Once a Bride (2 page)

“Where is … Sir John?”

“I know not.” She swallowed the lump threatening to choke off her air. “Are you able to walk?”

The monk sighed. “I believe so.”

Eloise watched him struggle to his feet, unable to muster any compassion. She’d ease his aches and stitch the gash if need be. Then needle information out of him?

Do nothing.

’Twould be the hardest command to obey. Truly, she didn’t understand why her father deemed it best to run from a confrontation. Why not secure the castle, place additional guards on the crenellated battlements, deny the earl entry?

From the time of the Conquest, Lelleford had withstood both outright attack and long sieges. With winter coming on, the earl couldn’t keep his force in the field long without suffering many hardships. Lelleford’s storage rooms bulged from the recently completed harvest; both wells were deep and flowing. ’Twould be the perfect time to take a defensive stance.

Even with the threat of hanging, running away seemed cowardly, and she’d never known her father not to stand his ground.

Eloise eased toward the door, giving the monk time to find his legs, deciding her father must be taking the right course of action. She had to trust he knew the best way to deal not only with the earl but with the charges against him.

So she’d feed the invaders, serve them wine, be the most gracious of hostesses—and pray she would give the earl of Kenworth no reason to take Lelleford by force.

Traveling with the earl of Kenworth compared favorably to traveling with the king—both liked their comforts and provided commendably for those in their retinue.

Sir Roland St. Marten ate his midday repast in the large tent in the company of William, earl of Kenworth, and his knights. Outside, the squires and men-at-arms dined on hearty if less sumptuous fare.

One would think the company traveled for pleasure, not on serious business. Kenworth seemed in no hurry to reach Lelleford, take Sir John Hamelin into custody, and haul him off to Westminster for judgment.

Roland thought Kenworth misguided in his belief that, with surprise in his favor, the knight would allow the earl to enter the stronghold and give over peaceably to the arrest.

John Hamelin wasn’t the type of man to roll over and whimper like a beaten dog. Having spent several days at Lelleford, Roland knew the fortress was strong and well manned. Sir John could avoid seizure for months if he chose.

But capturing Sir John was the earl’s problem, not his.

Roland was entrusted with taking charge of Lelleford in the king’s name, to ensure the holding suffered no setback while its lord answered to the charge of treason.

He intended to remain neutral in this whole affair, the only sane position to take.

The earl popped the last bit of lamprey into his mouth and washed it down with a healthy swallow of wine. The ensuing belch complimented the cook and signaled the end of the meal.

Kenworth set his goblet on the table and grinned at the knights attending him. “Let us hope Lelleford’s cook compares favorably to mine own. I should hate to come so far only to be forced to endure thinned stew and meek wine. Tell me, St. Marten, do the cooks at Lelleford make good use of spices?”

Since he was the only one of the company who’d been inside the keep, such inane questions were usually directed Roland’s way. Would that the earl were more concerned with the keep’s defenses, the size of the storage rooms, or the number of men Sir John could send onto the field.

Roland had learned immediately upon joining the retinue that Kenworth harbored no concerns over possible obstacles and didn’t take kindly to people who did.

Keeping his opinion to himself when among the magnates had been among Roland’s first lessons upon entering the king’s service. The dukes and earls of the kingdom took counsel from only their trusted advisors and each other—and then did what they pleased anyway.

It pleased the earl to dismiss Sir John as no more than a thorn in his paw, easily plucked out and tossed aside.

“I found no lack in Lelleford’s hospitality, either in the comfort of the beds or quality of the victuals served.” At a hint of the earl’s displeasure, he quickly amended. “You must remember I was at Lelleford when the Hamelins wished to make a grand impression on my family. No doubt the meals and company are not always so excellent and gracious as are your lordship’s.”

“I should say not.” Kenworth leaned back in his armed chair. “A near miss, that. If Hugh—rest his soul—had lived, you would now be related to the traitor.”

The shiver of revulsion Roland allowed to show was genuine. “I praise God for his intervention, though I wish He had done so in less mortal fashion.”

To this day he could envision his half brother’s death, see Hugh’s enchantment with his bride dim to pain, his eyes roll back in his head just before he collapsed. Hugh St. Marten had died an ignoble death, sprawled facedown on the church steps at his bride’s feet.

