Ransom My Heart (23 page)

“Mademoiselle Laroche,” he said carefully. “Have you any idea why I am so badly in need of a good night's rest?”

She shook her head, dark hair falling about her face in an ebony wave.

“Tomorrow I am to be wed.”

That stopped her finger from drawing little circles upon his chest. “Wed?” she echoed, in quite a different tone than she'd employed before. “But you are only just returned to—”

“Aye. But the fact remains. Tomorrow I wed.”

“I don't believe you.” Isabella snatched her hand away. “That is a deliberate lie. Who do you wed?”

Hugo smiled. “Finnula Crais.”

“Finnula—” Isabella leaped from the bed, her beautiful face
contorted as if she were choking. “Finnula Crais?” she screeched. “Are you mad? Have you taken leave of your senses? Finnula Crais was married to—”

“My father, I know.” A wave of tiredness overcame Hugo, and he heartily wished the girl would continue her histrionics elsewhere. “Good night, demoiselle.”

“That witch!” Isabella spat. “That little witch! First Lord Geoffrey, now you. I don't understand it. It's got to be witchcraft!”

“Far from it,” Hugo said coldly. “Now, if you'd be so kind as to—”

Close the door on your way out
was what Hugo was going to say, but he found the words unnecessary as the enraged woman stalked from his chamber, giving his door a very hard slam behind her. Darkness once again fell over Hugo's bedroom, and he sighed, and lay back down upon the pillows. He sincerely hoped that Finnula had no compunction about using her bow upon feminine adversaries, because, judging from the look on Isabella Laroche's face, such action might very well prove necessary.

D
awn had just turned the eastern sky rosy and sent the birds in the treetops into their shrill morning cacophony when Finnula crept down the stairs from her bedroom. Avoiding the bottom step, the one that creaked so, even though she knew perfectly well that the entire household was still abed, she stole into the kitchen, where she skewered a hunk of black bread with her knife and gnawed on one end of it while tugging on her boots. She had just downed a cup of leftover ale and was wiping her lips on her sleeve when the back door swung open and, to her dismay, Robert came in.

“What ho,” he said cheerfully, seeing that his little sister wore both braies and quiver. “Going a-hunting on your wedding day? Forsooth, Finn.”

She glared at him. What was he doing up so early? Last night's
feast ought to have rendered him semiconscious. He'd drunk over two pitchers of ale on his own. Why wasn't he prostrate in bed, moaning?

Lowering a heavy bag of flour he'd had slung over his back, Robert straightened and eyed the small bundle that rested on the bench by Finnula's hip.

“Not running away, are we, Finn?” Loping toward her, Robert reached for the bundle, but Finnula snatched it from his reach, holding the cloth bag to her chest.

“What if I am?” she demanded hotly. “Are you going to stop me?”

“I'll most certainly try.” Robert sat down where the bundle had rested, too close for Finnula's comfort. She scooted farther on down the bench. “What can you be thinkin', love? Runnin' away from Lord Hugo? I thought you liked the fellow.”

Finnula scowled at the stone floor. “I do,” she admitted.

“Then what do you want to run away for? Has the man hurt you in some way?”

Finnula shook her head.

“Cheated you somehow?”

Again, a negative shake of her head.

“Robbed you?”

Finnula considered confessing that Hugo had indeed robbed her of her maidenhead, but remembering that it was Robert she was speaking to, she thought it wiser to remain silent. Besides, she hadn't exactly been robbed of her virginity. She had, more accurately, thrust it at Hugo, in a manner that still caused her to blush when she recalled it.

“Then what is the matter?” Robert wanted to know. “He seems a fine man to me. I know you don't want to be married to another Fitzstephen, but the son's a spot better than the father, don't you think?”

Sullenly, Finnula shrugged.

“So what are you running away for? You should be the happiest girl in the shire. You've snagged yourself a rich and handsome husband. Mellana is beside herself with jealousy.”

