Juliana Garnett (4 page)

“… you come back for the May Day celebration?” Justin was asking, and Rolf shook his head.

“Nay, lad. I would like to join you, but ’twould not be possible this year. P’raps next year, if the king allows it, you will be living with me at Dragonwyck. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know.” When Rolf smiled wryly at the boy’s honesty, Justin added, “I have never seen it. Is your keep as big as Stoneham?”

Rolf hesitated. He was much too aware of Seabrook’s wife hovering nearby and listening very carefully to the conversation. Even a small admission of strength could be dangerous.

Slowly, he shook his head. “Nay, not near as large. I have only a few men, and much of the keep is in disrepair. Most of my gold has gone into warfare of late. But soon I hope to turn the tide of our family fortunes,” he couldn’t resist adding when he saw Justin’s disappointment.

“Oh.” Justin looked crestfallen for a moment, then said, “You must do better. If I am your heir, I do not wish to inherit a pile of stones.”

Surprised by the mature response, Rolf looked up when he heard a smothered laugh. His gaze met feminine blue eyes sparkling with amusement, and he couldn’t help a faint laugh himself.

“I shall strive to do much better,” he promised, and clasped Justin so tightly, the boy squeaked with alarm. He loosened his hold, not wishing for his mail to scrape the boy’s tender skin. Gripping him on the shoulder, he looked into Justin’s eyes for a moment. “Know this, my son,” he said softly, “that even though I may not be here with you in body, I will always be with you in spirit. What I do, I do not for just myself, but for you. Do you understand?”

“Aye, Father.”

It was the first time Justin had called him that, and Rolf could not speak for the lump in his throat. He ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, then rose to his feet. A mailed soldier stood in the open doorway, and he knew his brief time with Justin had ended. ’Twas just as well, he thought, for if he endured much more, he might unman himself with tears. He touched his son lightly on the head in farewell.

“God be with you, my son,” he said gruffly.

Justin gazed up at him, eyes wide beneath lashes spiked
with tears. “God be with you, my lord,” he replied dutifully, his voice small and shaky. Then he turned away.

Seabrook’s wife stood by the doorway, and the russet-haired lady took Justin by the hand. He turned to go with her, then tore away and flung his small body at his father. Rolf caught him and hugged him fiercely. He could feel the tiny heart thumping even through his surcoat and mail, and he briefly closed his eyes. Then, gently, he set Justin on his feet. This time the boy left without a backward glance, small back held stiff and straight, the carved wooden horse tightly clutched in one hand.

Looking up, Rolf saw tears in the feminine blue eyes glancing back at him and wondered again who she was. Whoever she was, her heart was compassionate. It was not a common trait in the women he had known.

He walked to the door when they had departed, and the armed soldier standing guard gave him a wary glance. Rolf looked at him. “My lady of Seabrook’s companion is her sister, is she not?” he asked casually, and the soldier shook his head.

“Nay, she is the lady’s cousin.”

Her cousin. There was a certain similarity, he supposed, though Lady Alais seemed more petulant than reserved like her cousin. And there had been no compassion in the cold brown eyes regarding them with suspicion. But he should not be surprised by the dissimilar natures of family members. Hadn’t he served under King Richard? Didn’t he know well the contradictions between that warrior king and the craven man who now ruled England? Aye, well he knew and regretted those differences. Richard might not have been the most politic ruler, but neither had he been as devious as John.

And neither would he have resented rendering unto his loyal vassal that which he had earned, as John did. Yea, one day John would rue his harsh tax laws and the autocratic seizures of lawfully owned property.

As would one day Thurston of Seabrook regret keeping his son away from him. Rolf’s hands closed into empty fists at his sides.

“Come with me, my lord,” the guard was saying, and
Rolf swung his attention back to the moment at hand. He lifted up his gauntlets from the floor where he had dropped them and followed the guard.

“I thought to make the moment more comfortable is all,” Annice said in response to her cousin’s query. “The boy should not be made afraid of his father.”

“God’s grace, but what do you care?” Alais opened her brown eyes wider. “He’s only a hostage here, held against the Dragon’s good behavior. It matters not if the child or the father is content. To allow them communication is dangerous.”

Annice frowned. “You begin to sound like your husband.”

