Wings of the Storm (4 page)

Several of them bounded up to the screen doorway, one of them knocking a stack of peat into the already smoking fire as it lunged forward. The smoke drifted inexorably toward the dais. Jane quickly tucked the end of her veil over her mouth and nose so she wouldn't start coughing from smoke inhalation.

Melisande had stiffened. It was clear she had seen something. She came and stood protectively next to Stephan's chair. The knight had to push her aside to rise to his feet. Jane looked eagerly toward the entrance, straining through the hearth smoke for a better view of what all the excitement was about.

She was rather disappointed when a horde didn't come rushing into the great hall. Instead, a grizzled old guard came limping in, his ring-sewn leather jerkin jingling as he made his jerky way toward the dais.

Jane sat back with a sigh that was mostly one of relief. Apparently the peasants were not revolting.

Maybe the hounds were just bored. She bent over to disconnect the tangled puppy from her hem once more.

"My lord," the guard said as he came up to Stephan. "Sir Daffyd—"

"Is perfectly capable of announcing himself."

"—ap Bleddyn," the guard Finished lamely.

The voice that had interrupted the guard was deep,

rich, and amused. The sound of it made Jane think of heavy cream and dark chocolate even before she looked up to see the tall blond man who'd followed the guard into the room. The dogs had quieted their barking, but their attention was centered warily on the broad-shouldered newcomer.

Jane didn't blame them a bit. He radiated danger far more than the fire radiated heat. There was

some-thing about the man's swaggering walk and the proud thrust of his jaw that spoke volumes about his arro-gant self-importance. He had an aquiline, if slightly crooked, nose that seemed tailor-made for looking down. The shoulder-length gold hair that framed his face resembled a lion's mane. He was dressed in full chain mail with a belted black surcoat pulled on over the heavy armor.

Coming to a halt in front of Stephan, he rested one spurred boot on the dais and leaned forward, the fin-gers of his left hand curled loosely around the pom-mel of his sword. Jane couldn't help but notice how large and competent that hand looked. He squinted through the murk at Sir Stephan.

"I've some news about your bride," he said in his deep, richly accented voice. He peered around Stephan at where Jane sat. "If you want to hear it," he added.

His deep voice held only the faintest hint of insinu-ation, but it was enough to make her go hot with out-raged embarrassment. Stephan's back muscles tensed as he moved so that he was between her and Sir Daffyd.

"The lady is the widow of Sir Geoffrey FitzRose," Stephan informed the knight coolly. "A kinswoman from thekingdomofJerusalem. My chatelaine," he added, throwing a look over his shoulder for Jane. She gave an unconscious shrug in reply.

Sir Daffyd nodded curtly. "Lady," he rumbled. "Welcome. About the girl?" he went on.

The man was big and impressive and wore an air of danger like an invisible cloak around his shoul-ders.

Jane was glad of the shadows and smoke that obscured the room, glad Stephan stood between her chair and the warrior at the foot of the dais. There was an air of disdainful pride about him she found threatening. He scared her without having done any-thing more than walk in tHe room and casually glance her way. She didn't suppose the combination of fear and fascination she was experiencing made any sense. But it reminded her that she was in a time when brute strength counted for a great deal, where men with swords took what they wanted. In 2002 the idea of needing a man to protect her was ludi-crous. But this was 1200 something, and she knew she was fortunate to have a chivalrous warrior to champion her.

Cheeks still flushed, she looked away from Sir Daffyd's face and caught sight of the insignia decorat-ing his black surcoat. On the right shoulder of the black wool garment was embroidered a gold lion; a red dragon decorated the left. Jane interpreted the symbols to mean the knight was a Welshman in the service of the English king. She recalled that Daffyd was a Welsh name.

The old servant appeared with another wooden tankard of ale. Daffyd took it and drained it before tossing it back. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then spoke to Stephan again. "I stopped at Sturry on my way fromCanterbury. The baron's

dying. He's not likely to last long and wants the girl settled. He asked me to escort the child's party to you." He made a sour face. "But my orders are to gar-rison my men in Reculver."

"Still hunting Sikes and Pwyll and their men?" Stephan asked.

The Welshman nodded.

