The Maiden and Her Knight (6 page)

Sir Connor was no threat to him…unless they had been seen together in the garden. No one else had been there, nor had she noticed anybody close to the door when she returned to the hall. There had been no guard on the wall walk nearby. Of that she was very sure, for she had looked for one when Sir Connor had first spoken to her.

But she had not kept watch on the gate leading from the garden into the courtyard where Sir Connor had entered. Someone could have been there, watching in the shadows.

Yet what would anybody have seen to report to the baron? A short conversation, a kiss on the wrist. Her body warmed and she blushed to think of that—but was it so terrible, really? Was it enough to try to cause
serious injury, perhaps even death? Even for DeFrouchette?

Or maybe it had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the fact that the baron might fear a well-trained knight upon the tournament field.

Perhaps it wasn't the baron at all. She didn't think there was any other man in the tournament who might be so ruthless, but there could be, she supposed.

As if summoned by her tumultuous thoughts, Rennick DeFrouchette sauntered into the tent as if he were the master of all he surveyed. When he spied her, he surveyed her with the same insolent presumption.

She wanted to march right up to him and accuse him of cheating, but caution, so long her guide in all things, held her back. Sir Connor had spoken in a drug-induced haze, and even if he truly believed what he had said, he must have evidence to prove it. Otherwise, his accusation would only earn the enmity of a merciless, powerful man.

As for the baron's possible motive, if he had done such a dishonest and dishonorable act, she had best ensure that he understood there was nothing between herself and Sir Connor except a brief conversation and a simple kiss on her wrist. And she would do well to see that it was so.

She put a smile on her face as she approached the baron. “Is the melee over?”

“Yes. Sir Auberan owes me fifty marks,” he bragged before he glanced over at Sir Connor. “I see you've been looking after the Welshman. I trust I didn't injure him fatally.”

“You did that?” she asked, feigning ignorance to try to gauge his feelings.

“Yes. Breeding shows itself in many ways, you know. He was doomed from the start.”

“It is a serious wound. He cannot travel for some days.”

Rennick frowned. “You would have him stay at Montclair?”

“Any who are hurt and unable to travel must stay. We can do no less.”

“The expense—”

“My father is the host, so until he informs me otherwise, they will all stay until they are well enough to travel.”

Rennick's eyes narrowed, and again she reminded herself of the dangerous path she trod. Any misstep—like last night—could have serious consequences. “It has always been so.”

“Come, my lady,” he commanded.

“My place is here, until all the injured have been seen to.”

“You do not look overly busy.”

Unfortunately, he was right. “Very well.” She moved away before he could take her arm. “I will come outside a few moments.”

They went around the tent away from the tournament field, closer to the river and the willows that lined the bank.

“I see no reason for all the injured to remain in Montclair, eating your father's food and drinking his wine,” he said as they stopped in the shadow of the trees.

You do
, she wanted to point out. “We would not want it said that the earl of Montclair lacks hospitality.”

“As long as the earl and his daughter take care to whom they are hospitable. That Welshman, for instance. It would be better for him to be on his way.”

Her heartbeat quickened, both with tension as she wondered if he was going to speak of last night and the hope that if he did not, she would get some answers to the multitude of questions she had about Sir Connor. “Why?”

“He is dishonored, cast out of Richard's retinue by the king himself.”

“Why was he cast out?”

“They quarreled. He is fortunate he was only sent home, and not arrested for treason.”

From what she had heard of Richard, she thought so, too, even as she wondered what the quarrel had been about. “You read all the licenses of the attendant knights, and apparently saw nothing amiss. Therefore, I assume there was no objection raised when he paid his fee to the court to participate in tournaments, and so is entitled to enter any he wishes. Perhaps he left the king of his own accord. Or have you made an error?”

Rennick's heavy, dark brown brows pulled together as he frowned. “You question me close, my lady. Is this the gratitude I get for helping your father?”

“Naturally I am grateful, Baron,” she lied, quickly forcing another bogus smile onto her face. “It is just that I am trying to understand how this man came to be here if he is unworthy.”

“I didn't know about his past until recently.”

“Who told you?”

“Do you doubt what I say?”

“No. I am simply trying to grasp why he was worthy yesterday, but is not today and why, although he has every right to participate in the tournament, you believe it would be better for my father to risk being considered an ungracious and miserly host than to allow the man to stay a few days until his wound is mended.”

“There are more things to consider than that, my lady.” His knuckles grazed her cheek, but she felt no tingle of pleasure. She saw only his fist. “I suppose I cannot expect a woman to understand, beautiful and clever though she may be.”

