The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (6 page)

Rowland entered William's chamber without knocking, a habit he realized he would soon have to break. Ulrich was in the final stages of dressing William, and, as always, Ulrich was more than a little flustered.

The room had changed in one regard since William had first seen it: next to the chest that had been in the room originally, a new one had been added just to the other side of the washstand. William's chest. It was in this chest that Ulrich was buried up to his very impressive shoulders.

"You had best find it, boy," William murmured in low tones. "I had it made to wear for just such an occasion as this."

"Mayhap he left it in Burgundy when his brain was befuddled while wooing that comely redhead," Rowland offered cheerily.

Ulrich came up abruptly at that, holding the sought-after item in his fist.

"I was
not
befuddled!" he declared stoutly. He added with an engaging grin, "'Twas she who was by the time we left. And here is the mantle you desire, Lord William."

Shaking it out, he laid it over William's shoulders. It was a magnificent garment, truly worthy of royalty. Lined in ermine, the mantle was of white samite so fine that it seemed to absorb all the light that touched it and cast it back subtly altered. William's tunic was of his favored gray, but gray shot with silver thread, and the hem of the piece was edged in a silken band of deep crimson. Rowland watched as Ulrich fastened the ruby clasp at William's right shoulder. That ruby alone was worth a tidy ransom, and as a ransom it had been paid. It was the size of a child's fist, encircled in beaten silver with gold filigree laid atop. It was an extraordinary piece of extraordinarily fine workmanship, even for the Saracen who had fashioned it.

William shrugged once and his clothing fell into perfect place. Ulrich was amazed, as always, at William's effortless elegance. It was true that William gave much thought and care to his wardrobe, but it was also true that he looked good in anything.

Rowland had ceased to be amazed long ago.

Dismissing Ulrich, William motioned for Rowland to join him by the fire. Sweeping his mantle out of the way, he sat on the padded stool, leaving the bench for his friend. Rowland did not hesitate to relate what he had learned.

"The dirt you saw, but they also cower when anyone not known to them approaches." Rowland leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "They are a beaten lot, William, men and women both."

William leaned forward, his gray eyes searching the dark brown ones of his friend. "Was word spoken as to what has beaten them, Rowland? 'Tis clear the last years have been hard on Greneforde, but what could have crushed their spirits?"

"Months without food, without peace, can crush the stoutest spirit, William," Rowland answered quietly, reminding William of what they had both seen following the Way of the Cross. William needed no reminder, nor would he ever; the images of that time were burned into the core of his mind to live until he died.

"Yea, 'tis so," he quietly agreed, "but I am suspicious that more has happened here than burned cottages and bad harvests."

Rowland looked intently at William. William's instincts rarely misled him, and Rowland had learned not to question their accuracy.

"Is there more that you can say?" he questioned.

"Nay," William murmured, looking into the fire, "but I shall not be at ease until Cathryn is my wife in fact." Looking up suddenly, William pierced Rowland with the icy intensity of his eyes. "It is odd, is it not, that of all the cowering folk of Greneforde, one stands straight and tall without sign of distress?"

"Lady Cathryn is a woman of admirable self-possession," Rowland answered simply.

"She is that," William muttered, looking again into the fire, vividly aware that he was much less pleased by that trait than he had been just hours ago. She seemed a cold woman, cold to the very heart; it was not such a desirable trait in a woman he would soon have to bed. "She is also of Greneforde and yet not, for she does not behave as Greneforde folk do."

"She is a lady," Rowland said.

"Being a lady is not always such a difference."

"It is with Lady Cathryn."

"So the evidence shows," William answered softly. "Yet... I am... unsure."

"Do you fear betrayal? The loss of Greneforde at her instigation?"

"Odd that you use the word 'betrayal.' I had not thought of it in such terms, yet the word seems to mold itself to her in my thoughts. But the loss of Greneforde Tower?" William asked, his eyes alight with cool sparks. "Nay, I do not fear the loss of Greneforde. It is mine," he said with authoritative finality.

Rowland leaned back against the worn contours of the wooden bench. "The means to set aside at least part of your uneasiness is within your grasp; the lady awaits you in the solar, as she promised. You have only to reach out your hand and take her."

"Yea, you are right," William said, standing suddenly, his mantle swirling around his calves in a rich cloud. "I have only to take Cathryn to take Greneforde; they are two sides of the same coin, are they not? Whatever pricks me will be plucked in good time."

William turned and strode to the door of his chamber, Rowland following in his wake. The solar was but steps away and he was eager. Father Godfrey and George, the cleric William had hired in London, were waiting at a small table covered with a fine piece of red cloth. The tower was unusually quiet; the dogs had been chased out, the servants withdrawn, and even the rain had ceased its staccato beat. As he was coming to expect, Cathryn stood in earnest conversation with Godfrey, His black brows drawing low, he covered the space that separated them with long strides.

"Then you are sufficiently rested to say the mass?"

Godfrey studied Cathryn's face before he drew breath to answer her. Such intensity, such suppressed energy, in so slender a frame. He had been in Greneforde for just hours, and yet the only topic that had sprung from her lips was the funeral mass. He would have thought, as a woman soon to wed, that she would have had questions about the man she was to marry, but no word had been said of William.

Godfrey bit back a smile. He knew William well enough to know that her lack of curiosity would pinch his pride. William had enjoyed the lion's portion of female appreciation for many years and he had come to expect it as his rightful due; Cathryn of Greneforde was making a severe dent in his armor, though he doubted that she knew it. Therein lay the problem: she treated William as no more than a necessary inconvenience, to be handled and relegated to obscurity as quickly as possible. It was an odd way for a maid to behave on meeting her betrothed, but Godfrey was not a man to seek trouble. He would wait for her confidence, allowing her the freedom to choose her moment. From such benign passivity grew the deepest confessions. He would wait, but he could feel the heaviness of her soul. Godfrey said none of this, but asked Cathryn a question of his own.