Stephan turned to Jane to explain, "The brigands I was telling you about. Sir Daffyd's been sent by our lord John to—"

"Ride over the local barons and threaten the arch-bishop in my spare time," Daffyd interrupted. "But hunting the outlaws has more sport in it." Stephan laughed and Daffyd joined him. "You better fetch the girl yourself," he went on. "Before your neighbor snatches the heiress for himself."

"Hugh of Lilydrake isn't getting his hands on my marriage prize," Stephan said. "I'll leave for Sturry in the morning." He gestured around the hall. "Accept my hospitality for the night. Sir Daffyd."

The Welshman straightened and backed two steps away from the dais. One of the dogs came up and sniffed at him. Impatiently he pushed the animal's head away. "Another time," he answered. "I just wanted to bring the baron's request to you." He gave a vague nod in Jane's direction. "Lady."

The single word sounded more like a sneering dismissal than a mere farewell. Jane wondered if she was expected to make some gracious answer when she'd much rather say something rude. She held her temper and racked her brain for mild words. Fortu-nately she was saved from trying out the Medievalist Society's idea of courtliness when Sir Daffyd spun around and marched out as swiftly as he'd entered.

She discovered after he'd disappeared through the screen that her knuckles had gone numb from grip-ping the arms of her chair. She didn't know why he made her so nervous, but she was very glad he hadn't stayed for dinner. She forced herself to relax, made herself think about something other than the abrupt appearance of the lion-maned Welshman. She had to swallow hard to relieve her dry throat.

"Hugh of Lilydrake?" she asked as Stephan took his chair again.

He ran a hand through his silky black hair. His eyes snapped with anger as he answered. "The fool's going to try to kidnap Sibelle. He knows I'd storm his keep to get her back."

She removed the veil from across her mouth and coughed lightly when she took a breath. "How romantic," she said.

He gave her a sardonic look. It was the sort of expression his eyebrows were made for. "Isn't it?" A delighted smile suddenly squared his wide mouth. "Sibelle will think I'm wonderful, won't she?

"I'm sure," Jane agreed. Her estimation of Stephan's age dropped to about seventeen. Then she shook her head in confusion. "But the country's under interdict. What good will it do you or this Hugh to have Sibelle if you can't get married?"

He laughed loudly, the sound filling the hall. "It's having the heiress that counts," he told her. "Whoev-er holds the girl when her father dies will get her lands."

"Right. Important point. How could I have forgot-ten?" It was the land they wanted, not the girl. She'd tumbled into the time that had seen the birth of the romantic ideal, but when love had nothing to do with marriage. Marriage was a business transaction;

romance was a ritual you conducted with somebody else's wife. She tucked her hands in her sleeves and added primly, "I'm glad I'm soon to be away from such worldly matters."

"Of course you are, Jehane," he agreed with a humorous glint in his dark eyes. "You'll make a fine nun.

In the meantime you'll make Passfair a good chatelaine."

She sighed. "Yes, I suppose I'll have to try." It was a living, she thought. She supposed technically Sir

Stephan was her liege lord, and she owed him service. Besides, where else could she go? What else could she do?

Her eyes stung from the smoke. Or maybe they stung from an effort not to cry as the hopelessness of her situation tried to overwhelm her.

No,she told herself firmly.
You can cry all you want if you ever have a moment alone. Things aren't
all that bad. You could have ended up with Sir Daffyd. Survive,
she told herself.
Survive so you can
strangle David Wolfe if you ever see him again.

The idea of somehow getting revenge on David Wolfe had a bracing effect. She smiled and sank down on the high-backed chair. Almost every verte-bra creaked with exhaustion. All she really wanted was to go to sleep. Waking to find out this was all a dream would be nice, too. She didn't think that was going to happen. So forget being tired, she ordered her weary limbs.

She stretched out her legs, levered herself to her feet, and looked around the dismal mess of Passfair's great hall. Hands on hips, she surveyed its dogs and smoke and stinking rushes. Lord knew what the rest of the place was like. It wasn't going to be easy. She glanced at the eagerly smiling Sir Stephan.

"When do I start?"

4

"Now," the boy said, and went off, shout-ing for his guard sergeant as he left the hall. There was an exuberant bounce to Stephan's step. Several of the dogs followed at his heels.

