Sword for His Lady (7 page)

Isabel groaned and felt her cheeks burn with the memory of what Ramon looked like beneath his tunic. Mildred noticed the color immediately.

“Oh, there now. I didn't think I needed to temper my words with you. You've had a husband.”

“I am not tender, simply overwhelmed at the moment. That is all.” Isabel stiffened. “I've a need to find something to occupy my hands before Lord de Segrave demands more of my time.”

His
member
was
long
and
thick…

She tried to dismiss the image of it from her mind; there was no way to avoid thinking about how different Lord de Segrave was from her late husband. It was more than his physical attributes. The baron exuded a confidence that she could feel just by standing near him. It was this same confidence that must have helped him on the battlefield, and earned him his title of baron.

All around her, his men were raising a city of tents. A steady stream of horses were being taken over the rise so that the scent of their droppings wouldn't become intolerable. Men were taking bundles of long poles along with the animals to build corrals. A knight needed his stallion because it was the combination of his skill with weapons while mounted that made for a superior fighting man.

Overwhelmed…

She felt far more than that. Isabel tried to resist feeling beaten, but it proved difficult when everywhere she looked there were men she had no means of evicting from her land. Thistle Hill had enjoyed two seasons of peace that she had known would not last, but she still felt the sting of tears in her eyes to see it. She had dared to hope that the king would leave for the Holy Land without bothering her.

Isabel shook her head and entered the keep. It was a large structure rising four stories. The first level had been built to provide shelter from Hell's armies when the Vikings had plundered the land. A second story had followed, to hide all the valuables those Nordic raiders liked to steal.

Isabel's husband had added to the keep, wedding her so that he could use her dowry to continue building. Bechard had planned to impress the king by fortifying the border between Britain and Wales, but he'd also been intent on making sure he had a dwelling that would rival even the king's.

It was also a way to avoid riding for the Crusade.

Isabel climbed to the third floor where four large solars were located. Bechard had held court in one that was lavishly furnished with things he had brought home during his days with the king's army.

Plundered.

Isabel slowed as she neared the opening to the solar. Some might say it was beautiful but she detested the gold and silver goblets her husband had taken such joy in owning. Persian carpets adorned the floor, and three glass windowpanes made of small shapes of colored glass formed brilliant mosaics when the sunlight shone through them. Her husband had taken delight in his things while there were families on his own land in need of shoes.

She preferred the simple wooden shutters in the women's solar. She left her husband's solar behind and sought out her own. The shutters were open now and the spring air filled the large room. She caught a hint of newly turned earth and could hear the river roaring with the abundance of springtime runoff. Two girls were turning the bedding, and they nodded toward her with respect, but did not stop to offer her any formal courtesy.

Those sorts of wasteful gestures had been missing since her husband died. Thistle Hill required everyone's efforts, and it did not need a lady of the manor who was puffed up with her own vanity.

Retrieving her hawking gauntlet, Isabel retraced her steps to the first floor. She turned and crossed through the hall that was filled with long trestle tables and benches. At the far end were wide doorways to the kitchens that were built behind the keep to prevent the smoke from filling the lower floor. The cook looked up as she entered, but Isabel didn't linger. Several girls were turning pastry on the long table in front of the fire while still more chopped vegetables that had been brought up from the cellars. The vegetables were still frozen but would fill the stew pots well.

She returned to the storerooms where the hawks were perched. They would be moved to wooden structures outside when the weather was no longer frigid at night. The animals were critical to Thistle Hill; their room was kept tidy, cleaned twice a day.

“Come, my prince, we've work to do, and I imagine you are hungry,” Isabel said.

Griffin lifted his wings in response to her voice, opening his beak to let out a sharp cry. His hunting instincts were keen and he turned several times, eagerly anticipating soaring free.

She pushed her hand into the gauntlet, flexing her fingers to make sure she had the protective leather all the way on her hand. When she extended her arm, Griffin stepped up without being coaxed.

She closed her hand around the length of the leather strapping that was attached to the hawk's right ankle and carried him out into the sunlight.

She crossed the land that the keep overlooked. The sound of the geese became louder. Once she went over the high ground, the land sloped down toward a large area of marshland. It was an area many considered useless until she kept the geese there.

The birds were happy among the reeds. They built nests along the banks, and the dense growth afforded them security.

“Lady…look…we've more feathers today.”

Three small girls came running up from where they had been carefully searching among the reeds for feathers. They held up their prizes, clearly hoping that she would be pleased with their efforts. Long baskets, woven in the shape of cylinders, hung from their backs to help them carry the feathers without damaging them.

“Well done, sweetings.”

They were only girls, the youngest six, but they had sharp eyes and were eager to earn their way by searching the reeds every day. Not a single feather was allowed to be lost to the murky waters. Bechard had berated her for keeping the birds alive, but she had proven him wrong in a single season when she produced more feathers for the archers than he did by slaughtering his half of the flock.

“My lady, there are nests now. I counted five with more than two eggs each,” the eldest girl reported.

Isabel smiled. “Did you mark them?”

The girls nodded quickly.

“Good. Off to the kitchens, for it seems that you have all earned your way.”

The girls scampered off, eager for the promise of warm bread. Their ankles flashed in the afternoon sunlight as their tunics flipped about their knees. On the other side of the marsh, peasant men and their sons worked the plows, turning the fields. Bechard had always complained bitterly of how much marshland he was cursed with, but she had made it profitable. Goose feathers were the only ones used for longbow arrows. Thistle Hill paid its entire due to the crown in feathers now and there were often more to sell. That left all of their crops for winter stock. No one had gone hungry since she had taken over management of the estate.

