The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (4 page)

She was Cathryn of Greneforde.

In that moment of discovery, he wanted her just as fervently as he wanted Greneforde. He had not wanted a wife, but he wanted her. Soon he would have her. The king had offered her to him and he had agreed; the king had commanded her to marry and she was Henry's to command. Aye, she would be his. There was no turning away from this alliance, this bonding; by day's end, he would have her.

She stood alone and suddenly he grew suspicious. He had ridden in alone, without his men, and he could see none of the men of Greneforde. It would be a perfect trap, did she choose to spring it, though she would be a fool to stand against the king. Henry was not Stephen, a king to turn away when those he ruled rebelled against his will. Mayhap she did not know the fiber of the man who now ruled England.

"I am William le Brouillard," he declared without raising his helm, "sent by Henry the Second to secure Greneforde and marry the Lady Cathryn."

His stony monotone was hardly encouraging, but Cathryn smiled slightly and replied, "Welcome, William le Brouillard, Lord of Greneforde."

Rowland charged into the courtyard, his horse blowing clouds of pearl into the air and his hand going immediately to the blade at his side. Quietly he spoke.

"I see no men-at-arms, William."

William clasped the hilt of his own blade, gripping the handle with mailed fists. Not one link of mail would he remove until he was certain no treachery was afoot. With his helm in place, his eyes scanned the curtain walk and the portals of the outbuildings. "Where are your knights, your squires, lady?"

Though she could not see the scowl that framed his eyes, she could hear the harsh edge to his voice.

"Dead, my lord," she answered quickly. "All dead."

William's eyes swung back to hers, and he asked her brusquely, "How long?"

"The last knight pledged to me died three months ago, my lord," Cathryn answered in a strange monotone.

Kendall, Ulrich, and the others were riding into the yard, the clink and squeak of their coming almost drowning out the softly spoken words of Lady Cathryn. Her eyes had left him as she searched the faces of the men who rode with him, eyes that seemed to seek the measure of each man they touched, and then he saw her face brighten.

Strangely he was annoyed. Following her look, he realized that she was staring at Father Godfrey with a look of keen anticipation. Did she hunger for the wedding then? If so, why not look at him thusly?

With his men about him, fully armed and ready, William relaxed his guard. Whether her men were dead or not, he and the knights who followed him would take possession of Greneforde. It was the simple truth that he had never been bested in battle.

It was also the simple truth that he wanted, suddenly and quite urgently, for Cathryn to see the man she would call husband. He wanted her attention. He wanted all of it. He wanted her eyes to be as riveted to him as his eyes were to her. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, William lifted off his helm with one hand.

When the new lord of Greneforde removed his plain iron gray helm, Cathryn followed his movement, more pleased that he was not so prepared for battle than eager to see his face. When she did see him, he very effectively arrested her attention.

His hair was black and curled and cut short in the manner of the Norman French. Black brows, thick and sweeping, arched over abundant lashes that encircled eyes of polished gray. A straight nose, blunted at the tip, pointed to a wide mouth. The skin of his face was the color of rich cream and shaved, also in French fashion. If not for his thick neck and his obvious bulk, he would have been beautiful. As it was, he was striking.

Though he had removed the helm that had hidden his face from hers and so assumed a less aggressive posture, still his gaze as it held hers was silently challenging and unrepentantly proud. Her eyes did not waver from his; she did not blink or flush or shift her feet in the face of his challenge. And he was challenging her, though she could not fathom why. Her composure would not allow him to see her confused reaction to his beauty, which was causing her inner parts to heave and roll without mercy. He was lord here, but he would not so easily be lord over her. She was no fool to be bested by simple good looks. Greneforde he could have, as he would soon have her by all that was legal and binding, but her thoughts and her heart were her own and would remain so. Greneforde would be his; Cathryn would not, and if she was clever, he would never know that she eluded him. Male pride crashed against the strength of willful submission to roll over her as harmlessly as waves roll over sand.