She gazed up into the baron's face, felt his breath hot upon her and saw the lust shining in his blue eyes. How she wanted to spit into his face! To tell him exactly what she thought of him. But she couldn't—he had too much power over them.

So she must be a hypocrite. “Forgive me if I have inadvertently insulted you, Rennick. I thought my future husband would want to maintain the good opinion of the nobles of the realm. I didn't mean for you to be angry with me.”

With an eager, hungry expression, he roughly tugged her to him, and his voice seethed with lechery. “When you beg my forgiveness, how can I be angry?”

He could have spouted poetry like a minstrel of the king's court, and she would still be disgusted by his desire. As for being in his arms, a snake's embrace would be more appealing. She splayed her hands on Rennick's chest and subtly tried to back out of his hold. “We might be seen.”

“So what of that?” he muttered as he bent down to kiss her. She turned her face so that his mouth met her cheek. He pulled back and glared at her.

She feared he was going to strike her, but whatever burst of heat his anger unleashed seemed to cool. “Stop this coyness, Allis. Everyone knows you will be mine one day. Our estates join, and so should we. I will protect you, and your family.” He smiled as his grip tightened. “I've waited long enough for you. I can't wait much longer.” His gaze intensified, and she saw
the rage surging within him, strong enough perhaps to overcome his patience, and his lust. “You make me mad with jealousy.”

Despair, like a dark cloud of fog coming down the river valley, began to blight the small blossom of happiness she had dared to feel when she was with Sir Connor. Worse, this could be the confirmation that they had been seen in the garden. If so, more than she and her family were in danger of suffering Rennick's wrath; now she must protect Sir Connor, too, the man who had wanted to make her smile.

She knew how, and although her very soul rebelled against the method, there was no alternative. “A lady likes to be pursued, and not have her affections taken for granted, Rennick,” she purred as she wound her arms about his neck, “otherwise she might do something to ensure that she is appreciated.”

His eyes widened with surprise, then flared again with carnal craving. “It was a game, Allis? If so, you play a dangerous one.”

“You amaze me, Rennick.” She toyed with the hair around his ugly ears and banished from her mind any comparison of his brown, straight hair cut in the Norman style with Sir Connor's long, thick and waving locks. “I would think a man in your position would have nothing to fear from anyone.”

“Only losing you.”

Only losing his grasp on Montclair, she mentally amended as he again swooped down to kiss her. She quickly cupped his face in her hands, preventing that. As she did, his frigid blue eyes locked onto hers. His arms tightened around her as if he would squeeze the very breath from her body.

The time had come. She had put it off as long as
possible, yet she could not make Rennick wait any longer. The tournament had not rallied her father and, despite all her efforts, he continued to weaken day by day. Edmond was too young to rule Montclair, and one day soon, Rennick would surely go to the king, if he was in England, or to Richard's justiciar, and tell them that someone—some
man
—must be put in charge of Montclair until Edmond came of age. She didn't doubt Rennick would paint himself the most suitable and logical candidate, and probably offer money to ensure that they agreed.

If Rennick had to pay, his anger and bitterness would never end. But if she became his wife—if she gave him the body he so obviously craved—that might satisfy him for a time, and as his wife, she would be able to keep close watch on him.

Yet even though she accepted the necessity, the words did not come easily. But come they did. “I
have
kept you waiting long enough, Rennick. If you still wish to marry me, I agree.”

“A
t last,” Rennick said, as his whole face shone with triumph and satisfaction.

Allis wanted to scream with despair, but she submitted to his embrace and endured his mouth plundering hers, seeking only the gratification of his own lust.

She choked back a sob, and he did not hear it.

She must be strong. She must endure. She must—“Rennick!” she cried, shoving him away when he roughly grabbed her breast.

Righteous, furious anger at his impertinent action energized her. She might have to be his wife and eventually have to submit to his pawing, but not yet. By the saints, not yet!

But she must not give Rennick cause to doubt her sincerity. She breathed deeply and put her hands on his arms that did not have the hard curves of Sir Con
nor's. “You have been patient so far, Rennick, and that has impressed me. Do not spoil it now.”

He grabbed her around the waist. “I
have
been patient and am eager for my reward.”

“Which you will have soon enough. Name the day you would have me for your wife.”

Her words had the effect she hoped. Again he smiled, while she felt anything but happy. “I would marry you today, but there are important people who should be invited to our wedding.”

