Lady At Arms (15 page)

During the next day’s ride, Ranulf pondered Lizanne’s nightmare. He had not spoken of it, for she seemed to have no recollection—so far removed from it that she had inquired after the small cut on his jaw. Rather than reveal her ring had put it there, he had shrugged off her question.

By early afternoon, they reached the castle of Lord Langdon’s vassal, Sir Hamil Forster. It was a formidable structure, constructed of stone and rising against a backdrop of craggy, barren slopes.

Though Ranulf wanted nothing better than to return to his own lands, he was obliged to finish the king’s business and, thus, determined to swiftly conclude the negotiations between the two parties.

Recently, Sir Hamil had taken it upon himself to claim this, Lord Langdon’s property, as his own. If not for the vassal’s close familial ties with King Henry, Langdon could have resolved the dispute simply enough with a show of force, likely resulting in Sir Hamil’s capture and possibly his death. But Langdon had wisely appealed to the king to assist him in removing the errant knight from his lands. Occupied elsewhere, Henry had sent Ranulf in his stead after arriving at a compromise he felt would appease both parties.

Since they were expected, Ranulf and a fair-sized retinue were allowed entrance within the castle walls, but most remained without.

“I expect your complete obedience, Lizanne,” he said once they had dismounted. He beckoned to Geoff who came alongside her, then turned his back on the two and took a step forward.

Lizanne frowned at Wardieu’s back, leaned to the side to peer around him. However, no sooner did she catch sight of the short, stocky man who confidently strode forward than Sir Walter positioned himself beside his lord, once more blocking her view.

“Baron Wardieu,” their host called, “welcome to Killian.”

Wardieu strode forward to meet the man. “It has been a long journey, and my men are tired and hungry. I would see them settled quickly.”

“They will be tended to forthwith, as I have set the cooks to preparing an early meal. As for your reception, I must apologize. We expected you days ago and had nearly given up on your visit.”

“I was delayed,” Wardieu said curtly.

“All is well with the negotiations?”

Wardieu’s disapproving silence hung upon the air, then he said, “We will speak of them later. Now I would like a bath.”

“Then come, I will show you inside.”

As Wardieu and Sir Walter followed the man to the donjon steps, Geoff said, “Not a word, my lady,” then lightly gripped her upper arm and urged her forward behind the others.

The main hall of the donjon was impressive and Lizanne found herself appreciatively eyeing the tapestries hung about the room.

“My daughter, Lady Elspeth,” Sir Hamil announced. “She will see you to your chamber, Baron Wardieu.”

Still held by Geoff, Lizanne craned her neck to better see the woman whom Sir Hamil had drawn forward. Though the lady was half-obscured by Wardieu’s bulk, Lizanne did not need to see more to know the woman-child was beautiful.

Smooth, flowing brown hair that sparked envy in Lizanne framed a heart-shaped face dominated by large, liquid eyes. Though well-proportioned, she was petite—the top of her head falling short of Wardieu’s shoulder by an inch or more—and so incredibly feminine it annoyed Lizanne. Not that she cared if Wardieu found the lady appealing.

“I trust your journey was without mishap, my lord?” Lady Elspeth’s voice was so sweet Lizanne was certain there must be a hive nearby.

“Would that it were.” Wardieu bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it.

Lizanne felt a strange, tight sensation in her chest.

“Jealous?” Geoff whispered in her ear.

She looked around. “Better she suffer the attentions of your lord than I.”

He grinned. “Oh, she shall suffer naught, for that one is a lady.”

His words wounded nearly as much as Sir Walter’s that had equated her with a viper. Hating that they should tempt tears to her eyes, she looked forward again.

“My lord, you travel with a lady?” Sir Hamil’s daughter asked.

As if he had forgotten Lizanne, Wardieu turned and swept his gaze over her. “Nay.” He turned back to Lady Elspeth.

“Then who is that?” She crooked a finger at Lizanne.

All eyes turned to Lizanne. In that moment, painfully aware of her disarray—and grateful it was not made worse by having slept in her bliaut on the night past—she would have liked nothing better than to seek a dark corner.