Pride might be considered a sin, but she was proud of the life she afforded her people. For as far as she could see the fields were being readied for planting. Smoke rose from the village and women were working outside their homes, enjoying the spring weather.

Isabel looked over the marshes and heard the geese. The ganders glided across the water with their heads held high. They stretched out their necks and preened for the females who blended in with the reeds. She walked down farther, searching for the small loops of scarlet ribbon that marked where the nests were. The girls would have tied them to the tops of sturdy reeds so no one made the mistake of disturbing a nest. The goslings would be a welcome addition to the flock.

She pulled the hood off Griffin and the hawk wiggled with excitement. She gave him his freedom and he took to the air with a hard flap of his wings. She watched him soar over the marsh, his eyes searching for rodents.

At dawn she would bring Griffin out again. The hawk would catch the rats that wanted to steal the eggs. The hawk dove down and returned to her arm with a prize in his talon, but she took it from him and sent him into the air again. The hawk went gladly, enjoying the hunt as much as filling his belly.

The afternoon was fading and the church bells began to toll in the distance. Isabel allowed Griffin to keep his last prize. She turned to head back for mass, leaving the hawk happily feasting on the small rat he'd caught.

The day seemed as though it had been too long, with too many unsettling things happening. She walked toward the church and joined the streams of people filling it for the service. Mildred was already standing near the front and made room for her.

The normally quiet service was interrupted by the sound of spurs grating across the church's stone floor. Ramon de Segrave and his captains led the rest of his men into the church. Their mail tunics filled the church with the clanking sounds of metal, and the sound of swords being left outside the sanctuary drifted inside too. The monks froze, their faces reflecting their surprise at seeing the church completely filled. Everyone was pressed together, men on the left and women on the right. The nuns remained in the hallways because there was no room for them anywhere else. The priest had been kneeling, with his back to the members of his congregation. He muttered the last few words of his prayer and stood up, slowly turning to face his flock.

His eyes widened, but he smiled too. Isabel sighed. At least someone was glad to have the baron on her land.

She was certainly not.

* * *

“The lady sits at the common table,” Ambrose muttered.

“My eyes work well,” Ramon said.

His fellow knight offered him a mocking look. “Even if your sense of humor does not.”

Ramon grunted but grinned at Ambrose. “Am I too serious a companion for you tonight?” He stared at Isabel while his hands tore a round of bread in half. The lady had presented him with her back. It was not exactly a slight, even if he had expected her to sit beside him at the high table. Isabel broke bread with her nurse at the same tables her people ate at.

“You are serious, my lord, yet I can agree you have reason to be so absorbed in your thoughts.” Ambrose plucked a section of sausage off a large serving plate with the aid of his dagger. “Considering marriage with yon prickly blossom would consume my good humor as well.”

“You mistake spirit for ill temper. Isabel of Camoys is no girl, but a woman. I do not expect to find her meekly obedient. This keep would be in poor condition if she didn't have the spine to run it.” Ramon lifted his goblet toward his friend in a silent toast. “I prefer her spirit to half-starved villagers who lack the strength to plow the fields for planting.”

His friend leaned toward him. “Exactly my point. She is set in her ways.”

Ramon found himself amused by his friend's somberness. “She is not so old. In fact, I believe her father wed her too young.”

“Possibly, but that does not change the fact that she sits there, content with shunning the position of honor you have saved for her. She is discontented with the will of her betters.”

Ramon winked at Ambrose. “Where has your sense of adventure gone, Ambrose? I recall many a time you enjoyed chasing a fair girl in spite of her words dismissing you.”

His friend's expression lightened and he placed an open hand in the middle of his chest as he bowed mockingly. “Your praise is appreciated, even if I must warn you against the sin of envying me my skill.”

“You mistake envy for judgment.”

Ambrose chuckled. “Since you consider yourself so skilled at the art of seduction, I cannot wait to hear of your plans to win the fair Lady of Camoys who offers you such a fine view of her back.”

“Success will require a sound strategy and unfailing persistence.” He drew a long swallow from his drinking bowl before finishing his thought. “Two items I have in abundance.”

Ambrose laughed loud enough to draw the attention of several people sitting at the lower tables. They considered the knights while leaning closer together to whisper their thoughts in tones that would not travel far.

Ambrose lifted his own drinking bowl. “To your quest, my lord, and may you survive to tell the tale.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “I cannot wait to be amazed.”

Ramon didn't answer. His thoughts were concentrated on Isabel. She looked his way, their gazes connecting for a brief moment, but that was long enough. Her eyelashes fluttered, betraying the fact that she was not as unmoved by his presence as her back to him declared. A union between them was a sound idea, even if he hadn't been set on taking a wife. She wore another full wimple, as befitted a widow, and he decided that it did not complement her at all. She hid behind the rules of society when it suited her. More importantly, she hid from life.

She was too young for widowhood.

Ramon smiled slowly as an idea formed in his mind. With it came a rush of anticipation that warmed him. It seemed she was able to raise more than just his passions.

It had been a long time since a woman had done that.

For a moment, he pondered the wisdom of leaving. The last time he'd allowed himself to feel deeply about a woman, she'd left a scar on his heart. Isabel turned and locked gazes with him. He felt the connection, his passions rising.

Dangerous or not, there was no way he was leaving. He lifted his drinking bowl to her, silently sending along his acceptance of her challenge.

And to the victor went the spoils.

* * *

“They are in good humor,” Mildred muttered as she looked past Isabel at the baron and his officers.

“Of course they are. They have taken what they rode out to claim.”

Well, not all that the man had come seeking was his. She pressed her lips together, feeling a knot of dread tightening in her belly. Time felt as though it were crawling by while she waited for the baron's next move.