Lady At Arms (21 page)

Eyebrows nearly touching, Ranulf dropped his face near hers. “You what?”

“I wrestled him.” She moved to step around him.

He caught her arm. “You will make sense, Lizanne.”

She sighed. “Shortly after King Henry announced he would give me in marriage to Sir Arthur, that awful little man began publicly boasting about bedding me. I overheard one particularly lewd description of how he was going to…you know. And so, somewhat by accident, I struck him in the nose.”

Ranulf’s look of horror fascinated her, so much that she impulsively reached up to smooth his brow and just barely caught her hand back. “Do not look so concerned. He could hardly retaliate in front of the king, though he did try later. And when he did, he ended up on his backside with me astride.”

Ranulf blinked. “You wrestled him to the ground?”

Momentarily forgetting her more immediate problem, she smiled as she recalled the man’s utter embarrassment. He had been pompous and arrogant, and she had bettered him without much effort.

“I did,” she said, “though, in all fairness, he was not large like you. Indeed, he was much shorter than I and slight of build. Hardly a challenge.”

Ranulf shook his head. “I am sure.”

“Needless to say, he thought better of wedding me and bid the king to release him from the obligation. Fortunately, Gilbert spirited me away that evening before the king could attempt another match.”

Ranulf shook himself out of his stupor, not understanding why he should be surprised by her disclosure. It was, after all, the kind of behavior she had indulged in up until their departure from Killian.

“And so you think he intends to try again?” he concluded, not caring for the implications, for he had no intention of letting her go to another man.

She heaved a sigh. “‘Twould seem likely.”

“You suspected as much yestereve?”

“The possibility crossed my mind. Now, I am nearly certain of it. Why else would he place me in a nuptial chamber?”

For the first time, Ranulf more than glancingly looked about the apartment. Then he strode to the door and pulled it open.

“Where are you going?”

Gripping the doorjamb, he looked around. “‘Twould be inappropriate for us to share this room.”

“That was not my question.”

“My quarters are just down the hall, Lizanne. Should you need me, I will be there.”

“I will not need you.”

He shrugged. “I have asked that hot water be delivered for your bath. Freshen yourself, and I will collect you for the midday meal.”

“I will be ready.”

Ranulf inclined his head and closed the door on her.

Attired in the borrowed garments Ranulf had sent to her chamber, Lizanne walked beside him as they entered the great hall for the midday meal. At the far end, on a raised platform, sat King Henry, and beside him, his queen. Noting their approach, the king motioned them forward.

Lizanne looked first to Queen Eleanor. The woman was a dozen years older than her husband, a man who had been crowned king of all England less than two years before. Despite having attained thirty and more years of age, Eleanor was still the legendary beauty of whom the troubadours sang, and though she had recently given Henry their third child, the princess Matilda, the birthing appeared to have laid no waste to her. She was so incredibly feminine and strong at the same time that Lizanne could not help but envy her, especially the intelligence that shone from her eyes.

Lizanne offered Eleanor a tentative smile, then shifted her gaze to Henry’s square, bearded face. He looked much the same as she remembered, though she had forgotten the intensity of the close-cropped red hair that matched his freckled complexion. Still, he was a handsome man.

When she met his large gray eyes, she inwardly cringed at the look of disapproval he leveled upon her. No doubt, he remembered their last encounter. And was plotting this one. What would Ranulf do if she were given to another man? He could hardly hope to claim her for himself without also offering marriage…

Breaking eye contact with King Henry, she looked farther down the long table, quickly dismissing each face she did not recognize—until her gaze stopped upon a man whose eyes shifted between Ranulf and her.

She felt color rise in her cheeks, not from embarrassment or any other mild emotion, but anger at the cruel irony of finding herself in the presence of both Ranulf and Philip Charwyck, the two men she had so long hated.

Six years had passed since last she had seen her formerly betrothed—two years prior to the wedding that had never taken place—and yet her memories of him had remained relatively intact. Except for premature graying at his temples, he was as boyishly handsome as ever.