And so she faced him, this man who would be lord over her by day's end.

Cathryn curtsied deeply to the waiting company.

"Greneforde welcomes you," she said clearly, though her voice never rose above normal pitch. "We will see to your comfort if you would dismount."

William, watching closely for her reaction to him and nonplussed that she seemed only momentarily disconcerted, now looked and saw that men had materialized out of the shadows. There were not many, but then, he did not know if these few represented all Greneforde had to offer. Certainly those he saw were nothing remarkable. In fact, the more closely he looked, the more he was sure that the only thing noteworthy about the men who came forward with such hesitation was that they were filthy. Clothes that looked better suited to be rags draped their spare bodies; lack of good cloth he could understand, but not the lack of washing, not with a river so close at hand.

Rowland studied William's face, his eyes shining with mirth, but when he spoke his tone was well modulated.

"How does the lord of Greneforde find his villeins?"

William grunted softly, removing the mufflers that sheathed his hands.

"I find them in need of washing," he answered in a quiet rumble.

"Will that be your first duty as lord? Preparing baths for your people?"

William shot Rowland a frigid glance, but said good-naturedly, "'Twould not be time ill spent, not when I will be in such close proximity."

Rowland smiled and dismounted, handing his reins into the grimy hands of a hunched-over man long past his prime. He watched as the man carefully led his mount away into the stable; for all his dirt, he seemed capable.

"The Lady Cathryn is clean. You should have no reason for complaint when in close proximity to her," he said dryly.

William did not answer immediately, his gaze resting upon the woman who would soon sign the marriage contract. After her initial greeting, she had paid him scant attention; her face had been drawn to one man only, and that man was Father Godfrey. She spoke with him now, her expression earnest though composed, leaning toward the good father almost... conspiratorially.

"What think you of her lack of knights, William?" Rowland continued as they walked across the courtyard, William's eyes never stopped in their circuit of the bailey of Greneforde. The outbuildings were in good repair, though not without signs of hard use. The orchard was well tended. The yard was free of debris. The great tower, in its four-storied splendor, was magnificent. Most towers were of two floors, and some boasted three, but Greneforde,
his
tower, was a colossal four.

"'Tis well I have knights pledged to me," he answered Rowland. "Until the curtain wall is rebuilt of stone, Greneforde is vulnerable. 'Twas my plan to engage an engineer I heard of in London; now I also wonder if laborers should not be hired from other parts than these. The men I have seen look hardly strong enough to lift and heft a river stone."

"Lack of food does not make for strength," Rowland remarked quietly.

William looked at his friend and nodded solemnly. He, too, had noted that the fields were empty, having a look of neglect that spoke of more than a season of idleness. Greneforde and its people had indeed suffered during Stephen's reign of anarchy. Money would be needed not just for the curtain wall, but for food. Still, these discoveries did not dampen his enthusiasm over Greneforde; if anything, they accentuated it. Greneforde needed a strong lord to see to her protection and survival. She had one in him.

In the course of his conversation with Rowland, William had let his eyes stray repeatedly to Cathryn, still deep in conversation with Father Godfrey. Though he could not hear what was being said, her manner spoke clearly of urgency. As before, when she had stood alone to greet his arrival, William's suspicions were fed like dry kindling to a new fire. Godfrey would perform the ceremony and officiate during the signing of the marriage contract; could it be that she sought his help in finding a means of escape from this coming marriage? She had been in sole charge of Greneforde for many years, and he knew enough of women to know that few would gladly relinquish that kind of autonomy. She, like all women of her class, had been reared and trained to manage an estate in the absence of a responsible male, just as he had been trained to fight and command. Cathryn of Greneforde was a fool if she believed she could thwart his ownership of the land; he would command her as he would command Greneforde, with the king's hearty endorsement, and by the struggling look of Greneforde, the land itself might well call out its thanks at his coming. Yes, Lady Cathryn would bear scrutiny until the marriage contracts had been signed and witnessed, at which point she would be powerless to rebel against him. William sighed restlessly as he watched her enter the great tower, her twined hair fluttering above her knees as she walked.