"Teenagers," Jane muttered after him, an affection-ate glow permeating her exasperation. Off to rescue fair maidens and terrorize the neighborhood. Odd, she thought, she'd known the kid a few hours and already she was feeling maternal. And a good thing that was, too, considering the kid's looks. The script read virtuous widow, she reminded herself sternly. And he was engaged—in looting and pillaging, proba-bly. No, he was a nice boy. She chuckled.

She folded her arms and stared once more into the morass of damp and dirty rushes. She wasn't crossing that again without immunization. She returned to her chair, where she pulled her cloak back around her shoulders and tried to organize her thoughts.

She didn't have long to consider her situation in private. Servants soon shuffled in and began rear-ranging the hall. She watched them carefully in the dim light, fighting the impulse to toss back reassuring smiles at the few furtive looks thrown her way. She remained carefully still and neutral as she tried to assess how to play the role Sir Stephan had thrust on her.

The dogs were shooed aside long enough for a pair of trestle tables to be set up for the household and Stephan's men-at-arms. Wooden trenchers clattered onto the tables. Stephan, his sergeant, and his men came into the hall soon after the tables were ready, bringing with them the heavy aroma of horse manure.

Supper was served soon after. The food was late-winter fare, fish in a sauce of dried herbs, cheese curds, boiled dried beans and a bread made of a mixture of roughly ground grains. The ale was plentiful, and a sour wine was served to Stephan and Jane in tar-nished silver goblets. He gave her a pleased look when she fingered the dirty silver dish.

She kept her acknowledging chortle to herself. Okay, she conceded silently, maybe she could make a good housekeeper for the kid. She ate sparingly, drank not at all, and tried not to suggest sending out for

pizza.

During the meal Stephan introduced his household to their new chatelaine. She got a few openly curious and surly looks after the announcement and glared them down with as much Norman arrogance as she could fake. It helped that she had a long nose to look down. She'd had a boyfriend once who'd described it as "elegant" and "aristocratic." She'd kept him for a long time.

Most of the people below the salt concentrated on wolfing down their evening meals, probably not caring who gave the orders as long as they got fed. The dogs wandered around begging and snatching food shamelessly, most people just shoving the big deer-hounds out of the way without paying them any mind.

Melisande sat regally by Stephan's chair. Jane was happy to slip the hound and her pups much of her own dinner.

It was well after sunset when the few dishes and trestle tables were taken away. The room emptied, but for a few servants who settled by the banked cen-tral hearth to sleep. The dogs found places with the humans, all the bodies melding into a warm heap.

Stephan rose from his chair and took Jane's hand to help her up. "The hour of coverfire," he told her, voice soft as though not to disturb the sleepers. "Time to be abed. There's a sleeping space behind the tower storeroom. Bertram will show you."

The old servant approached, a sputtering oil lamp in one gnarled hand. "I've left your bags and bedding for you there. Lady Jehane," he told her as he led the way up the tower stairs.

She followed his bent figure, suppressing the urge to grasp him by the elbow and help him along. She wondered how old he was. Forty, maybe? The thought was not a pleasant one, and she quickly put it aside.

He led her to a curtained alcove at the back of a big, dusty room on the first of the tower's two floors.

She got the impression of many barrels and chests occupying the room's shadowed depths.

He handed her the lamps and the heavy iron key he'd used to unlock the storeroom's thick wooden door. "Rest well. Lady Jehane," he said, and was gone, his footsteps echoing faintly back out of the dark.

It took a few minutes of banging into wooden bar-rels and bins and stirring up dust in the feeble light before she finally found the notch in the wall contain-ing a narrow bed frame. After setting the lamp down on a leather-bound chest next to the bed, she turned too quickly and tripped over one of her bags.

Landing on the straw mattress, she stayed put. Her skirts snuffed out the wick as she fell, saving her from hav-ing to blow out the light.

"Lucky I didn't catch my dress on fire," she mur-mured.

She knelt in the center of the bed to wriggle out of her layers of clothes. As she recalled, nightgowns were unknown in this period, but she didn't want to have to sleep in the same clothes she would have to wear again tomorrow. And the next day, and the next. Maybe she would adopt a few laundry innovations as chatelaine of Passfair.