Juliana Garnett (19 page)

Guy felt Annice’s sigh of relief more than heard it in the
rising murmur and looked down at her. A faint smile curved her mouth upward, and he could detect a slight trembling in her rigid stance.

Only when the four vassals had reached the dais and gone to one knee, heads bowed in obeisance as they greeted their lady and overlord, did she speak.

“Rise, messires. I am well pleased to see thee before me, as it has been overlong,” she said in English.

Each man came forward to take her outstretched hand, touching his forehead to the backs of her fingers and murmuring allegiance. Only one man dared look up at the towering frame of le Draca, a swift glance that bore neither enmity nor acceptance. Guy suffered an instant’s doubt. Had he erred in sending for these men? He had thought to please the lady, and that he had plainly done. Mary, but he could only hope that these men would not fail to see the advantages in swearing fealty to le Draca. Even though most northern barons hated the king, and it was well-known that the Dragon gave John unswerving loyalty if not love, Guy had hoped that his act would bind them together. He still hoped to see his plan come to fruition, but ’twas plain it would take more than a few smooth words.

Fortunately, Rolf obviously realized the advantages to having these northern barons’ allegiance. With a solemn expression he moved forward to stand beside Annice, who had come from behind the high table to greet her barons. At seeing the tall earl standing beside his sworn overlord, the foremost baron hesitated, then dropped to one knee again.

“My lord of Dragonwyck,” he acknowledged in clumsy French.

“Rise, sir,” Rolf said in English, “and name thyself as I maun greet thee properly.”

A look of startlement flickered for an instant upon the baron’s face before he hid it well and rose to his feet. “I am Cleit of Wulfcot, in Durham. Long have I served the house of Beauchamp, and fain have served Lord Hugh’s daughter.”

“Sir Cleit, thy service is well-known to me, and spoken of most proudly by those who know of thee. I commend thee for thy loyalty.”

Guy noted well the pleased expression on the baron’s
face and relaxed. Yea, Rolf of Dragonwyck would swiftly comprehend the need to bind these men to him in faithful service and had the facile wit to accomplish it.

A glance at the lady Annice revealed that she was well pleased by her betrothed’s greeting to her vassals, and Guy drew in a deep breath of relief. There were times that even the best-planned acts could go awry by a chance word or deed, and he spared a moments prayer of gratitude that his daring had caused no grief. It could easily have gone the other way, which would have done his eventual plans no good at all. Nay, ’twould have truly harmed all if the barons had taken offense, or if the Dragon had not the wit to see their use.

They came in turn, Rannulf of Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, and Richard de Whitby in North Riding, followed by Simon de Roget, the eldest and wariest of the northern barons sworn to fealty by the house of Beauchamp. Sir Simon was a pleasant surprise, for Guy had not summoned him. Yet here he was, accompanying Sir Cleit. All had sworn to John, though ’twas said now that William de Mowbray, who was Sir Rannulf’s overlord, was in rebellion. Sir Rannulf had apparently come to align himself with a barony loyal to John, which bore great reflection.

Yea, Guy mused, ’twas a varied and noble company, and well worth the risks he had taken to insure Annice’s safety, as well as Lord Rolf’s future. If her vassals swore fealty to their new liege, all might be well, after all.

’T
is no sport for ladies,” Rolf said gruffly, gazing down at Annice’s upturned face. A patch of pale sunlight streamed through a square niche in the bailey wall to fall across her cheek. “Boars are vicious, evil beasts with unpredictable natures.”

A faint smile curved the full line of Annice’s lips. “Yea, so I understand. I did not ask to accompany you, milord, only when you would return. ’Tis customary to have food prepared for the returning hunters.” She indicated men, horses, and dogs in the bailey with a wave of her hand and slight turn of her head.