Ulrich had no eyes for the condition of the outbuildings or the land; he noted only one thing and lost no time in voicing his observation.

"It has been ten leagues and more since I beheld a woman under two score years," he almost whined. "When you bring in food for Greneforde, William, could you not also bring in some comely women?"

"You insult your lord, Ulrich, to say such when his bride has just been revealed to you," Rowland said with mock seriousness.

Ulrich blushed immediately to the roots of his hair and stammered angrily, "I did not mean... Rowland, you know... Lady Cathryn is most beautiful, most desirable..."

When William's black eyebrow rose in inquiry and Rowland shook his head somberly, Ulrich blurted, "Not that I find Lady Cathryn beautiful..."

William's other eyebrow rose a notch at that awkward insult.

"Nay! 'Tis that she is to be your wife!" Ulrich nearly shouted.

At those words, William smiled slightly as he stood in the portal of the stair enclosure.

"'Tis so," he said simply. Then, his gray eyes piercing the darkness of the stair, he added quietly, "And 'tis time to see that Lady Cathryn is likewise sure of it."

He mounted the circular stair quietly, clad in metal though he was, passing through the ground floor storeroom until he reached the hall on the first floor. He was well pleased with what he saw there. The hall filled the whole of the first floor and was well lit by wind holes. A fire roared in the mammoth hearth, emitting waves of heat that warmed the chill stone of the room. The wooden planks of the floor were well swept, the rushes woven into a neat mat and clean. Directly behind the lord's table, pristine in its white linen, a large tapestry depicting a knight in full armor beneath the shadow of Christ's Holy Cross fluttered sporadically in the breeze from the wind holes. Lining the perimeter of the room, tables and benches for soldiers and servants provided ample seating; it was the place he had always occupied before. Before today. Today and for always, the high table would be his.

Again he sought out Cathryn. She had abandoned her post by Father Godfrey and stood in yet another earnest conversation, this time with a servant—by the look of him, the castle steward. William, his own face quite earnest, moved across the room to speak with Father Godfrey. He would know what they had spoken of and he would know it now. This niggling doubt as to Cathryn's obedience to the king would be killed—and quickly.

Keeping his voice low, he bluntly demanded of the priest, "Your conversation with Lady Cathryn was long. Did she seek your counsel in avoiding this marriage?"

Father Godfrey could not keep the spark of amusement from his eyes as he faced William, nor did he try overly hard.

"Nay, William."

It was hardly a sufficient answer, to William's mind. He pressed, "Does she try to delay the signing? For there will be no delay. My mind will not rest until this matter is settled."

"Nay, William, we spoke not of the marriage," Godfrey answered with a smile.

"If she wanted to know something of the man she is pledged to, it would have been better to—"

"William, we spoke not of you," Godfrey interrupted with a wide smile.

William le Brouillard, known on three continents for his fighting ability and his beauty of from, frowned down at the priest.

"Lady Cathryn," Godfrey supplied, "is quite anxious for me to say a mass for the dead." At William's blank look, he added, "That is all that we spoke of, William."

"Then you must say one at the soonest opportunity," William answered calmly, his composure back in place.

Godfrey nodded in acquiescence, his own expression carefully bland.

William, hearing Rowland approach, turned to face him, more than glad to abandon his conversation with Father Godfrey. They scanned the hall together. It was not the hall itself that occupied his thoughts now, but the inhabitants. Servants moved briskly about the space, intent on their purpose, talking and mumbling and directing each other without pausing for breath. Rowland watched for William's reaction. Ulrich's words rang true; there was not a man or woman who was under forty years of age, and each and every one was filthy. Their clothes were encrusted and stiff with the grime of months, if not years. Streaks of dirt smeared faces, trails of meat fat ran along the sides of mouths, and fingernails were black instead of white.