak with her.”

  Faye tsked. “She tossed me out as well. Of course, I am not the countess. Of all the impertinent—”

  “’Tis Cook,” Sara said, dismissing Faye’s concerns.

  “Pardon, my lady.” With a quick bow, Faye left them.

  “I’m so very happy for her,” Gillian said. She’d learned through their correspondence that Faye had remarried, and not just to anyone—to Geoffrey’s uncle. She needn’t have continued on as Sara’s maid, but she’d insisted on it, claiming it wouldn’t fee
l right to leave the job to anyone else.

  “Aye, she deserves every joy,” agreed Sara.

  “Oh yes, she is married to your uncle,” Allie said to Emma.

  “I never thought Uncle Hugh would marry again,” Emma said. “They’re ever so happy together.”

  Sara turned serious, and Gillian knew what she was going to say next.

  “You deserve the same happiness, Gill. Have you thought about what I said?”

  The nickname reminded Gillian of her sister. If only Allie could have joined her here. She looked at Allie who would likely join Sara in her protestations of the match.

  Gillian looked from Sara to Emma, both women who were deeply in love with their husbands. Though she was glad for them, she was convinced her story would not end equally well. She’d told Sara but part of the tale.

  “I promise,” she vowed. “We will speak more about this tomorrow. But for now, there’s a May Day Queen to choose, a feast to eat.”

  Sara didn’t look convinced.

  “Tomorrow.”

  It would be soon enough to face the cold reality that a love match was not always possible.

  “Nothing will change between now and then,” she pressed. “Please, let me have this night?”

  Sara wrapped her arms around her. “Of course.” She let go. “Now let us prepare for a night to remember.”

  He had not planned to participate in the makeshift tournament.

  When Geoffrey shoved him toward the lists, he could have resisted. He had been prepared to watch. Nothing more.

  “He is unwed,” his host shouted to the marshal in charge of the match.

  “Geoffrey,” he warned.

  But his new ally did not back down.

  “And reputably an expert swordsman. I wonder how he’ll fare with the quarterstaff?”

  Geoffrey shouted loud enough for all around them to hear, making his participation inevitable.

  “I will repay you for this.”

  Geoffrey, smirking, crossed his arms. “I look forward to it.”

  He was one of few Scotsmen in attendance, making him an immediate target. Of course, his height and build did not help. After just a few rounds, he was marked as the one to beat, even though he’d not touched a quarterstaff for years—not since he’d accidentally knocked his brother out once in training. Graeme had feared the worst, and he’d refused to pick up the weapon for years.

  He hadn’t planned to enter the match, but now that he had, Graeme was determined to win.

  Some wielded the staff passably well; others had not so much as picked one up before. Only two of the participants, both Kenshire knights, proved a challenge.

  Not surprisingly, after four matches, only he and one of those challengers remained on the field.

  “Not bad . . . for a Scot.”

  Graeme ignored the man’s taunts. He picked up the staff and held it at his side, waiting.

  “You know the rules by now,” shouted the steward. “Begin!”

  The Englishman was better than him. More practiced. Extremely skilled. More than twice, Graeme felt the staff sliding from his hand, the only recovery a brief respite from another hit.

  He had one hope of winning: endurance, one of his greatest strengths. He met each hit with one of his own, avoiding most of his opponent’s thrusts. Ignoring the pain in his thigh where he’d been hit, Graeme countered with a thrust of his own. Then finally, amidst cheers and shouts from the spectators, he ended the match with an upward thrust so powerful his opponent’s staff flew into the air in the opposite direction of his body, which now lay prone on the ground.

  “We have a victor,” cried the marshal.

  Oddly, the faces surrounding him were friendly. The men clapped him on the back, congratulated him, and asked who he would choose.

  Damn.

  Graeme had forgotten about that custom. Of course, the whole purpose for this fight among unmarried men was to choose a champion. One who would crown the queen at this evening’s feast.

  Geoffrey threw his arm around him. “Well done. For a Scotsman.”

  “Why are your men not more hostile toward me?” he asked bluntly as they made their way from the training yard toward the keep.

  “Richard,” he answered. “The late earl was a champion for peace, and his father before him. Neither tolerated hate, and as a former reiver, I know better than anyone that there are well-intentioned people on both sides of the border. And ill-intentioned too, of course.”

  The Waryns’ story was known up and down the border. After Geoffrey’s inheritance was stolen, he and his uncle had turned to reiving to support their family. And though he thought as Geoffrey did—that a person’s actions defined them, not their country—there were plenty of men and women who did not.

