His Fair Lady (32 page)

The seneschal led Ana to the largest of the
trunks. Drawing out a ring of iron keys, he fished through them and
seized on the one marked with blue yarn. Setting it to the lock, he
then opened the trunk’s top and stepped back.

Ana sank to her knees before the trunk,
brimming with carefully preserved clothing and varied possessions
of the deceased couple. Spying a small book set with jewels upon
its cover, Ana lifted it out. Carefully, she opened the volume and
became instantly enthralled by the glorious illuminations she found
there — miniature paintings gilded with gold.

“‘
Tis a lady’s
Book of Hours
,” Luvena offered. “It must have
been your mother’s.”

Ana looked up at Luvena, the strangest of
sensations rippling through her. “Would she have used it for her
prayers?” Ana guessed.

“Exactly so, my lady. Have you seen such a
book before?”

“Nay, Luvena. Never.” Ana gave her attention
to the pages, studying them slowly, one by one, stopping when she
came upon an exquisite painting of the Virgin. She was beautiful,
her blonde hair flowing to her fingertips, her small face reminding
Ana of the woman in her dreams.

Ana closed the book and set it aside, her
breaths suddenly shallow.

“Look here,” Luvena said with a note of awe,
as she removed a man’s surcoat from the trunk for Ana to see. ‘Twas
made of fine wool — a rich blue, accented with silver.

“The garment’s not quite finished,” Luvena
noted. “Lady Alyce must have been sewing it for your father. And
see there, the red fabric . . .” She pointed into the trunk. “‘Tis
cut into the shape of a cross — the badge of the Crusaders. No
doubt. Lady Alyce intended to sew it onto the tunic’s
shoulder.”

Ana’s gaze leapt to Luvena. The image of the
man in Dover Castle flashed through her mind, and of the girl he
held, reaching for something of interest on his shoulder — a red
cross, perchance?

Ana shut her mind to the images, not wishing
to face them at the moment. Giving her interest back to the trunk,
she browsed through its costly contents — clothing fashioned in
brocades, silks, velvets, and furs. Then, too, there were
embroidered leather gloves, shoes of different colors, and an
assortment of jewelery for both a man and a woman.

Near the bottom of the trunk, Ana felt
something hard beneath the last layer of fabric. Pulling the cloth
back, she discovered a small jointed knight, exactly as the one in
her dreams. The scar on Ana’s hand began to itch as she took up the
wooden figure. Her fingers trembled.

“Edmond, did Lady Alyce and Sir Robert have
a son?”

“Nay, my lady. No sons.”

Ana rubbed her brow. She didn’t understand
this. Perhaps there was naught to her dreams and imaginings after
all, only coincidence. She wanted it to be that, desperately so.
Even now she could feel unnamed emotions rise in her breast and
clash within her. ‘Twas coincidence, she told herself, that and
nothing more.

The seneschal came to stand beside her, his
brows drawn together in thought. “Lady Alyce and Sir Robert did
have a nephew, however — your cousin, on your father’s side. I
understand the families gathered at Penhurst often. Alas, the lad’s
entire family died tragically of the pox when he was but ten. Do
you think the toy might be his?”

Ana stared at the little figure in her
hand. She didn’t want to hear these words, didn’t want to believe
there to
be anything of substance to her dreams or
imaginings. For if she did, she must face the shadows that lay
within her — the darkness that held her past.

»«

Beckwell, East Anglia, near Godmanchester

Royce reined Hannibal to a halt as he
scanned the horizon, vast and empty beneath enormous skies. Yet,
‘twas not wholly vacant, he realized, spotting a man-built
structure in the distance. He could make out battlements and a
square keep jutting upward, pricking at the clouds.

As his companions drew their mounts beside
his, Royce pointed a gloved hand toward the castle. “‘Tis Beckwell.
It appears sound enough does it not?”

“Sir?” The knight named Stephen raised a
questioning brow at his statement.