“That is a servant,” Wardieu replied after some consideration.

Lizanne gasped, but the tightening of Geoff’s hand upon her arm served as a reminder that she was not at liberty to express her outrage. She set her teeth, stared at the woman.

Elspeth blinked prettily and returned her regard to Wardieu. “You must be a great baron if you are able to clothe your servants in such finery.”

Sir Hamil moved forward. “Elspeth, show Baron Wardieu to his chamber—and take a girl with you to attend his bath.”

“’Twill not be necessary,” Wardieu said. “My servant sees to all my needs.”

Elspeth’s eyebrows rose as she glanced from Wardieu to Lizanne. Then, smirking, she turned and led the way to the stairs.

Geoff followed with a seething Lizanne in tow.

“’Tis not large,” Lady Elspeth was saying when Geoff and Lizanne came down a short corridor, “but well-appointed as you can see, my lord.”

Wardieu inclined his head. “It will do nicely.”

Near the threshold of the chamber, Geoff stepped to the side and drew Lizanne alongside him.

“I will send hot water for your bath,” the lady continued. “Should you need anything else, send word and I will do my best to accommodate you.” Followed by Wardieu, she quit the chamber, swinging her hips and flashing a satisfied smile at Lizanne.

At least my teeth are even
, Lizanne comforted herself, having noticed the lady’s overlapped quite a bit.

“Lizanne,” Wardieu said, “come inside.”

Geoff gave her a slight push forward.

Lizanne strode past Wardieu and, upon reaching the middle of the chamber, turned and crossed her arms over her chest.

“How dare you,” she said when Wardieu closed the door behind him.

“How dare I what?”

She longed to launch herself at him, but contained the impulse, determined she would not give him another reason to question whether she was woman or child.

“You know of what I speak. You not only called me a servant but insinuated that I am your leman.”

Ranulf eyed the woman before him. She was angry, just as he had known she would be.

She took a step toward him. “I am as noble as that…woman who must swing her hips that a man might even know she has any!”

Was she jealous?

“Deny it you may, Ranulf Wardieu, but I am a lady.”

He smiled wryly. “Since what time?”

Her eyes flashed, the high color in her face swept higher, and she took another step toward him.

Ranulf knew he pushed her and should not, but he was curious about the inner battle she waged—one he did not believe she would have bothered with on the day before. Had his questioning of whether she was woman or child hit the mark?

She drew a deep breath, pressed her shoulders back. “No matter that I once bested you at your warrior’s game, I am and will ever be, Lady Lizanne Balmaine of Penforke.”

Now
she
pushed
him
—or tried to. “Though by your behavior, methinks you have renounced that title, I acknowledge you are a lady. However, I am not so fool to announce your person to our hosts. For both our sakes.”

“Both?”

“Just as I do not wish to explain my reason for holding you, Lizanne, I do not think you would like it any better—if not for how it would reflect upon you, then how it would reflect upon your brother who himself denies you are a lady by instructing you in the things of men.”

She blinked.

“And since I do not trust you too long in the care of others, there must be an accounting for the reason we share this chamber. Hence, you have become my servant, and if ‘tis believed you are also my leman since a squire can well tend to his lord’s grooming…” He shrugged.

He heard her exhale and saw the color in her face recede. “I still do not like it.”

“I did not think you would.”

As they stared at one another, a knock sounded. “Enter!” he called.

The door opened and three servants scurried in, each toting a large, steaming pail. Eyes averted, the girls emptied the water into the wooden tub that was set before the brazier, then quickly withdrew.

“You should rest.” Ranulf jerked his chin in the direction of the bed.

Lizanne glanced at it, and he felt her unease, for it was far too intimate a setting for a lady who was not, indeed, his leman. “Nay,” she said, “I am fine.”

“You intend to watch me bathe? Perhaps assist?”

“I do not!”

Nearing the thinnest portion of his patience, Ranulf said sharply, “Then you had best seek yon bed and draw the curtains.”

Lizanne glared at him and wrestled with her longing to continue the argument. However, finding no room in which to do so, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the bed.