Finnula lifted her head and said, “But that's just it, Robert. He
is
rich and handsome. He could have any woman he wanted. So why
me
?”

“Why you?” Robert looked down at his little sister with a constricted brow. “What do you mean, why you?”

“What I said. Why me? I'm not rich. I'm not beautiful. I've got nothing that would tempt a man like Lord Hugo—”

“Obviously you've got something,” Robert interrupted. “Or the man wouldn't be marrying you.”

“I don't know why he's marrying me,” Finnula insisted. “Except that he said he couldn't get me any other way.”

Robert's eyebrows lifted at that. “Ah,” he said. “He loves you, then.”

“Loves me? Bah!” Finnula sprang up from the bench, violently pitching her bundle into a far corner of the kitchen. “I have yet to hear any such sentiment from his lips. Love! He knows not the meaning of the word.”

She saw her brother smile. “Ah,” Robert said again, passing a hand over his mouth to hide a smirk. “So that's the way of it, then?”

“What do you mean?” Finnula stamped a booted foot. “What do you mean, that's the way of it?”

“Only that you're quibbling over trifles,” Robert said. He leaned back, so that his spine rested against the tabletop. “You want him to declare his undying devotion to you, to go about crying how much he needs you, as if he were Mellana's bloody troubadour. You want him to write verse praising your beauty and sing songs of unrequited—”

“God's teeth, Robert,” Finnula said scornfully. “That isn't what I want, and you know it. A simple ‘I love you, Finnula' would suffice.”

“That's what all you women want,” Robert disagreed, in disgust. “You want romance. You want flattery. Well, the only way you're going to get those things out of Lord Hugo is if you play the part.”

Finnula, who'd been pacing the kitchen with a scowl upon her face, halted and stared at her older brother. “Play the part? What part?”

“The part of the fair damsel,” Robert said, waving a dismissive hand. “The highborn lady, with the creamy white skin and helplessly fluttering eyelids.”

“What?” Finnula looked at him as if he were demented. “What are you talking about? What about my eyelids?”

“Finnula, if you want him to sing the praises of your beauty, you've got to look beautiful…or at least look like a
woman
, for God's sake. Bashing about in those leather braies isn't going to inspire words of worship from him.” Robert stared at her critically. “And why don't you do something with your hair, instead of tying it up in that donkey's tail?” Finnula's hands flew defensively to her braid. “Can't you wear it down, with some gewgaws in it? Mellana knows how to do it—”

“And look where it's gotten her,” Finnula observed, dryly.

“Precisely. Finnula, I don't know why you're feeling so sorry for yourself. You've got your man. If he isn't everything you'd like him to be, 'tis up to you to change him. That's what you women seem most keen on, anyway.”

Fingering her braid, Finnula stared at him. Surprisingly, her brother's words made a certain amount of sense. She certainly hadn't acted much like a maiden worth worshipping; more like a maiden in need of a horsewhipping.

“Rather than running away,” Robert said, with a glance at her bag, crumpled in the corner by the woodpile, “why don't you stay and fight for what you want?”

Finnula had no reply for that. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and, leaning on one hip, regarded her brother with narrowed eyes. “You knew I'd try to run away this morning, didn't you?” she demanded. “That's why you got up so early. You didn't really have work to do at the mill, did you?”

“Lord Hugo warned me you'd try to make a run for it,” he admitted, with a grin.

Finnula inhaled sharply. “What? He
told
you—”

“He mentioned something last night.” Robert stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles and looking, for the first time, like a man with a headache.

Finnula snorted disgustedly. “Well, I like that! After I gave him my word!”

“A lot of good your word is,” Robert sneered. “You tried to make a break for it in spite of your promise not to.”

Her shoulders slumped dejectedly, Finnula sank down onto the bench beside him. After a short silence, during which both brother and sister studied their boots, she asked, shyly, “Robert?”

“Aye, Finn.”