  “That’s quite a legacy to uphold.” Graeme stopped and looked Geoffrey in the eyes. “I will not allow brigands and lawless miscreants to reverse a thirty-year-old tradition. Richard’s father facilitated the first Day of Truce, did he not?”

  “His name was Spencer. And aye, he did.”

  “I mean to uphold the ideals of that truce, and any man, or clan, who believes otherwise is no ally of mine.”

  Geoffrey nodded. “Then it seems I truly do have another brother in the north.”

  “You do.” And he meant it. Once Graeme committed himself, and his clan, he would honor that commitment.

  “But more importantly,” Geoffrey smiled, looking up at the keep. “You’ve a decision to make tonight.”

  “The queen.”

  “Aye, the queen. Any idea who you’ll choose?”

  The question wasn’t who he would choose but how he’d forgo their required dance. Because, as Geoffrey had not so tactfully mentioned, Lady Gillian was not for him.

  5

  “Oh, Gillian, look at you!”

  Thank heavens for Sara. Not that she needed an escort. It was just . . . she’d only worn this gown once before. Just before his troubles, Gillian’s father had welcomed a nobleman whom he’d been considering for an alliance. Her mother had commissioned this gown for the man’s visit, but Gillian’s suitor had been promptly thrown out of Lyndwood after making a crude comment about the amount of skin the lovely dress revealed.

  She had not worn it since. It was her little sister who’d reminded her of it, and Gillian had anxiously packed it away for this night.

  “Do you like it?”

  Sara, a vision in pale blue and silver, reached for her hand and spun her around. “It’s simply the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”

  Lavender silk lay underneath a white, open-sided surcoat with tiny blue flowers embroidered in so many places that it appeared almost blue from far away. She suspected her mother had fancied Gillian might wear it as her wedding gown, despite its white color. An expensive garment, to be sure, and one her family could never afford now.

  “Did Mary arrange your hair?”

  Though it lay in waves around her shoulders, the maid had indeed twined the sides with gold ribbon, pulling it away from her face. Every time she reached up to move her hair, she touched a ribbon instead.

  “She did.”

  Sara’s smile fell. “I wish—”

  “Nay, not tonight. Remember?”

  “But you are too beautiful. And kind. To be—”

  “Sara . . .”

  “Tomorrow then.” Sara reached for her hand. “Tonight, we celebrate. Will you allow Geoffrey to escort us both?”

  “Allie and my parents—”

  “Will not mind. I shall send Faye to tell them you’re coming down with us.”

  Not long afterward, she followed Sara from the chamber. The countess’s husband was waiting outside, and he bowed upon seeing them. “Lady Gillian.”

  “My lord,” she said, the formality of the upcoming grand feast influencing her.

  And so it was that she stepped onto the balcony overlooking Kenshire’s hall with its lord and lady. When they appeared, the swelling crowd below cheered. All had be
en welcomed to feast with them this night, nobles and servants alike.

  “There must be two hundred people,” Gillian said.

  “More like three,” Sara whispered back, waving.

  Flowers were strewn everywhere amidst warm lighting from hundreds of burning candles. The fruit of their labors that day had transformed Kenshire Hall into a fairy’s delight.

  Just then, Faye appeared with the heir to Kenshire, the sweetest babe Gillian had ever met. When Sara took him from the maid, the crowd below cheered even louder.

  As she watched, one man came into view. One who stood taller than the others.

  He leaned on the stone wall farthest from where she stood, so Gillian could hardly see his face. But she could tell he was looking directly at her.

  “Put your hair back,” Sara said.

  Gillian hadn’t even realized she’d fiddled with it again.

  “You know . . . everyone can still see you even when you try to hide your face.”

  How many times over the years had Sara caught her trying to sweep her hair forward?

  “I didn’t even realize I’d done it,” she said. “There are so many people.”

  Sara handed the babe back to Faye, and they all moved toward the stairs.

  “I’ll never understand how you could become accustomed to such a thing.” They’d reached the bottom, and Gillian took the arm Geoffrey offered.

  “You don’t,” Sara whispered back, smiling and nodding to the crowd. “But they don’t know that.”

  When they arrived at the table just in front of the dais, Geoffrey released her arm.

  Gillian’s parents stood there with Allie, waiting for the hosts to be seated, and she took her place next to them.

  “Mother. Father.” She took her sister’s hand. “Allie.”

  “Good evening, my dear,” her very proper mother said. “Your gown is lovely. You look quite beautiful this evening.”

  “As do you, Mother.”

  Indeed, she looked more like an older sister than her mother. Her hair, a lighter shade of brown more like Allie’s, was hidden under a filer and veil.