“And so? Thurston may not be the most equitable of men at times, but he is often right about such matters. Think on’t—near all of Lincolnshire is said to be in rebellion. Richmond Castle is under attack in Yorkshire, barely held by rebels. If le Draca is allowed even the smallest concession, he will soon be at our gates with an army. Is that what you desire?”

“I think,” Annice said slowly, “that the Lord of Dragonwyck wants only his son. He did not strike me as a man who would break an oath, if one could force him to give it.” She toyed with the end of her hair, brushing the loose tips against her palm. The scene she had witnessed earlier had left a vivid impression upon her. Though she conceded that her tender heart could misconstrue words, there had been no doubt of the father’s love and devotion. It had been plain enough in the small carved horse. How many hours it must have taken him to detail so painstakingly the family crest, the mane and tail, the flared nostrils and wild eyes of his own destrier. There was more intent than just a plaything in his gift; he had included a sense of family in the carving of the horse, the legacy from father to son. Each time young Justin played with the horse, he would grow more familiar with his familial heritage. And he would remember that ’twas his father who had given him the toy.

Alais snorted. “I think you’ve read more into the Dragon’s actions than there truly is. Once he has his son back, he would feel free to make war again. Haven’t you heard of his past exploits?”

Impatiently, Annice said, “Aye, ’twould be hard not to have heard of them. But I recall my own father saying that all war is brutal, and men ofttimes grow ruthless.”

“That does not excuse le Draca. Have you heard that he allowed his wife to die for lack of care after her lying-in?” Alais punched her needle through the square of linen she was embroidering, then looked back up at her cousin. “ ’Tis why Thurston removed the boy from le Draca’s care. After all, ’twas his sister’s child he sought to save from harm. If a man would not see to his own wife’s welfare, would he do more for a helpless child?”

It occurred to Annice that from what she knew of Thurston, he would be much more interested in claiming his dead sister’s revenues from the dower lands left her son than in seeing to the boy’s welfare, but she did not say that aloud.

“Lord Rolf seems extremely fond of his son,” Annice said instead. “I do not think he would harm him.”

Alais shook her head. “I do not trust him. ’Tis good that his fortunes are so slim of late, else we might find the Dragon at our gates with his army, loyalist or no. I told Thurston what he said about his keep being in ruins and his gold spent on warring.” Her needle flashed in and out of the embroidery linen stretched upon a hoop. “ ’Twas useless sending me to listen. All le Draca could do was gaze at that silly boy.”

Annice looked away, staring blindly at the tapestry she had been working earlier. ’Twas for the vestry. It still hung on the frame, a scene from Christ’s life depicting his first miracle. She wondered if she should pray for guidance.

Confused by conflicting emotions, she questioned her first instincts. Alais was so certain of her facts, and in truth, Annice had heard nothing to contradict her. Dragonwyck’s reputation had long preceded this day and, she was certain, was founded in a great deal of truth. Yet could there be underlying circumstances? Could the decency she had sensed
in him be only a masquerade? Certainly his capacity for ferocity was not exaggerated. She knew she was not mistaken about the hostility in his eyes when he had regarded Thurston of Seabrook.

But, then, she could well understand his animosity for the earl. Her own dislike of the man grew apace with her familiarity with his mind and methods. Seabrook used his nephew as a pawn, but no more so than the king would do. It had not been so long ago that King John had ordered the hanging of twenty-eight Welsh children—some of them no more than five years old—held as hostages against their fathers’ good behavior. It had a dilatory effect on Welsh uprisings, to be certain, though she was appalled at the king’s brutality.

It was not necessarily true that one became inured to inhumane actions if continually exposed to them. Alais often chided her for being too tenderhearted, and p’raps she was. Few seemed to regard such actions in the same light. She thought again of the tender scene between Dragonwyck and his son. Could a brutal warrior have the capacity for such love?

“Are you even listening to me?” Alais demanded loudly, and Annice turned to look at her.

“Forgive me. I was thinking of something else.”

“I can well imagine.” Alais pursed her mouth. “Have you heard that Robert FitzWalter’s eldest daughter, Matilda, wed to Geoffrey de Mandeville, is rumored to have been poisoned by the king for her refusal of him? He sent her a poisoned egg. ’Tis said also that Robert was forced to flee to France after the king caused his Castle Baynard to be pulled down.…”

Relieved that Alais had turned her attention to other matters at last, Annice picked up her needle and thread and pretended to focus on her tapestry and gossip. For the present she would do her best to offer what comfort she could to a small boy without mother or father to aid him. She missed her own parents dreadfully, and p’raps she could ease that loss for a tiny hostage. Her visits to the nursery would increase slowly, so that none would suspect what she
was about. Yea, if nothing else, she could brighten the days of a child.