“Will you help me?”

“Help you what, Finn?”

“To act more…maidenly.”

Robert made a face. “Can't you ask one of the girls? You've got five sisters to choose from. Four of 'em've already won husbands, so they obviously know what they're doing. Why ask me?”

“Because.” Finnula swung her legs back and forth, in the same manner as when she'd been small. “I trust you most. Please?”

Robert sighed. “Finnula, my head's about to split in two—” Seeing his little sister's crestfallen expression, he sighed. “Oh,
very well. Though what you think I know about these kinds of things, I can't imagine…”

As it happened, Robert Crais knew a great deal about those kinds of things. After granting him a reprieve of a few more hours of sleep, Finnula consulted him regarding her toilette—hair straight or curled? up or down? were her fingernails clean enough?—and her wardrobe—was her kirtle too tight? her bliaut too loose? flowers or jeweled combs in her hair?—and found that after twenty-five years in a household full of women, her brother had garnered a vast wealth of opinions on such matters. When his sisters were through scrubbing, anointing, perfuming, grooming and dressing their youngest sibling, Robert inspected the results and found, with a minor adjustment here and there, that Finnula passed muster.

“I don't know why you think you aren't beautiful,” was his comment, when Finnula, resplendent in her wedding clothes, made her final trip down the stairs from her bedroom.

Looking down at herself with skeptically raised eyebrows, Finnula said, “What, me? Mel's the beauty in the family, Robert.”

Robert snorted. His headache had not gone away, and he'd been forced to imbibe in some hair of the dog in order to temper it. Tankard in hand, he circled Finnula, critically examining every aspect of her habiliment.

Her wedding clothes were not new, though they'd been worn only once before, nearly a year ago to the day. A simple white kirtle of the finest linen fit her with glovelike closeness. Over that she wore a bliaut of white samite, with sleeves so wide and full that they fell almost to the floor. Around her waist was anchored a girdle of silver-link, her only ornament, save a coronet of fresh wildflowers that had been twined through her loosely flowing auburn curls.

Finnula looked, to Robert, like every man's dream of a blush
ing bride. Satisfying himself on a single point, he demanded that she lift her skirts to her knees, and when he saw only bare leg and no braies, he relaxed.

“Well, Finn.” He hiccupped. “You've outdone yourself. A more beautiful bride I've never seen.”

This assertion caused indignation among the other Crais sisters, who'd gathered in the kitchen to view the results of their morning's labor, but Robert waved their protests away.

“She's got the richest groom,” he insisted. “That makes her the prettiest. And now, if mine ears don't deceive me, that's the church bell, tollin' the hour. Methinks Her Ladyship's carriage awaits.”

Finnula's sisters ushered her into the yard, where their husbands waited with a dogcart festooned with ribbon and flowers. Following village tradition, the dogcart was hitched to a small white donkey, and though Finnula balked at actually seating herself in such an undignified conveyance, she gave in with ill grace eventually, and the merry party—many of whom were holding pitchers of Mel's Brew even as they approached the church—made their way to the pulpit.

T
he banging sound that woke Hugo shortly before noon was not, he soon discovered, a result of the pounding within his own skull. No, someone was knocking on the door to his solar, and the throbbing in his head was the result of either too much wine or too much ale—or rather, too much of both.

Lying perfectly still, Hugo stared up at the cobwebs in the canopy over his bed and bellowed, “Enter!” He instantly regretted bellowing, even before he saw that his visitor was neither comely nor carrying anything edible.

The boy Jamie peered at his new lord with very wide eyes as he approached the great bed. “Hello,” he said warily. “Sheriff de Brissac sent me to wake you. Said as you wouldn't be likely to throw anything at a wee lad like myself.”

Hugo, glowering at the boy with bloodshot eyes, said, “John's right. Now what'd he send you to wake me for?”