And the bride, Lady Eloise Hamelin, hadn’t shed a tear over the man who worshiped her, who would heed no argument against his betrothed. Roland had tried to convince Hugh to reconsider the marriage, to no avail.

The earl’s fingers drummed the chair’s arm. “One might wonder if a scoundrel of unsavory character and low morals, not God, intervened.”

Given the suddenness and timing of Hugh’s death, Roland had suspected treachery, too, but been disproved to his satisfaction. “My father’s physicians assured us ’twas Hugh’s weak heart at fault, not villainy of any kind.”

For a villain, Roland had only to look to himself. That last heated confrontation with Hugh still haunted him. He couldn’t help suspect their argument had overtaxed Hugh, contributed to damaging a failing heart. Hastened his death.

“A shame, that. Had villainy occurred, you would now be in a position to avenge Hugh’s death. Such an opportunity does not come often.”

Wary of the earl’s tone, Roland sought to make his position clear. “I have no personal quarrel with Sir John other than his treachery toward our beloved sovereign.”

“Ah, but personal quarrels are the most satisfying to settle.” Kenworth abruptly rose. “If we are to sample Lelleford’s hospitality this eve, we must be off. Ready the men.”

Roland shook off the bad memories and traces of guilt as he followed the other knights out of the tent, their exit a signal to all to break camp. He headed for the horses—his particular assignment on this journey—to ensure them properly cared for. Not a hard job due to the efficiency of squires who knew their knights’ horses were their most highly prized possessions. Even now the squires and grooms scrambled for saddles, including Timothy, Roland’s own squire.

Odd that, to have a young man at his beck and call, doing those tasks Roland had always done for himself until recently.

So much had happened in the two months since Hugh’s death.

Soon after the ill-fated wedding, Roland had gone to the Scottish wars with Sir Damian, the knight with whom he’d fostered for most of his life, and who he afterward served as a trusted squire. All had changed in the flash of a sword. He’d been in the wrong place at the right time on Halidon Hill, guarding a king’s back when it was most needed.

A year older than the two and twenty king of England and a bit taller and broader in the shoulder, Roland had earned King Edward’s admiration for his prowess on the battlefield and his timely intervention between the king and a Scot’s claymore.

Rewards followed. During his few weeks in the king’s service, he’d been dubbed a knight, been granted several horses right out of the king’s own stable, received all the weapons and armor necessary for the rank, and taken Timothy as his squire. Now all he required was an income rich enough to support his new rank and gifts.

Which was why, Roland was sure, King Edward set him to this task. Kings could be extremely generous to those who served them well.

Roland planned to begin his upward rise by faithfully following royal orders, even if the damn earl of Kenworth took it into his head to cause mischief—or worse.

The earl’s tent tumbled to the ground. Soon tent, poles, furniture, and foodstuffs were being loaded into the baggage carts. Knights and men-at-arms prepared to take their places in line.

Swiftly, Roland completed his final inspection of bridles, bits, and straps. When sure neither the knights nor the earl would lose his seat from a squire’s carelessness, he approached his own horse and squire.

“All is ready, Timothy?”

With a toothy grin, the tow headed lad of ten and six bowed at the waist. “Aye, Sir Roland. You can tug all you wish and not find a loose or misfit piece anywhere. ’Twould not do for the knight in charge of the horses to fall off his own, now, would it?”

Roland couldn’t withhold a smile. “Impudent imp. What news?”

Timothy furtively peered around Roland’s huge black stallion to locate the earl’s squire.

“There is something afoot,” the lad said just above a whisper. “Gregory knows, but he is not saying, just smiling like he hoards a secret. Could be the rest of us are wrong, and I dislike speaking ill of my fellow squire, but …”

“Then speak no more. Speculation does us no good.”

“My apology, milord, for falling short of my task.”

Roland grasped the squire’s spindly shoulder, still amazed a lad so slight, though tall for his age, could heft a saddle to such a great height as a stallion’s back.

“You did not fall short, Timothy. You cannot inform me of those things you do not know. Keep a sharp eye and ear. ’Tis all I ask.”

