Love Everlasting

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Copyright © 2014 by Flora Speer

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Wortham Castle, England.

Late Autumn, A.D. 1121.

“Enough!” Royce the baron of Wortham slammed
his hand down hard on the high table. As the sound reverberated
throughout the great hall, the pleasant buzz of mealtime
conversation ceased. Faces turned toward the dais in astonishment
at the display of temper by a lord who made a habit of keeping his
emotions under control.

Sir William the seneschal, who was also
seated at the high table, gaped at his master in disbelief. So did
Royce’s secretary, Sir Michael. Even Lord Cadwallon, Royce’s old
friend, fellow spy, and current guest, stared at him with raised
eyebrows, though a hint of amusement curved his mouth and a twinkle
lit his brown eyes.

“My lord?” The manservant who stood before
the high table holding a large silver platter of sliced meat began
to tremble. The sudden movement sent a spray of greasy sauce flying
off the platter to land beside a spot that already decorated the
originally white and pristine linen tablecloth. “Is aught
amiss?”

“Amiss?” Royce roared. Pointing to the
reddish-brown grease spots that marred the cloth and then to the
platter, he demanded, “What, exactly, is that foul-smelling mess
supposed to be?”

“It’s - it’s a haunch of venison, my lord,”
the servant stammered. “Roasted and sliced, and then sauced with
cinnamon and dried cherries that have been plumped in wine, my
lord.”

“By the smell, it is slop!” Royce declared.
“Fit only to feed the pigs. How dare you serve such a dish to an
honored guest?”

“I really don’t mind,” Cadwallon said
quietly. “I’ve smelled - and eaten - much worse in my time. And I
am very hungry after my long ride.”

“My lord,” William the Seneschal spoke up, “I
believe Alice ordered this menu yesterday, after you announced that
Lord Cadwallon was coming to visit. Unfortunately, Alice is no
longer able to supervise in the kitchen - on your specific orders,
sir.”

“I know, William.” Royce took a deep breath
to calm himself and settled back in his big, carved chair. “When I
spoke to Alice late yesterday afternoon, she looked completely
exhausted. Caring for twin babies a few months old can be no easy
task, especially when a woman has older children to look after,
too. ‘Twas I who sent her to your quarters and told her to rest.
I’ll not have your wife becoming sick for my sake. You may serve
the meat,” he said to the waiting manservant.

Cadwallon smiled at the man and asked for
three slices of venison and extra sauce. Royce accepted a single
slice and barely touched it.

“Lady Alice has been serving as my chatelaine
since Catherine married last summer,” Royce explained to Cadwallon
some hours later, as they walked upon the castle battlements. He
did not have to describe how his daughter had met Sir Braedon
during an investigation aimed at uncovering a traitor among the
band of spies whom Royce directed. Cadwallon had been at Wortham
the entire time and he had been present at Catherine’s wedding to
Braedon, who was now the baron of Sutton. “Alice is completely
preoccupied with her new babies. She refuses to consider having a
nurse to help her.

“The truth is,” Royce continued, “Alice is a
good woman, kind-hearted, gentle, devoted to her husband and their
four sons, and she’s very grateful to me for allowing her to marry
William. But she lacks the firm purpose and the temperament
required for the chatelaine of so large a castle.”

“Perhaps, she is simply overwhelmed and
exhausted,” suggested Cadwallon. “I am no stranger to the effort
put forth by ladies who have to manage growing families as well as
their duties as chatelaines. Only last spring, my Janet warned me
not to get her with child again until after she was finished
overseeing the restoration of our keep. Though, I suspect that was
only her clever way of convincing me to roll up my sleeves and work
harder at the project so it would be done sooner. Which it was,” he
ended with a contented chuckle.

“Women,” Royce mused, a faint smile crossing
his lips. “My own wife, Avisa, was most efficient. After she died,
Catherine took over as chatelaine, so I never had to think much
about the work a woman does to keep a castle running smoothly. I
admit that until the last three months I have always taken the
domestic side of castle life for granted.

“I want a clean and orderly castle,” Royce
continued, irritation sharpening his voice. “I detest the smell of
dirty rushes in the great hall. I want my bed linens changed
regularly. I long for the fragrance of lavender on those linens.
Most of all, I want decent food that’s properly cooked.” He slapped
his hand on the stone wall as he had earlier slapped it on the high
table. “Cadwallon, my friend, I apologize for the inferior meal you
were served this midday. Lately, even the bread is hard and
stale.”

“A slab of stale bread makes a fine
trencher,” Cadwallon remarked with a grin. “It soaks up the sauce
and the meat juices better than fresh bread.”

“You are assuming the sauce is worth eating,”
Royce said, his mouth twisting as he recalled the taste of sour
dried cherries and too much cinnamon. “I need a new chatelaine. I
should have seen to the matter months ago.”

“As I recall,” Cadwallon said in his mild,
slow way, “you were somewhat preoccupied with saving King Henry
from secret agents sent by King Louis of France to spy on him.”

“That matter has been resolved. The spies
have been flushed out and punished. And I have been home again for
weeks,” Royce said. He fell silent, frowning through the dusk at
the well-tended fields that spread below the castle and then at
Wortham village just down the road. Harvest was almost over and
soon his people would be preparing for winter ... for long, cold
nights. Royce would not allow himself to think about those cold
nights, nor about his cold bed in the lord’s chamber. “I need a
chatelaine,” he repeated.

“You need more than just an official
chatelaine. I know you well enough,” Cadwallon remarked, “to know
that you are not a man to summon a castle woman to your bed. You’d
consider that sort of thing bad for discipline.”

