The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (12 page)

John was not surprised that they were not abed, despite the lateness of the hour. In truth, he would have been more than a little disappointed if even one snore had greeted his arrival. And now that he had left the great hall, they turned questioning eyes to his, knowing why he had come.

"He knows," was all he said.

Silence greeted that pronouncement, for there was no surprise in it. Indeed, they had been waiting for this moment since William le Brouillard had first crossed into Greneforde's enclosure.

"And now?" Eldon asked for them all.

"And now we see of what mettle Lord William is truly fashioned," John responded quietly.

"What of Lady Cathryn?" Alys asked.

"He has not harmed her," John assured them all.

"Yet," Lan added tersely.

"I do not think it in him to hurt her," John mused aloud.

"Nor do I," Alys added.

"Then he is a rare man," Lan said.

John's head jerked up at that, and he studied Lan before answering, "Aye. It is in my mind that William le Brouillard is a rare man."

"And if he is not?" Lan pressed.

"We shall be here and will stand for her as we are able."

The assembly nodded in agreement. They stood with Lady Cathryn, as they always had and always would, but Greneforde needed a strong lord to guide and protect her. God willing, le Brouillard was that man, but they would stand between Cathryn and her lord if need be, God willing or no. They would allow no harm to befall her, for they had learned the price of passivity, and the price was too dear.

* * *

Across the enclosure, Rowland sat in silence as he polished his weapon. It was a time of contentment for him. William had his land and his wife, and he was happy for him. After so many years of fighting and searching, he deserved this moment of complete victory. Tomorrow would bring fresh trouble in the way of food shortages and rebuilding the village; tonight he could enjoy without shadow.

After that, Rowland's thoughts drifted and he drifted with them, uncaring where they brought him. It was of little matter. His thoughts always brought him to the same place eventually, and he had ceased to fight against them long ago.

William emerged slowly from the far shadows of the hall and crossed the wide floor until he stood just paces from his friend. He had strong need of a friend this night.

Rowland did not look up, did not hesitate in his polishing, but it was with a trace of amusement that he remarked, "Strange for a man to leave his bedchamber on his wedding night."

William gazed into the fire, unwilling to look away from the mesmerizing play of multihued flame.

"What had to be done, is done," he said with brusque simplicity.

Still not looking up from his task, Rowland said, "And with that chore behind you, you find yourself in search of a new one. My shield would welcome the feel of your hand wielding the polishing cloth."

Rowland's words passed over him without penetrating. The fire licked and swirled within and around the logs, playing with the wood even as it consumed it. Such was life, playing with a man's dreams until it handed him ashes, though he had not thought so even an hour ago. He had hoped for much, planned for much, after the wreckage of his childhood. Through all the years of toil and striving and blood, he had fed the dream of again having his own land, his own bulwark against whatever man could throw against him. He had striven to prove his worth to an overlord who could reward him with land, since Henry of Anjou had land aplenty. He had fought and fought and fought again, both the Saracen and the Christian, and now he had to fight anew—against his own wife.

The need to be with Rowland, to hear his friend's even voice and to speak his own thoughts, lay heavily upon him, but he would not speak of Cathryn and what had been revealed on their wedding bed. She had betrayed him, but he would not betray her. They were bound in the sight of God, and he would honor his vow—not to her, but to God. What passed between them was private and would remain so.

Rowland continued with his task, careful not to look into his friend's eyes, careful to give him the time and the privacy he needed to speak his thoughts. His sword had ceased needing care long ago, but he did not halt in his precise handling. He waited for William. He would wait all night and rub his sword down to a dagger if need be.

"The sum of my plans lie there," William said softly, pointing to the ash that ringed the glowing yellow fire.

Rowland chose his words carefully, remembering a night when he had first learned how fragile were a man's plans when brushed by the mighty hand of God. Indeed, it was not so far off in his thoughts even now.

"A man's plans often lie charred and crumbling in this life, yet God will have His way," he said quietly.

"I vow this is not God's way!" William argued, his voice urgent in its intensity. "And if it be His, then it surely is not mine!"

Rowland smiled sadly and looked up from his sword. "'Tis rare the two are one."

William looked deeply into Rowland's eyes and found himself smiling reluctantly. "That is truly so and truly said." When he turned back to the fire, his smile collapsed. "Yet 'tis mortal hard to release the dream."

"Even if all you release is a fistful of ash?"

William looked again into Rowland's dark eyes, and now he did not smile. "Even so. Yea," he answered with wistful intensity.

Rowland answered him with equal intensity: "Then construct a new dream, William, and brush the ash off your warrior's hand. If God wills, you will succeed."

William sat on the bench opposite Rowland, trying to heed the wisdom of Rowland's words—words he knew Rowland had lived himself.

"And if God wills not?" he finally responded.

Rowland smiled gently. "'Tis said there are dreams aplenty."

But what men said and what they believed often had little in common, and so it was true of Rowland's counsel. The two sat in companionable, if solemn, silence, alone in the vast darkness of the hall, each lost in the mystery and beauty of the flames. But William could find no new dream among the ashes at his feet.

Chapter 7

Cathryn awoke just minutes before the dawning, alone in the bed. The rain of yesterday had stopped, but the mist and low clouds remained to block the rising sun. Fog ruled the day.