“Monsieur Laroche and his daughter're leavin',” the boy said amiably. “The sheriff thought you might want to bid 'em farewell.”

Hugo groaned. The last thing he needed was another scene like the one last night involving the Laroche wench. But he had a duty as lord of the manor, and so, head pounding, his joints creaking in protest, he rose from the bed, and even managed to find a clean pair of braies and a tunic to cover his nakedness.

All this was observed by the boy Jamie, whom, Hugo noted, wore exactly what he'd had on the day before and didn't look as if he'd seen a bit of soap in his lifetime. He also didn't appear to have anything in particular to do except stare at Hugo as
he
washed, and this was somewhat annoying.

“Who do you belong to, little man?” Hugo asked, eyeing the scamp as he shaved.

“Why, I already told you. To you, my lord,” the boy answered promptly.

Hugo rolled his eyes. “But what function do you perform here at the manor house?” Hugo asked. “Do you help Mistress Laver in the kitchens? Give old Webster a hand with the horses? What?”

“All those things.” The boy shrugged. “There's naught I ain't been asked to do except help Mam'selle Isabella with her toilette—”

“Ah.” Hugo grimaced. “I would guess not.”

His own toilette complete, the earl fastened on his belt, making sure his sword was attached to it, in case he was called upon to look intimidating. Then he headed down the stairs, to see his cousin off.

In the stable yard he found Reginald Laroche and his daughter
slumped upon the seat of a rude wagon, surrounded by Sheriff de Brissac's men, none of whom looked as if their heads hurt any less than Hugo's. The back of the wagon was filled with bric-a-brac that might or might not have originally belonged to the Laroches—indeed, Hugo saw a tapestry he thought quite probably had belonged to his mother. But he was too hungover for much arguing, and after checking to make sure that at least the horses pulling the vehicle weren't his own, he slapped one on the rump and couldn't stifle a grin.

“So,” he said to the Laroches. “Know you yet where you go? For I'll be expecting full recompense in the coming year—”

“I know it,” snarled the former bailiff. The man looked almost as bad as Hugo felt. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his hair appeared not to have seen a comb in some time. “I told Sheriff de Brissac.”

The sheriff, standing with his thumbs hooked into his belt, opened an eye swollen from lack of sleep and too much ale and said, “Aye. He's got a sister in Leesbury. Says she's married to a cousin of—What was it now, Laroche?”

Reginald Laroche eyed Hugo bitterly. “Cousin of the queen's favorite lady-in-waiting. The King will hear of this outrage, Cousin Hugo. Rest assured.”

“Ah.” Hugo smiled. “And no doubt, when he does hear of it, the King will take your side? I think not, monsieur.”

The sheriff chuckled. “In any case, we'll be able to find 'im, if we need to. But we won't need to, am I right, Laroche? Because you're going to be makin' those payments to 'Is Lordship in a timely manner, or into the jailhouse you'll go…”

“You'll be hearing from me,” Laroche snarled. “I guarantee it.”

Beside him, Isabella lifted a wimpled head, and Hugo saw that her face was splotchy with tears, her fine black eyes red from
crying. She was dressed in what undoubtedly were her oldest clothes, and looked no more like the vibrant beauty of yester eve than Fat Maude.

“You'll hear from us,” she shouted, quite vehemently, at Hugo. “You vile, horrible man!”

Hugo quirked up an eyebrow. He hadn't been called a vile, horrible man since…Well, probably since the last time he'd seen Finnula. Quite used by now to being reviled by young women, he only snapped his heels together and gave the girl a mocking bow.

“Mademoiselle,” he said. “I wish you the best. If I may offer this piece of advice—”

“You may not,” snapped Isabella.

“—abandon your father at the earliest opportunity. Marry an honest man, if one can be found who'll have you, and use your talents and beauty for good, not mischief.”

Isabella pursed her lips as if she were about to spit, and Hugo stepped fleetly out of the projectile's path.