Any delay would be welcome, but she tried not to show that, either. “I will leave the actual day up to your best judgment, my lord, as long as we have at least a fortnight to prepare. These important, influential people must be entertained as befits their station, and yours.”

It would be at least a fortnight before Sir Connor would be healed enough to leave, but she must put that from her mind.

Rennick inclined his head in agreement.

She should be pleased to see such evidence that she could influence her husband-to-be, but that discovery did nothing to lift her spirit from the deep well of bleak despair.

But, as always, she could not wallow in that gloomy pit. She had her father to take care of, and Isabelle and Edmond. She must not burden them with her sorrow. Their mother's death and father's illness were enough for her brother and sister to bear, and her father must not be upset. So they must all believe her happy in her choice, just as Rennick must. “I also think it would be wise to suggest a date to those you consider most important, and only when you are certain they can at
tend, announce it formally. That way, you will not offend anyone.”

“You are indeed as intelligent as you are beautiful.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her again, hard and forceful, with nothing of love or affection, or even lascivious desire. It was all power and domination.

He let go and his gaze raked her face and figure. “I trust you will be worth the wait, my lady.”

She would never show him fear, or let him believe he could intimidate her. She would give him her hand and her body, but not her pride. “As I hope you will be, my lord.”

She stepped away before he could embrace her again. “Now I must return to my duties. I have left Brother Jonathan long enough. I would not have it said that the lady of Montclair is remiss, either.”

“Very well, my lady. After all, soon enough you will be my dutiful wife.”

Allis didn't trust herself to speak as she hurried back into the tent where Sir Connor slept on, oblivious.

 

Outside the earl's solar that night, clouds scudded across the moon and a low wind moaned, threatening rain. In this chamber, however, where three men sat in chairs of dark, aged oak, richly carved with vines and grapes, and the seats softened by bright, silk-covered cushions, all was warm, bright and comfortable. Thick tapestries depicting the nobility at leisure hung upon the walls, illuminated by several expensive candles whose scent filled the room. A gleaming silver carafe of excellent French wine stood ready and matched the equally shiny goblets the men held.

“I don't want to have anything to do with him,”
Auberan de Beaumartre muttered, his gaze darting between the baron near the window and the portly figure across from him.

Fingering the bottom of his goblet, Rennick glanced at Lord Oswald, then smiled at Auberan. “Because he's part Welsh?”

“Yes! They're all savages.”

“Savages who have no love for Norman kings or their taxes. Savages who can fight,” Lord Oswald said, his voice a low murmur, but firm and strong and very confident. “And this particular one has even more personal reasons for hating Richard.”

Oswald leaned forward so that his jowled face moved into the flickering candlelight. “He was once as loyal to the king as it is possible for a man to be, but given what happened…” He shrugged and sat back.

“What exactly did happen?” Rennick inquired. “Lovers' spat?”

“No, and I would keep such suggestions to yourself. Those rumors about the king's habits are just that—rumors,” Oswald said firmly.

Oswald of Darrelby was the most ruthless person Rennick had ever met or heard of; Auberan, however, was apparently as ignorant of Lord Oswald's true reputation as the earl of Montclair, for he disregarded the older man's obvious wish to leave that subject. “Those ‘rumors' have been going around since Richard was fourteen, so there must be something to them.”

If Auberan wasn't careful, Oswald would toss him off the battlements with no more thought than another man would flick a fly from his hand.

“That is not important,” Oswald rumbled. “What is important—and what most of the nobles will agree upon—is that we don't want to pay the exorbitant
taxes Richard raises to fight in foreign lands. That is what will unite the different factions, not his personal tastes. Besides, he's not the only one at court with such tendencies, so condemning him for them may work against us.”

“Nor is he the only one who feels it justified to raise an army and go to the ends of the world to fight,” Rennick pointed out. “Richard had plenty of support for the Crusade.”

“Until the first stories of what was happening came home.” Oswald ticked off the reasons on his plump fingers. “Starvation, camp fever, massacres of unarmed prisoners. Worst of all, he failed to capture Jerusalem, yet the fool still thinks he's the hero of the ballads sung about him by minstrels and other dolts who don't know the truth.”

“He's never even spent an entire year here in the whole of his reign,” Auberan added, “whereas Prince John has rarely left.”

“Because he's been trying to wrest England from Richard's rule,” Oswald replied.

“He will be a better ruler than his brother,” Auberan declared.

“He will be more easily intimidated,” Rennick said. “That is what is important to know about John. The barons and other nobles will find it easier to control him, and therefore the taxes will be kept low.”

Oswald nodded. “And that is the point we should make to our Welsh friend.”