Someone had covered her, tucking the cover around her as snugly as one would bind a child, and the fire blazed hotly in the hearth. Marie. She could not remember actually falling asleep last night, but she knew the fire had been out before William had left the room and that she had been curled on top of the coverlet. With the thought of William, an overwhelming sense of loss and lethargy pervaded her. Their marriage had begun much as she had feared; she should be thankful. She had no bruises to sport throughout the day. It could have been worse—much worse. But then, who but God knew what this day would bring? William might have decided to leave Greneforde for a richer holding. He might have decided to publicly humiliate her and was even now waiting in the hall to deride her in the presence of his men. He might have tired of sheathing his anger and would strike her when next they met. He and his men might kill them all for their duplicity and treachery...

Such thoughts were not helping her malaise. She had to rise and be about her daily affairs, husband or no, Marie's quiet entrance spurred her to action.

Throwing back the cover with more energy than she felt, Cathryn rose from the bed with a smile for Marie. Truly she felt no desire to smile for herself.

"Ah, lady, you are awake," Marie said with some surprise. "I had thought you would not want to be up so early this day." The pity in her voice was unmistakable. Cathryn could not allow it, for if she did, she would hide away all day and cry herself sick.

"And why should I linger abed, Marie?" she answered with determined cheer. "The sun will not wait for me, and there is much to be done this day, as there is each day."

"Aye, lady," Marie acquiesced quietly, "yet—"

"Come," Cathryn interrupted, eager to be off this topic, "choose a gown for me, for I stand here shivering, despite the warmth of the fire you laid for me and for which I am grateful. The sun will not slow its passage and I must be about my tasks."

Marie said no more, but hurried forward with a worn bliaut of faded green for her lady to wear. The effect it made with the soft white of Cathryn's undergarments was not displeasing; if the green had only retained its original hue, the effect would have been quite fresh and gay, especially with the belt of amber that had once been worn with the garment. But that had been long ago.

Her toilette finished, Cathryn left the bedchamber without noticeable hesitation and descended the stair to the hall. She paused briefly at the curtained entrance to the great hall, the sounds of talk and soft laughter coming to her faintly from beyond the worn curtain. She could not distinguish le Brouillard's voice from among them, but that was not surprising; she hardly knew the man, husband though he was. Then she chided herself for her self-deception; she hardly knew him, but she would know his voice at a thousand paces—that was the truth of it.

She waited a moment longer, her anxiety at having to face him rising with each breath. It was absurd. He was lord here; she must face him eventually, and the sooner the better.

Pushing back the curtain, Cathryn entered the hall. A quick scan revealed that he was not present, nor was his shadow companion, Rowland. The men gathered there turned to see who was entering, and she braced herself for their scorn or derision or cruelty or whatever else a man could think to do when his lord's honor had been sullied.

These men did nothing. Some nodded in her direction, but that was the most overt act any of them committed. Cathryn let her breath out with conscious effort, hardly aware that she had been holding it. Before she could draw another, even before she could step more fully into the room, Ulrich hurried over to her, his eyes lit with eagerness and good cheer.

"Good morn to you, my lady," he began with a smile, coaxing her more deeply into the hall and leading her courteously to the table so that she could break her fast. "My lord has been up since before the dawn to inspect the fields and determine if they are ready for seed." It suddenly struck him that she might take offense, thinking her skill at managing an estate had just been questioned. "You had not yet arisen when he yearned to be off, and Lord William is ever eager to be up and away come the mom. Rowland is with him," Ulrich thought to add, in case she would worry as to her husband's safety, "and they plan to search the wood for game. Would you not like fresh game for dinner, Lady Cathryn?" he asked.

Ulrich had not been idle during his recitation of her husband's business; nay, he had seated her, cut her meat, and placed her portion in a pleasing display on her plate. He had finished by pouring her wine and now stood ready to attend her future needs at table. Perhaps William's anger of the previous night had been but momentary. Perhaps he had schooled the boy, only a year or two younger than she, to take tender care of his wife. It was a hopeful thought.

"Yea, Ulrich," she responded smiling up at him, "fresh meat would be most welcome. Think you that your master can provide it?"

"Oh, lady, 'tis as easily said as done for my lord William," Ulrich boasted happily, his hands folding across his chest with confidence to match his words.

"So?" Cathryn prompted. It was all the prompting Ulrich needed.

"William le Brouillard is a great warrior, my lady, though it does not surprise me that you would not be aware of it, Greneforde being not on the main path, so to speak," he explained self-importantly. "Did you not know that he saved Rowland's life? And Rowland himself is a knight of no little fame."

"Nay," Cathryn answered softly, her smile gentle for the young squire who tutored under a knight he found so grand. "I did not know it."

"'Tis a great tale, Lady Cathryn. Would you hear it?" he asked eagerly, the words clearly ready to spill forth from his lips.

"Yea, I would."

"Ah, lady, the sun was hot, as it always is in that far-off land," he began, his eyes focused on the pale shaft of light coming through the high wind hole. "The fighting had lasted many a day, but the walls of Damascus were strong, impenetrable, and high. Rowland, feared by many a Saracen for his valor and his stamina, attacked again and again, and though he could find no breach, he did not admit defeat. Nay, not even when he lay spent beneath its walls, his body wasted for lack of water. For did you not know, lady, that there is no water in the land of our Savior and that the soldiers of God found it is more precious than the most costly gem?" Ulrich did not wait for her response; indeed, none was needed. "But William did not hesitate to ride to the aid of his countryman, though they knew each other not and though the arrows of the Saracens flew about him as thick as flies on the... uh, as thick as snow," he rallied, remembering his audience. "William spurred his horse to greater speed and slipped in swift silence to the very base of the walls of defiant Damascus and lifted Rowland to his feet. With gentle care, he placed Rowland on his charger and then mounted behind, his back an easy target for the archers on the wall, and rode away as silently as he had come. The Saracens were amazed and swore aloud that their God and ours protected this man, this William le Brouillard."