The heat in her face having spread to the pit of her belly, she wondered if he recognized her. But only for a moment, for in the next, she stood before the king and queen and Ranulf’s tug on her arm had her kneeling beside him.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, they were commanded to stand.

“Baron Wardieu and Lady Lizanne, you are most welcome at my court,” King Henry said, then leaned toward Ranulf. “I trust you bring me worthy news.”

“I do, Your Majesty.”

Henry grinned. “Then let us enjoy the meal and speak of it. Come.” He motioned them toward the empty chairs to his right.

Lizanne and Ranulf had to walk the length of the table to reach the proffered seats on the other side. Thus, as Lizanne approached Philip, she boldly met the eyes he turned up to her and let the full weight of her animosity shine through.

With a crooked smile, Philip swept a degrading look down her figure that Lizanne realized Ranulf had witnessed when his grip on her arm tightened as he led her past.

“Mayhap you would like to set yourself upon his lap?” he rasped.

She met his disapproving stare but kept her lips sealed against the thoughts that were attempting to transform themselves into inflammatory words. She only hoped Ranulf appreciated the effort she made to not cause a scene.

“Behave yourself,” he warned as he helped her into her chair. Once seated beside her, he turned to King Henry and became engrossed in their conversation.

Feeling excluded, Lizanne tamped down the temptation to look along the table to where Philip sat and lifted her goblet that had been filled to brimming with warm, dark wine. It was surprisingly sweet, and she let it sit in her mouth several moments before swallowing. The next sip was just as flavorful. Thus, before she considered touching a morsel of the food set before her, she had drained the goblet. Directly, it was refilled.

As she turned her fingers around the stem, she acknowledged the persistent sense of being watched and swept her gaze around the hall. More than a few pairs of curious eyes were turned her way, and she did not doubt their owners pondered her relationship with Ranulf.

Leaning forward, she peered down the table and encountered the gaze she had most particularly felt. She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at Philip Charwyck. She was fairly certain he did not recognize her, for he had never looked at her
that
way. Indeed, he had only ever been mildly tolerant of her.

Ranulf’s hand closed over her clenched one upon the table, bringing her head so quickly around that she felt the effects of the wine. However, her senses were not so dulled that she did not feel his anger or miss the look of warning he directed at Philip.

“Remember, Lizanne,” he whispered as he stared down the man he surely perceived as a rival, “you are mine.”

She lifted the goblet to her lips and boldly leaned into his line of vision, breaking the staring duel between the two. “For the moment,” she murmured and returned her attention to the meal.

With a low rumble, Ranulf drew his hand from hers and turned back to the king.

When, at last, the meal was finished, Lizanne felt light-headed from the two goblets of wine she had consumed without benefit of adequate food and was content with silence as Ranulf led her across the hall to where Geoff awaited them.

After passing Lizanne into the squire’s care, Ranulf strode opposite.

From a shadowed alcove outside the main hall, Philip watched the transfer, noting again the possessiveness the baron exercised over a lady who was certainly not his wife. Like the others, he was deeply interested in their relationship.

The moment he had laid eyes upon her, he had determined he would have her, no matter her association with the king’s favored baron. Her wild beauty set her apart from the other ladies of the court, from her blackest hair to her bold gaze, from her self-possessed bearing to her pleasing figure.

But it was not only the lady who occupied his thoughts. More, he was intrigued—and unsettled—by Baron Wardieu’s striking likeness to another. He had seen that pale hair before, those eyes, and the imposing stature. And he knew exactly where.

As he had sat at the table, he had considered the possibilities for such a resemblance that could not be coincidental and had been gladdened, for there was power to be gained in the knowledge. He did not yet know how he would use it. But he would.

Emerging from the alcove, he hastened after the lady and her escort and, disregarding tact, placed himself squarely before them just as they reached the stairway.

“I am Sir Philip Charwyck,” he announced to the squire. “And you are?”

The young man straightened to his full height so that he was nearly level with Philip. “I am Geoff, squire to Baron Wardieu.”

Philip shifted his attention to the lady.