Edmund de Molay shifted in his saddle and glanced again at his lord. A patch of sunlight sifting through overhead branches illuminated his face beneath the helm and noseguard as he gazed at Rolf. “If they do not come this day either, my liege? Do we wait again on the morrow?”

“We wait. They will come, whether this day or no, I cannot say.” Rolf’s hands tightened on his reins. “But they will come, of that I am certain, Edmund. I am committed to the quest, and this may well be my only chance to retrieve my son.”

Nodding, Edmund lifted slightly in his stirrups; age made his joints stiff when he sat too long, Rolf knew, but there was little other choice. Edmund had been too obstinate to remain at Dragonwyck, insisting upon joining his overlord. They had been waiting in the woods lining the main road leading from Stoneham Castle each morning for the past week. Rain had scoured them two days, but the last three had been bright and sunny. Rolf was certain that the ride Justin had been promised beyond fortified walls would be soon. The boy had been too confident of the promise not to regard it as truth. It was difficult to deceive a child accustomed to deceit. And the fact that he had been so skeptical of his father’s return was proof enough that he was not a child easily fooled.

Rolf was grateful for the intervention of a lovely lady in his behalf. It had been Edmund who had revealed the mysterious lady’s identity to him.

“Ah, a russet-haired lady, you say?” Edmund had chuckled. “I vow, ’twould be none other than Lady Annice, who was wed to that lackwit, Luc d’Arcy. ’Tis true she is Lady of Seabrook’s cousin. She was recently sent to Stoneham by the king for her husband’s foolish actions. Aye, and a lovely widow she is, I hear.”

Frowning, Rolf had regarded his old friend for a long moment. “Can you recite the family history of every English
citizen?” he’d asked finally, amused by Edmund’s vast knowledge.

Nodding, Edmund replied, “ ’Tis likely. Lady Annice’s father was Hugh de Beauchamp, a noble gentleman who was loyal to King Henry and then Richard.”

“Ah. Hugh de Beauchamp. I recall his being with King Richard at Châlus when he was given the fatal wound, was he not? His was one of the clearest heads in the aftermath, as I recall.” Lapsing into silence, he’d considered a moment, recalling those turbulent times. He’d been a youth still, having just acquired his knight’s spurs. It had been the leadership of men like Hugh de Beauchamp that had impressed him most.

It was not surprising that Hugh de Beauchamp’s daughter possessed the same clear vision. Lady Annice’s quick wit had aided him with Justin in a very difficult moment.

Swatting at an annoying insect buzzing round his head, Rolf glanced again up the wooded road leading to Stoneham Castle. He had adopted a method used by the Welsh, of having his men blend into the woods like shadows to wait. So had the Welsh done in his wars with them, seeming part of the forest itself at times. Pray God that it worked as well for him as it did the crafty Welsh barons.

Time seemed to crawl, and it grew warmer. Insects swarmed with tiny glistening bodies to torment the waiting troop. Despite the brisk chill in the air, sweat dampened bodies beneath hauberks and helmets as the sun rose high into the sky. Shifting patches of light filtered through the thick tree limbs and new green leaves overhead, and the forest was quiet.

Rolf shifted in his saddle, and his destrier gave a shake of its head to dislodge an annoying fly. The sound of rattling bit and curb chains were overloud in the gloom. He leaned forward to soothe his mount with a quieting hand. A faint glimpse of motion caught his attention, and he had just stood up in his stirrups when a forward guard he had posted came to him through the deep, murky gloom of the woods.

“My lord,” the guard said softly, “they come. There are a dozen soldiers guarding six children and three women.”

Patience, Rolf thought exultantly as he spurred forward, was sometimes rewarded. In the distance, riding at a leisurely pace into the woods, came the small group. Armed men rode ahead and behind, but in the center he could see the women and children as they drew nearer. Sunlight reflected from helmets and chain mail in patches and splinters; among the group he recognized the lady Annice. Justin, he was certain, would be close to her.