“Ah,” Sheriff de Brissac cried, coming out of his stupor with a laugh. “She's got spirit, that one!”

“Verily,” Hugo agreed, looking down at the glistening globule that had landed just inches from his feet.

Reginald Laroche whipped his horses, and the wagon lurched forward, causing some items in the back of the cart to tinkle ominously. Isabella cried out for her father to stop so that she could better pack whatever was threatening to break, but Laroche ignored her. The undignified processional disappeared through the manor house gates, and the moment it did so, a cheer erupted from the general area of the kitchens.

Hugo glanced around and saw Mistress Laver and the aged groom, Webster, standing side by side, looking after the departing Laroches with delighted grins across their faces.

“Good riddance to ye,” Mistress Laver called.

“Don't come back soon!” Webster rasped.

Hugo, his eyebrows lifted to their limits, glanced at the sheriff. “I see there's no love lost between the servants and my father's cousin,” he observed.

“Cheated them out of their wages every chance he got,” de Brissac said mildly. “'Tis a wonder they stayed as long as they did. Waited for you, I think, my lord.”

“And they shall be rewarded,” Hugo declared, and, making good on his promise, he called to the ancient groom and the somewhat less aged cook and, thanking them for their faithful service, poured a small fortune from a pouch at his hip into the palms he had them cup.

Mistress Laver was beside herself with gratitude, but Webster managed a toothy grin, and a pull on his forelock. “I seen as 'ow it would be, m'lord, the minute I seed you in the yard last night,” he said, through toothless gums. “I tol' that squire o' yours, 'im won't be lettin' that Frenchman walk all over 'im like 'is father did, mark me words, nor did ye. Bless ye, m'lord!”

“I shall be asking for your blessings again later this afternoon,” Hugo said. “I intend to bring my bride here anon, and will need your help in making her feel at home.”

“Your bride!” cried Mistress Laver, clapping her hands. She'd shoved the gold he'd given her deep into her apron pockets. “What a 'appy day indeed! I'll need to get straight to work, then, if it's a wedding feast that's called for. Might I have your leave, m'lord, to ask in my nieces to 'elp?”

“Ask as many of your relatives as you feel necessary, Mistress Laver,” Hugo said, with a wave of his hand. “'Tis not just a wedding feast we'll be needing, but this entire house aired out, if we're to live here comfortably. See that something gets done about the dust in there, if you would. And the cobwebs. And the mice—”

“And the empty wineskins,” the sheriff added, thoughtfully.

Mistress Laver clapped her hands again, she was in such high spirits, and set off with a great many mutterings about carpets and seedcakes and bed linens. Old Webster shuffled away, and it occurred to Hugo that a member of his household was missing. He had only, it seemed, to glance right or left and there stood Jamie, his dirty face blinking up at him.

“And where is my trusty squire this fine morning?” Hugo inquired.

“He's asleep in the washtub,” was Jamie's chirpy reply. “He had a whole barrelful of wine to drink last night, and snored enough to wake the hounds—”

Grimacing, Hugo ran a hand through his long hair, and noticed that Sheriff de Brissac was signaling for his men to mount up.

“With your leave, my lord, we'll escort you to the church and then some of us'll be off,” John de Brissac said, with a mighty yawn he didn't even bother to stifle. “Only got an hour or so of sleep last night, what with keepin' an eye on your man, and whatnot—”

“But you'll all return tonight for more whatnot,” Hugo urged. “If there's any wine left in my cellars, I hope to drink to the health of the new Lady Stephensgate.”

“You couldn't keep me away, my lord.” The sheriff grinned.

And so it was that Hugo arrived at his wedding under armed escort, a hungover squire at his side and a painful throbbing behind his own right eye. The headache let up a little, however, when he glimpsed his bride waiting for him quietly in the nave, looking even more angelic than she had that stormy night in the hostelry, when he'd sworn to himself to make her his own.