She stared at him out of eyes so fiery he felt as if burned and might have recoiled if not for the promise of what such passion portended.

Grasping her hand and drawing it to his lips, he purred, “I would have the pleasure of your name, my lady.”

A moment later, he clutched air. Pricked by her rejection, he straightened and met her green eyes that plucked a chord of familiarity within him. Was it possible he did know the lady?

“Ah, but we have met before, Sir Philip,” she said as she made a show of wiping her hand upon her skirts.

Philip frowned more deeply. “Forgive me, but I do not recall.”

She gave a scornful laugh, curtsied, and said, “Lady Lizanne Balmaine of Penforke, formerly your betrothed.”

Philip was ashamed by his violent startle and the step he retreated, though he was not the only one to react to the revelation, for the squire jerked and caught his breath.

Mouth bowing beautifully despite the enmity out of which it was formed, she said, “Though it pains me that you could so easily forget your commitment, I daresay I am not surprised. Indeed, it puts me in mind of something I owe you.”

She swept a hand up and, if not for what appeared to be drink-induced sluggishness, she might have struck him across the face. However, fathoming her intent, the squire caught hold of her wrist.

“Nay, my lady,” he said with urgency. “’Tis not prudent.”

Something like hurt flickered across her face, but she nodded and allowed him to draw her away and up the stairs.

They were a half dozen steps ascended when Philip’s former betrothed stopped and looked around. “I regret I cannot say it has been a pleasure to meet you again,” she said, then gave her back to him.

When they were out of sight, Philip contemplated the encounter. Lady Lizanne was fortunate the young squire had stayed her hand, for he was not sure he could have refrained from like retaliation had he been struck by the one who obviously bore a grudge against him for his refusal to wed her.

With some difficulty, he dredged up memories of the gangly, dark-haired girl who had continually vexed him during his squire’s training at her father’s castle. Never had he imagined she would become a beauty.

He shook his head. He had thought himself fortunate to escape marriage to her, but now he was not so sure he should have put forth the effort required to forego the obligation set to him by his father.

But it was not too late. If she could play leman to the enigmatic Baron Wardieu, she could entertain him as well. The thought cheered him considerably.

Ranulf found Lizanne facedown on the bed, feet dangling over the side, one shoe on, the other amid the rushes.

He lowered to the mattress edge and leaned over her sleeping figure to examine her face. A fist curled against one brightly flushed cheek, her features were relaxed as the eyes beneath her lids traveled side to side.

She did not look as if she had been weeping as he had expected. Indeed, she appeared content, likely a result of the wine she had consumed.

He eased his shoulders. When Geoff had brought word of her encounter with Charwyck, Ranulf had been greatly unsettled by the news that the two had once been betrothed. But he had also been reassured by the hostility that Geoff reported Lizanne had displayed toward the man.

He fingered the ribbon that bound her freshly washed hair and was pleased she had chosen to wear his gift in spite of their most recent quarrel. Perhaps she truly was growing up.

When she stirred but did not awaken, he decided to let her sleep off her stupor.

Though he knew he ought to seek a chair, he laid back upon the mattress, stared at the draped material overhead, and considered his meeting with the king.

Henry had been receptive to the bargain struck between Lord Langford and his vassal—pleased, in fact. Oddly though, he had been less interested in the mission he had sent Ranulf on than the circumstances surrounding Lizanne’s accompaniment.

Although Ranulf had been brief in telling the story the king had demanded of him, he had been honest. With creeping suspicion, he had quickly become watchful, catching the glances exchanged between Henry and Eleanor throughout the accounting.

When Henry had asked whether or not he had bedded Lizanne, Ranulf had been shaken by the forward inquiry and declined to answer. Surprisingly, the king had not pursued the matter.

Ranulf’s greatest shock came near the end of his interview with the young, mischievous king when Henry had asked whether or not he intended to wed the lady. Ranulf’s immediate response had been to deny any such consideration.

The king had looked disappointed but had set himself to ticking off the names of eligible nobles with whom he could match Lizanne, including this Charwyck.