“Beckwell was one of the adulterine castles
that old Henry slighted when he gained his crown — so King John
tells me,” Royce explained. “It looks whole from this vantage,
though we’ll know soon enough what damage it sustained. And we’ll
know more when we speak with Beckwell’s seneschal.”

Royce bid the men forward across the open
landscape, approaching the castle from its west side. As he urged
Hannibal onward, it struck him that he knew not the name of the
current seneschal. The position had changed hands several times to
his knowledge. While at Wallingford, the royal counselors made no
mention of the present official’s name. No matter. He’d learn that
soon enough, too.

Royce pressed on across the frozen ground.
As the little band drew closer to their goal, he noticed the small
village that lay beyond the castle, sprawling toward the River
Ouse. The village fell short of the descriptions he’d been given.
Still, any village would be an important asset to a castle, a
support to its daily operations.

Royce and his men skirted the west
side of the curtain wall, a handsome piece of defense work, tall
and solidly built. Arriving on the south entrance side, they headed
toward the gatehouse, another impressive construction. As Royce
guided Hannibal onto the bridge, he saw that the
gate
stood open, unmanned. He knew Beckwell did not maintain a garrison,
nonetheless, an unsettling feeling crept over him.

Crossing over the bridge and beneath
the gatehouse archways, the four entered the
castle
^’
s lower ward. ‘Twas of
substantial size, but where the curtain wall rose high on the
south, west, and north sides, the entire length of the eastern wall
was all but gone, reduced to rubble.

Royce drew his gaze slowly about the
ward. The buildings stood in total disrepair — the stables,
barracks, smithy, granary, and other dependencies — relics from
years past, their thatched roofs rotted and caved in, their doors
and shutters gone. Nothing moved within the walls of Beckwell,
neither man nor beast, save for
Royce
^’
s own small company from
Penhurst.

Steeling his emotions, Royce guided Hannibal
toward the Great Hall where it rose against the west wall. ‘Twas a
stone structure, considerable in size and holding some promise. It
looked to have once served its lord proudly.

Royce rode the stallion directly through the
wide doorless portal fronting the hall, and passed inside. Crossing
over age-old rushes that still scattered the earthen floor, he
brought Hannibal to a halt in the center of the great chamber.
Royce lifted his gaze only to find the sky stretched overhead, the
roof totally gone.

Again Royce bridled his emotions.
Disappointment mingled with frustration and gnawed at his soul. He
need rely on reason and sound logic, he knew, refusing to
acknowledge the dull anger gathering within him, or to allow his
feelings to rule him. Royce emerged from the hall and headed for
the upper bailey, motioning the others to follow. As he passed
through the inner defense wall — this only partially standing — he
eyed the tall tower keep. He took heart, for it appeared untouched.
Perhaps he’d find Beckwell
^’
s
seneschal lodged there.

As his companions joined him, Royce
dismounted and began the climb the timber stairs leading to the
keep’s entry on the second level. Gaining this, he entered in and
called out several times. No answer came. Alert for any sound,
Royce and his men mounted the inner stairs, ascending four stories
before finally emerging atop the keep.

Stepping to the parapet wall, Royce gazed
out over his newly gained land, the ruins of Beckwell at his feet.
He’d been duped. But by Richard or by John?

John spoke truly when he’d said his brother
Richard would not easily give up anything of value he could sell.
The Lionheart had constantly exhausted his coffers for his endless
campaigns. Had Richard unloaded this pile on him, expecting him to
restore it at his own cost? On the other hand, John was known to be
greedy and close-fisted, holding back anything of worth. Had John
switched the property? Did Birkwell exist in Kent, a different
estate altogether from this one before him? Did it make a
difference which king had deceived him?

Disheartened, Royce braced his hands against
the stone and considered his options. He’d acquired a modest
fortune while in the East. Beckwell would take that and more to put
it to rights. ‘Twas not the castle alone that required funds. He
would need to hire men-at-arms to defend it, as well as maintain
the attendants and servants needed to see to the castle’s smooth
functioning.