“When I have finished my bath and gone from the chamber,” he called, “you may also bathe.”

Though tempted to retort that she had not and would never bathe in another’s dirty bath water, Lizanne busied herself with yanking the curtains closed. Before she slipped inside, she stole a glance behind and saw he watched her.

Over the next quarter hour, she sat in the center of the bed in the near darkness created by the curtains and listened to the servants return thrice more to finish filling the tub. When Wardieu thanked them the last time, she caught the sound of their girlish giggles and imagined he had smiled at them. Then the door closed.

She did not have to strain to hear the rustle of discarded clothes, the lap of water against the sides of the tub, nor the rasp of a body being scrubbed clean. But despite her discomfort at knowing what was happening beyond the curtains, made unseemly by her presence in the very same chamber, she began to long for her turn at the bath—no matter that the water would be little better than warm and less than clear. As had become obvious in Lady Elspeth’s presence, these past days had been far from kind to Lizanne’s appearance.

She startled when another knock sounded and tensed in anticipation of being ordered to open the door for whoever stood without.

“Enter!” Wardieu called.

Rather than giggling girls, it was grunting men who tread the wooden planks, the cause of their strain evident when one said, “Your chest, my lord.”

He directed them where to set it and, shortly, the door closed again.

Lizanne waited, refusing to lie back lest she liked it too much and fell asleep only to awaken to chill bath water.

At last, she heard a great rush of water, evidence Wardieu rose from the tub. Now he would don clean garments.

“Be quick about it,” she whispered. “And be gone!”

The chest lid groaned as he raised it, and once more she caught the rustle of clothes being picked over.

She counted the minutes it took him to dress, then a couple more during which silence fell and did not lift. What did he do? Yielding to curiosity, she quietly moved to the mattress edge and peered between two curtain panels at where he stood in profile before the tub, fully clothed.

A moment later, she caught her breath when she saw what held his attention—her dagger, the one with which she had defended herself at Penforke. Slowly, as if giving it great thought, he turned the weapon in his hand, causing the light to flit in and out of the recesses of the ornately carved handle.

Not once since that night she had gone to the cell in search of it had she thought of it again. But he had likely had it then, and certainly in the meadow where they had battled with swords. Recalling the look in his eyes when, his sword broken, he had advanced on her and demanded she fulfill their bargain, she understood. And felt anger surge when he slid the dagger into a scabbard on his belt.

Before she thought to draw another breath, she found her feet on the floor and the distance between her captor and her covered without the slightest regard to stealth. Therein lay her downfall, for he turned, caught the wrist of the hand with which she reached for the dagger, and whipped her around in front of him.

Pushing off the tub that was now at her back, she lunged forward and reached with her free hand to retrieve the dagger.

“Cease, Lizanne!”

She did not. Thus, she came up against the tub again. However, before she could launch herself off it a second time, he gave the push that decided the battle.

She grasped for something to keep from going where she was not ready to go, but only the air obliged. And the water, warmer than expected, parted for her.

Her out flung arms that caught upon the tub’s rim saved her from going completely under, but there was nothing to save her from the sloshing water that doused her.

Face streaming, drenched gown billowing around her where she knelt in the tub, she looked up at Wardieu. Beneath toweled hair that gleamed pale again, his black eyes were hard, nostrils flared, and mouth compressed, all of which made the emotions that had found their pause the moment she hit water, surge anew.

“That”—she pointed to the dagger—“belongs to me!”

Shoulders rising with a breath deep, he unsheathed the weapon. “Nay, it belongs to me now.” He ran his gaze down the blade, then looked back at her. “And I shall not soon forget how I came by it.”

His threat hung on the air some moments before she laid her tongue to the only words to be found. “I detest you!”

Up went his eyebrows. “You are sure?”

“I could not be more certain!”

Nor could you tell a greater lie,
taunted a little voice within.

Wardieu returned the dagger to its scabbard, set his hands on the tub’s rim, and leaned toward her. “You would do well to remember, Lizanne, hate is as strong an emotion as love.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Be careful lest you mistake one for the other.”