Indeed, if it hadn't been for a familiar glint of rebelliousness in those gray eyes, Hugo would have thought some sort of devilry afoot, for the girl who met him at the altar was even more beautiful
than he remembered Finnula Crais to be. She looked so feminine and even ladylike in her spotless white gown, it was hard to imagine that this winsome wench had ever held him at knifepoint. She repeated her vows in a soft voice, hardly ever glancing in Hugo's direction, and he was left to suppose that one of her nosy sisters had got hold of her, and filled her full of lies about how a proper wife ought to behave. He had every confidence that by evening, she'd be his own Finnula again. He wondered if she was wearing the leather braies beneath her bridal gown, and looked forward to the moment when they were alone, and he'd be able to find out for himself.

By the time they were pronounced man and wife, the little church of Stephensgate was as packed as ever Hugo'd seen it, jammed not only with Finnula's innumerable relatives, but by his own vassals, who'd somehow heard of the impending nuptials and had shown up in droves to wish the couple well. There were so many people present that they couldn't all fit in the pews, and spilled out into the aisles and even into the churchyard. When Hugo, as directed by Father Edward, bent to kiss the bride, a cheer erupted that fairly shook the rafters.

And then the earl and his bride were caught up in a surge of well-wishers, who pressed forward with earnest congratulations, and at length, Hugo was forced to bellow an invitation to one and all to sup at the manor house, simply in order to clear a path out of the church.

Outside in the fine spring air Finnula looked, if such a thing were possible, even more lovely. But as Hugo had expected, her usual asperity was not hidden deep beneath that virtuous exterior.

“What can you be thinking, inviting all these people to dine?” she demanded, as he placed her on the saddle before him. “Mistress Laver can't be expecting them—”

“As it happens, my love, she is,” Hugo said, slipping an arm around his wife's narrow waist. She blushed delightfully at the contact, as if the two of them had never so much as kissed before. Hugo couldn't help grinning, anticipating an interesting wedding night. “And if you can convince Mellana to provide us with a barrel or two of ale, we ought to get by admirably—”

Finnula scowled darkly at the mention of her sister's name. Hugo's invitation had served to empty the church, but one late arrival had captured the attention of Robert Crais and his brothers-in-law. Word of the wedding had not only reached the ears of Hugo's vassals, but had stretched to outlying villages, bringing such unlikely hangers-on as a traveling tinker, hoping to make a few sales, and several wandering minstrels, one of whom turned out to be none other than Jack Mallory.

It was as they were thanking Father Edward for agreeing to conduct the ceremony on such short notice—an act for which Hugo had seen the church was amply compensated—that a whisper in the crowd first alerted Robert to the presence of Mellana's lover. Though he might have thought differently, fortune was smiling upon Jack Mallory that day, in that the shire reeve was present. John de Brissac alone kept the minstrel from being killed outright by his lover's enraged brother, for the troubadour was greeted not with applause and tossed coins, as custom dictated, but with fists and boot toes.

Sheriff de Brissac broke up the fight before Mallory suffered too many contusions, but there was no calming down the shrieking Mellana.

“Murderer!” she cried at her brother, throwing her arms around the semiconscious minstrel. “Look what you've done! His beautiful face! Oh, Jack, your face!”

Robert, brushing off his hands, regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. “He's not dead,” he said, and there was no denying
the regret in his voice. “Not yet, anyway. But when I get him to work for me at the mill, he'll be wishin' he were.”

“Oh, you brute, you brute,” Mellana moaned. She buried her golden head in Jack Mallory's neck, and made a very pretty picture there in the churchyard, with her bright skirts spread upon the ground, and her lover's body in her arms.

“Am I to take it that there's soon to be another wedding in the Crais family?” Father Edward stepped forward to inquire, eagerly anticipating a full collection box.

“You can stake your surplice on it, Father,” was Robert's acerbic reply. “Soon as the groom comes to, we'll be needin' your prayer book opened again.”