A thought slipped into the back of Royce’s
mind. If he married Countess Linford, ‘twould not matter so much
whether Beckwell was ever restored. He’d instantly gain position,
power, and wealth, giving him the ability to wield his knightly
skills for right, to influence affairs in direct and positive ways.
And if he did choose to restore Beckwell, he would have ample funds
at his command to do so.

The king had been correct in one other thing
— Beckwell was well situated. It lay near two important crossroads,
connecting it with London and York, on the one hand, and Colchester
and Chester, on the other. Market towns, such as Huntingdon, St.
Ives, and St. Neots, dotted the River Ouse. Beckwell could prove an
important and thriving addition, offering more than commerce but
security to the region, shoring up the defense link it originally
held.

Royce considered the countess. Would she
accept him, despite the ruinous condition of his estate? She vowed
it mattered not to her if he were landless. Beckwell should pose no
obstacle to their marriage. Still . . .

Royce remained steeped in his ponderings,
when one of his men pointed abruptly down at the eastern wall.

“Sir Royce, see there! The peasants are
stealing from Beckwell even as we watch.”

Royce gazed down into the lower ward, near
the front gate. There a small army of peasants worked at lifting a
block of dressed stone.

“They must not have seen us arrive. Our
horses are hidden from their sight in the upper ward.”

Royce watched as the peasants slid the stone
into their wagon. This accomplished, they headed out of the castle
gate and back toward the village.

“No wonder Beckwell is a crumbling ruin,” he
vented, tasting of his anger. “What the king’s father began when he
slighted the castle, the peasants finish by thieving it.”

“‘
Twould appear they steal for Mother
Church.” Stephen pointed to where the cart trundled directly toward
the church on the village green.

“We’ll see about that,” Royce growled.
“Mother Church is about to be visited by her unwitting
benefactor!”

Forsaking the keep, he hastened down the
steps to the ward, his companions close behind him. Casting himself
into his saddle, Royce set his heels to Hannibal’s flanks and urged
him across the upper and lower wards and through the castle gate.
In short minutes, he galloped furiously along the village’s main
road, startling the inhabitants, who darted like mice into their
houses.

Pressing on to the village green, Royce
hard-reined Hannibal to a halt as he came upon the church, the cart
visible at the side where the peasants were beginning to unload the
stone. Glancing about, Royce realized there were actually two
churches here — one small and narrow, overshadowed by a newer, much
grander one, not yet complete.

“Very good men. Easy now. This way.” A
monkish/robed figure appeared, directing the peasants in a voice as
gritty as sand. The churchman proved short and round, his head
tonsured, leaving a fringe of peppery hair that perfectly matched
his wiry brows.

“What goes here?” Royce bellowed, causing
the churchman to jump in his cowl and his scrubby brows to fly
high. The workmen abandoned the block of stone and shrank back from
the wagon.

“W-Why the Lord’s work goes here, good
knight,” the
churchman avowed, pulling himself up
importantly, setting his jowls atremble as he did so.

“With
my
stone?” Royce growled.

“Your
stone?”

“Aye, and you are thieving it. I am Sir
Royce de Warrene, Lord of Beckwell by grant of the king.”

“King John grants you Beckwell?”

“King Richard.”

“But Richard is dead.”

Royce’s patience snapped. Did the man
play him a fool or was he simply dense? “Certainly, the Lionheart
is dead, but he granted me the lands of Birkwell
before
his untimely
death.”

The churchman gave a nervous, gravelly
laugh and came forward several paces. “Birkwell? Why didn’t you say
so? Good sir, this is
Beckwell
. I fear you have come to the wrong
place.”

Royce clenched his jaw at the churchman’s
craftiness. He removed the papers from beneath his mail coat and
held them out.

“King John assures me Birkwell and Beckwell
are one in the same. Regardless, this packet contains a license to
crenellate, signed and sealed by His Majesty. It specifies Beckwell
by name.”

“Saints in Heaven,” the churchman muttered,
his fingers flying to his mouth. He turned to his peasant helpers
and waved them away. “Children, go along to your homes. I’ll see to
this matter.” He gave his attention back to Royce. “Perhaps you and
your men should come inside.”