“‘That sort of thing’ is none of your
business,” Royce snapped, annoyed that Cadwallon had made such a
shrewd guess about his present state of mind.

Cadwallon regarded King Henry’s spymaster
with a wise air and chuckled once more. Royce feared that a
favorite theory of Cadwallon’s had just been confirmed. A few
moments passed, during which Royce continued to frown at the
landscape while he avoided meeting the other man’s too-knowing
gaze.

“You need a wife,” Cadwallon said.

“I will never marry again,” Royce stated with
a firmness that should have silenced his friend. Knowing Cadwallon,
he didn’t think the man would let the subject go.

In truth, Royce was of two minds on the
matter. The idea of a wife was not entirely displeasing. A
comfortable, quiet, sweet-natured woman, perhaps a little older
than he was, a plump widow who understood men and who had
experience managing a large manor house or a castle, would suit him
well.

It ought to be easy enough to find a dowager
who lived in her son’s home and who thus would be glad to escape
from the shadow of a daughter-in-law. She would be grateful to
Royce for rescuing her from the fate of many aging women. He
wouldn’t even require a large dowry; he held enough lands not to
crave still more.

Best of all, such a practical arrangement
need not besmirch his fond memories of Avisa. He wouldn’t have to
care deeply about such a wife. He’d only be expected to treat her
with respect.

“The right wife could solve both of your
problems,” Cadwallon persisted, his words echoing Royce’s thoughts.
“You would have a chatelaine who is bound to keep Wortham Castle as
neat and clean as you want it. She would see to all of your other
properties, too. And whenever you need a woman in your bed, you’d
have one close at hand.

“I’d be lost without my Janet,” Cadwallon
went on, his voice softening and his smile filled with tenderness.
“Not to mention the joy our little children have brought to both of
us.”

“I have grown children,” Royce said. “And a
grandchild on the way. I do not want more young ones under foot.”
His repressive tone should have ended the conversation there and
then, but Cadwallon had never been a man to give up when he
believed a friend needed help.

“You are not yet too old to enjoy a woman,”
Cadwallon told him. “If you bed one regularly, your temper will be
milder. I’m sure the people of Wortham will be grateful for the
improvement.”

“There is nothing wrong with my temper,”
Royce growled. He knew that was a lie. The need for a woman gnawed
at him, often keeping him awake at night. But he didn’t want just
any woman. He had always found hasty couplings unsatisfying, even
in his randy youth. He preferred a woman he knew well, who knew
him, who would accept his often urgent male needs with
understanding kindness, a woman who would lie close and talk with
him once his manly passion was spent, who would discuss the day’s
events with him and listen to his plans for their future. He’d had
that once, with gentle Avisa, but never again since her death. With
a sigh, Royce admitted to himself that he was lonely.

“Just think about what I’ve said,” Cadwallon
advised. “Now, to the real reason for my visit. I asked you to find
a place where we could speak in complete privacy because I bear an
urgent letter from King Henry.”

Cadwallon wore at his belt the kind of
leather pouch often used by Royce’s secret agents to carry some of
the smaller tools of their trade. This pouch he now unfastened.
From it he pulled a metal pick that could be used to open locks, a
miniature knife in a small wooden sheath, a length of thin but
strong twine, a couple of stoppered vials and, finally, a parchment
document that was folded many times until it was narrow enough to
fit into the pouch. He handed the document to Royce, and while his
friend unfolded it, Cadwallon replaced his belongings and
refastened the pouch.

The document in Royce’s hand bore the royal
seal, the red wax still unbroken through all its rough handling.
Royce ran his thumbnail under the wax, carefully lifting the bottom
half off the parchment. He stared at the message within, his mouth
tightening as he read.

“Do you know what this says?” he demanded,
not looking up from the neat, clerical handwriting.

“King Henry doesn’t always confide in me,”
Cadwallon answered with wry amusement. “Why? Has some new problem
arisen? Are you needed for another mission so soon after the
last?”

“It’s not the usual kind of mission.” Royce
refolded the parchment, taking his time while he tried to quell his
rebellious thoughts. “I am summoned to Caen as soon as
possible.”

“Well, then, we can travel together,”
Cadwallon said cheerfully. “Janet is at court and she wasn’t too
happy about my leaving. She dislikes our separations, so she’ll be
glad to see me return promptly.”

“Does Janet - or do you - know Lady Julianna
of Louvain?” Royce asked.

“A tall woman, rather distant and arrogant in
her manner? I’ve met her. Janet seems to like her. She’s a great
heiress. Her husband died recently and, since she has no blood kin
left, she has become a royal ward.”

“That must be the one. How is it that I’ve
never met her?” Royce considered the red wax seal on the parchment
in his hand and wished he weren’t sworn to obey his king in all
matters.

“Most likely,” Cadwallon said, “it’s because
she hasn’t been at court when you are. During the past year or so,
while her husband was slowly dying, Lady Julianna seldom came to
court at all. You will recall the husband, though. Deane the baron
of Craydon was a sly, sneaky man. He was one of King Louis’s
people. We kept a watch on him for years.”

“Yes,” Royce said, nodding. “I do remember
Deane. When I applied to King Henry for an arrest warrant against
him, I was told the man was close to death - a very painful death,
according to Henry. I was advised to leave him alone and let Heaven
see to the justice he deserved. By not arresting him, of course, we
were able to conceal how much we knew about the activities of the
spies who belonged to Deane’s particular group. As it turned out,
that was a wise decision on Henry’s part.”