With his chin set in determination, the squire nodded, then bowed off to see to his own mount.

Roland swung up into the saddle and nudged the stallion forward. Near where the line began to form, the earl spoke earnestly to the two men assigned to ride ahead and beg a night’s hospitality at Lelleford for the earl and his retinue.

Would John Hamelin open the gate or tell Kenworth to go to the devil? Given an open gate, would the earl arrest Sir John with the dignity due his stature, or do mischief?

Roland wished he knew, but he’d learned no more over a meal with the knights and earl than Timothy had from the squires and grooms.

Perhaps there was nothing to learn. Perhaps he feared treachery when none was forthcoming.

Perhaps cows gave wine and sheep gave linen.

His instincts hadn’t failed him yet. The prickling on the back of his neck yet nagged. The earl of Kenworth intended to torment Sir John Hamelin just as surely as that man’s daughter had intended to rule Hugh.

Truly, ’twas a mercy Hugh had escaped that particular noose, wrapped in silk and gently tightened, but a stout rope all the same. Her sunny smile disguised a heart of ice; her courtly manner concealed a will of steel. Behind her beautiful face lurked a shrewd, cunning mind.

He’d gone to Lelleford hoping to like the woman who would be his sister-by-marriage. And he had, perhaps too much.

Unfortunately, he’d also determined she was an unsuitable wife for his half brother.

Roland smiled, looking forward to the moment when Lady Eloise Hamelin learned that Hugh St. Marten’s “disgusting toad of a brother” had been given royal authority over her home.

’Twould be an interesting test of wills to see who prevailed over the weeks ahead. A contest he had no intention of losing.

Chapter Two

E
LOISE SAT Brother Walter down on a bench near the huge stone hearth, which cast flickering light and welcome warmth into the cavernous room. If forced to declare a favorite spot in the entire castle, this would be the place.

Here, as a young girl, she’d sat on the rush-covered floor at her mother’s feet and learned how to work wool. From here she could see the various colorful banners hanging from the high beams and the assortment of ancient weapons displayed on the walls, each with its own tale of her family’s renowned, proud heritage.

And here, on most evenings, her parents had settled in, surrounded by their children and her father’s favorite hunting hounds. They’d talked of the day’s trials and joys, played quiet games, made plans for the future.

One by one they’d left her. Mother had died, Jeanne given away in marriage. Geoffrey’s self-imposed exile in Paris, Julius’s pilgrimage to Italy. And now her father.

She’d endured each disappearance in its time, accepting the reasons. All but the last.

She glanced down at the huge deerhound that spent most of her days lolling near the fire, now too old for the fields but too dear for her father to be rid of as he’d dispensed of other animals no longer able to work. The bitch wouldn’t understand why her master no longer took a moment during his day to scratch her behind the ears, just as Eloise couldn’t understand why the lord of the castle chose to desert his daughter.

Determined to shake off the self-pity, an indulgence she couldn’t afford, she sent one of the serving wenches to fetch a basin of water and strips of linen for bandaging, then nudged the monk’s blood-sticky, coarse brown hair away from the ugly gash.

He winced. She felt no remorse for hurting the monk her father considered untrustworthy. The cleric likely knew why her father deemed it necessary to leave Lelleford, might even be the cause. And she dared not inquire or risk giving away her knowledge of her father’s escape.

Where were her father and Edgar now? Had they passed through the gate? Where would they go once clear of Lelleford’s lands?

She struggled to keep her voice light. “ ’Tis not deep enough to need stitches, I warrant. I shall clean the blood away to make sure, but I believe you came away from your mishap with no lasting harm done.”

Still pale, Brother Walter mumbled, “Praise be the Lord.”

“Praise be,” Eloise responded, mostly from habit, but also grateful the monk retained his senses.

Except his senses seemed muddled. He stared at some spot across the expanse of the hall, as if his thoughts roamed far from the cut on his head, too. Did he feel guilt for his part in her father’s predicament? She hoped so.

At the sight of blood, several of the castle folk gathered around to satisfy their morbid curiosity. The serving wench approached with careful steps, heeding the water in the basin she carried. Beside her shuffled Isolde, Eloise’s handmaiden, clutching towels, favoring her disfigured foot.