"I feel quite vigorous, Lady Cathryn. The mass will be read at the soonest moment, but I am curious." He paused to study her face again, for she seemed on the point of withdrawal, then questioned conversationally, "What has happened to Greneforde's priest?"

"He accompanied my father on pilgrimage," she answered.

"But that was many years ago, was it not? Do you mean that he did not return?"

"Nay, he returned with news of my father's death, but felt the need to journey to Canterbury on a pilgrimage of his own some months ago. He has not returned."

And Godfrey could sense in her manner that she did not expect him to. The situation was most unusual; no house could function long without a priest. Cathryn's manner, always so urgent in her dealings with him before, was now abrupt and slightly evasive. It was odd indeed.

"I have yet to ask, but who shall the mass be for?" he asked, looking for more solid ground.

Looking down at her clasped hands for the space of a heartbeat, Cathryn answered softly, so softly that Godfrey could barely make out the words: "For someone held dear by me."

Godfrey might have had difficulty hearing her heartfelt words, but William heard her clearly enough. Her choice of words did not please him. She was an orphan; who could hold place in her sheltered and innocent heart? There was just one acceptable answer: no one.

Aware of his presence, Cathryn drew slightly away from Father Godfrey and faced William. Her urgency over the funeral mass would have to wait until after the ceremony and the signing of the contracts; it was for that very reason that she was eager to be finished with the formality of the marriage contract. William le Brouillard was lord of Greneforde; Henry had decreed it. He was in possession of Greneforde. That Greneforde was his was an accomplished fact. The marriage ceremony would merely be the seal on an already finished document.

She faced him with neither relief nor urgency, but with the calm control and lack of emotion that he now associated with her. Could anyone be "dear" to such a bloodless woman? She had no word for him, no sign of recognition; she only noted his presence and turned away to hasten the steward in providing wine. Her movements were supple, graceful in a way that reminded him of meadow grass, and, despite her cool demeanor, he found pleasure in watching her move. Her silk-entwined plaits swung as she moved, the pale golden strands capturing the light of candle and fire.

Godfrey had been right: she was a beauty. She was as the troubadors described beauty: slim and small and fair, and though her eyes were dark instead of the expected blue, he thought her beauty the more highly charged for it.

And she had not noticed him, not really noticed him, not as a maid watched a man she wanted. William twitched the edges of his magnificent mantle in suppressed annoyance. He could not remember the last time he had been so ignored by a woman, especially since it had never happened before. In all the years of his life, even during his gangly years of almost manhood, he had never lacked for women's sighs when he was near and groans when he left. Running his hand over his jaw, he adjusted his mantle with a brisk swipe of his hand and straightened his spine. With a curt bow, he accepted the goblet of wine that Cathryn handed him.

Rowland watched William bury his irritation and, correctly guessing the cause, smiled as he accepted a goblet from Lady Cathryn's hand. He was suddenly quite pleased that there were no wars to distract him; life at Greneforde watching these two in their silent sparring would prove entertaining enough.

"Let us begin, Father," William ordered gently, "that we the sooner conclude and feast at the table so richly prepared for us." He politely nodded to Cathryn, wondering if she would seek to delay the matter.

She did not.

"To this marriage I bring," she began softly, "Greneforde Castle, encompassing land twenty leagues north, ten leagues east and west, and bordered by the river Brent to the south; also Blythe Tower, eight leagues distant from Greneforde's western boundary." Looking first at Father Godfrey and then at William, she added without apology, "I have not been to Blythe Tower and do not know in what condition you will find it."

William nodded and said, "When I find it, I will determine its condition and do what is necessary."

"Also," she said, plowing on, "Greneforde village, as you know, is no more. It was ravaged repeatedly in recent years and vanished completely two years ago. The survivors live inside the curtain wall."

"Though there are few to feed, Greneforde's food stores are dangerously low," Rowland interjected softly.

Cathryn stood as straight and slim as a seedling before a gathering wind as she faced the men across the bloodred table that separated them. She stood alone, yet she did not falter. Her next words resonated in the space for all their brevity.

"It has been a hard year for Greneforde."

"So it has been if you have lost all of your household knights in the last months," William said.

Despite the evidence, he could not believe that Greneforde Tower had stood unmanned for so many weeks in a land overrun by wandering mercenaries who answered to no one. Especially in light of Rowland's observation; where had the food gone with so few people to consume it?

Cathryn did not voice an answer to William's observation, but stood silent and still. It was Father Godfrey who directed the conversation back to the marriage contract.

"Is there anything else included in your dower, Lady Cathryn?"

Her composure unbroken, Cathryn answered directly to William, her eyes not leaving his.

"There is no coin, no jewels, no plate. What my father did not take with him on pilgrimage, the years of war have eaten."

She brought little in the way of liquid wealth to the bond, but she brought what William desired most: a home and land. Looking at her, straight-backed and clear-eyed, he could not but feel pride at her honor and her dignity in telling them of Greneforde's poverty.

Father Godfrey looked now at William, checking first to see that George had recorded Cathryn's portion.

"And now an accounting of what William le Brouillard brings to the union."

Cathryn took a slight step forward, her eyes intent on William's. Noting her tension, William thought he had a glimpse into the workings of her mind. By law, their portions must be of equal value. If his portion did not equal hers, the marriage could be canceled. With a large measure of pride and a deep breath, he held her eyes and began.