“A squire will announce our return in time to set the servants to work,” Rolf replied. He tugged impatiently at his gauntlets, wondering about her show of wifely concern. Light gilded the high curve of her cheek on one side, while shadows haunted the other. There were moments he thought her a changeling or sorceress, for she seemed to transform with the passage of time. From haughty lady to frightened maid, to tempting seductress—aye, she had encompassed
all those visages and now presented him with yet another.

“The cooks even now prepare for the wedding feast,” she said, “as they have these four days past. Shall I have them await your success?”

Horses and riders milled amongst excitedly yapping hounds, while morning mist curled around them in gauzy shrouds. Rolf shrugged. “My people know what to do,” he said shortly, and saw the lift of her brows at his arrogant reply. There were moments he forgot that she was accustomed to commanding her own household, as now. He schooled his rising impatience into a semblance of courtesy and said through his teeth, “If you wish to oversee them, Vachel will be of aid. God’s grace, but he is harried enough with details and will welcome your assistance.”

Hunting stags or fowl would have been much better to his liking this day. Boar hunting was too arduous and lengthy, though he had to agree with Guy that it would blunt the edgy tempers of the visiting barons. As well as his own. He had not missed that knight’s attempt to abate his lord’s surly temper of late and knew it was on the lady’s behalf that he did so. As was Guy’s summoning of her vassals.

What he could not guess was why.

“Go with God, milord,” Annice murmured, dropping into a slight courtesy before turning away.

Rolf resisted the urge to reach out and halt her. He dared not touch her, for fear he would not release her if he put a hand upon her. She haunted his every hour, waking and sleeping, until his frustration was almost overpowering.

God’s teeth, but if the morrow did not come—and with it the wedding eve and nuptial bed—he might lose his tenuous grip on any control he could claim. It must show in his every move, every glance at Annice. He could feel it, as if he wore a heavy mantle of desire slung round his shoulders for all to see.

It came to him then with a suddenness, Guy’s possible motives for the lengthy hunt. ’Twas more than just an outlet for an excess of temper—he meant to keep his lord distanced from Annice. But was the knight’s determination to remove Rolf from the lady’s side due to concern for her virtue,
or to allow her easy access to her newly arrived vassals? Only one of them joined the hunt this morn; the others pleaded weariness from their journey.

Lifting his head from his perusal of the gauntlets clutched tight in one fist, his gaze sought and found Sir Guy a short distance away. The knight stood beneath the heavy shadow of a wall where sunlight did not yet touch. He was conversing quietly with a huntsman dressed in the livery of Dragonwyck.

For a moment Rolf considered what he knew of Guy. He had come to Dragonwyck a landless squire—bastard son of a nobleman, it was said—and had been raised in a Norman monastery before being sent to a wealthy English household as page. His parentage was not known for obscure reasons, and Guy had never divulged it, if even he knew. None of that had mattered to Rolf, for he had divined integrity and worth in the young man during a fierce battle with the Welsh several years before. When the knight Guy served had been killed, Rolf had taken the young page to his own household, where the boy had soon earned his spurs and knighthood.

Being of like natures, both men had dealt well with each other, and Rolf had never had cause to regret taking Guy into his keep. Yet in the past five years he still knew very little about the man. Talk centered on many things, but rarely on the young knights past.

Now Rolf began to wonder if he had been hasty in placing his trust. Boar hunts were dangerous, and he had not missed the light in Sir Guy’s eyes whenever Annice entered the hall. Should he be wary? ’Twould not be the first time a man had been killed in a hunt and murder suspected.

As if sensing that Rolf was thinking about him, Guy chose that moment to look up from his conversation with the huntsman, and there was a vaguely startled expression on his face. After a swift glance at the huntsman and a sharply spoken comment, Guy stepped from the shadows. Sunlight broke over the bailey in a glittering wash, shining on his dark hair as Guy strode to Rolf and stopped.

“Milord, Gowain informs me that fresh fewmets and spoor have been found in the forest beyond the village to
mark the recent passage of several boars. Shall I send some of the men in that direction?”

“Certes,” Rolf replied casually. “Let the beaters find the game as they will, while the barons rumble and growl with aching heads. I thought the purpose of the hunt was to soothe restless tempers.”

“And so it is, milord.” Guy’s smile was fleeting. “But the pursuit of fleeing game will soon rouse them to sweet natures, mark me on’t.”

Rolf’s gaze met the hazel eyes staring back at him. “I shall, Sir Guy. By day’s end. I expect all tempers to be well mended.”

Catching up the reins to his mount, Rolf stepped into the saddle with a mutter of caution to the squire who handed him his lance. When he was settled, Bordet barking joyously about the snorting horse’s hooves, he glanced up to see Annice watching him from the top step of the guardhouse. A faint smile curved her mouth, and a light breeze tugged at the hem of her skirts. She lifted a hand in a farewell gesture that caught him by surprise.

Returning the gesture, he found himself wondering if ’twas only his surly nature that made him suspicious of all. Yet it had long been his good fortune to trust his instincts, and he did not dare grow lax now.

Rolf wheeled his mount around and rode over the bridge spanning the moat. The clatter of horses and men was close behind him, dogs straining and barking at their fetters. Guy was not far from him but kept a discreet distance, as if sensing the constraint. It did not sweeten Rolf’s mood. Not even the hunt could do that.

Pale sunlight scattered once they reached the forest. Mist rose thickly over the Welland River, drifting through high water weeds into the dense growth of ancient trees and clumps of brush. It shifted in tattered strands that glided eerily in vague fingers creeping along the low earth. Every sound seemed magnified a hundredfold, as if an entire troop of hunters roamed the wood instead of only a score. The beaters spread out to flush the game, disembodied voices muffled as they were swallowed by the mist.

One of the barons made the sign of the cross to ward off
evil at the ghostly sound of voices without form whispering in the trees. Edgy men gazed around them with uncertain glances. Rolf exchanged a glance with Guy, then spurred forward to take charge.

“ ’Tis best that we separate into small groups. Horns will sound the flushing of game quick enough,” he said firmly, and began to designate the groups. He assigned leaders for each group of men, ignoring their startled glances.

Lord Henry de Sauvain began a protest, but the excited barking of dogs in the distance distracted them. Horns blared the call that their prey had been sighted. Putting spurs to horses, the hunters rode off eagerly, bunching together in the groups Rolf had assigned them.

Avoiding Guy’s questioning gaze, Rolf followed the sound of dogs and horns. Thick brush barred his way at times, fallen logs lying across snaking trails webbed with hanging vines. Then his lance caught on a low-hanging branch that he had not seen for ducking a tangle of vines and was knocked from his hand. Swearing, Rolf reined in and dismounted to retrieve his lance.

He had it in hand examining it for breaks when he realized that he was alone. The others had followed the baying of the hounds, and the horns had grown faint. Mist still clung to the ground in places, though with the passage of time and the sun’s slow rise, it had mostly dissipated. The deep woods of Kesteven stretched about him, dark and mysterious, eerily silent. Rolf looked about, thoughtfully balancing the lance in one hand.

Steam blew from his mount’s flared nostrils and rose from the heated hide in clear waves. Pungent and familiar, the smell of horse was vaguely pleasant. There was another scent in the air, of waxy leaves and decomposing wood, of dank forest and misty breezes rife with the slight tang of salt. The North Sea lay several leagues distant, and he imagined he could almost hear the rushing sound of breaking waves upon the rocks.

The fading clamor of the hunt could be heard far away, muffled by the forest. Reluctant to follow too quickly, Rolf propped a booted foot upon a fallen log. Thick silence enveloped him, broken only by the warble of birds and jangling
of his horse’s bridle as it foraged among dead leaves and branches for succulent shoots of new grass. This silence was unusual. He was too used to hearing the noise of the hall and castle, of people surrounding him. This serenity was blessed, indeed, and he savored it for several long moments.