“He's not my friend,” Auberan mumbled. He eyed the baron. “And I don't think he's yours, either. Didn't you see the way he looked at Lady Allis?”

Rennick smiled a small, cool smile. “Let him look.”

Auberan eyed him doubtfully.

“She was playing a woman's game with me,” Rennick explained, lust filling him as he remembered Allis in his arms. Soon, there would be no more toying with him. Soon, she would be his, in every way. Soon she would discover who was truly the master of Montclair. “She has agreed to be my wife and we will be married before the summer is over.”

“I thought you were jealous,” Auberan said, “and Sir Connor's ‘accident' a warning to keep away from her.”

“His lance shattered, that's all.”

Oswald's mouth tightened with mounting impatience. “Be that as it may, we should try to win him to our cause. His Norman father was very well regarded by the Welsh as well as the men of the court. Edgar was a very clever fellow—married a Welsh princess and was lax in enforcing the king's laws, so naturally those barbarians liked him. Now his sons have inherited their loyalty, if no money, and the other Welsh nobles will listen to them. By winning Connor to our side, we will have allies in Wales.”

“We don't need allies in Wales. What are the Welsh to us?” Auberan protested. “Just a thorn in our side.”

“I am beginning to think we don't need you, Auberan,” Oswald said in a way that made Rennick's blood run cold. Auberan might come from a powerful family, but he was an annoying, stupid fellow. The ground at the bottom of the battlements could be the best place for him—another accident, of course.

“How difficult is it to comprehend that the more we have on our side from all parts of Britain, the more likely we are to avoid a charge of treason when Richard is dead?” Oswald demanded. “God's wounds, man, have you forgotten what happened when that oaf
William Rufus was assassinated? No one challenged the story that his death was an accident even though the man who shot him was the finest archer in England, because every single man in England—Norman or Saxon—wanted William Rufus dead.”

Auberan paled. “Are you planning to assassinate the king?”

“What did you think we were planning? A feast?” Oswald snapped.

“I thought…I assumed…”

At a glance from Oswald, Rennick rose and grabbed Auberan's tunic, hauling him to his feet. “Are you with us, or not?”

“I…of course I am with you, if it can be done as you say, with no repercussions.”

Rennick let him go and Auberan fell back into his chair. “Do you think we would do this if we could not be sure of success? We are going to be cautious and careful, because anything else will be disaster for us all.”

“What about Percival? Does he—?”

“The lad is my squire and does what he is told. That is all he needs to know, for the time being. Later, if we think him worthy, we may invite him to join us in our cause.”

“Regardless of whether or not we have the earl of L'Ouisseaux and his son on our side, we must have more support from the nobility in Wales, and Ireland and the Scots,” Oswald said. He smiled indulgently. “But rest assured, Auberan, you don't have to be friendly to Sir Connor if you do not wish to be.” He slanted a glance at Rennick. “Nor you, Rennick. Not after you both took pains to insult him. Leave him to me. He knew my brother.” Oswald's voice hardened
and his black eyes glittered in the candlelight. “He was with Osric when he died in the Holy Land. For the present, caution must be our watchword, and what we have discussed goes no further. Are we agreed?”

They both nodded.

“Good. Leave us, Auberan. I have another matter to discuss with Rennick.”

Auberan hesitated.

“Leave us!” Oswald repeated sternly, and this time, Auberan did not stand upon the order of his going.

When Auberan had closed the heavy door behind him, Rennick eyed Oswald. “Must we include that dolt in our plans?”

“His father will keep him in check, and even that fool knows he puts himself at risk if he talks too much.”

“You truly believe we must woo the Welshman to our cause?”

“Yes, and thus I would have been most annoyed if he had died.”

Rennick kept his face a blank mask.

“I would also be very upset if one of my friends is found to have done or ordered any tampering with lances.”

“Naturally.”

Oswald steepled his fat fingers. He wore no jewels, yet he was far wealthier than Rennick, and far, far richer than the king. “As long as you understand me, Rennick. I don't want this Welshman harmed, at least for the time being, or suspicion about his accident to fall upon you. If he proves resistant to our request to join us, then I shall not care what fate befalls him and you can do what you like.”

Rennick nodded, knowing full well that if Oswald considered him a liability, his climb to power would be
thwarted, utterly and completely—and his life likely ended, too. “Yes, my lord.”

“So, you have finally brought the lady to heel, eh? Or should I say, to bed?”

“To heel, but not yet to bed.”

“Given how you feel about her, I should not be surprised you are so willing to wait, but I confess your patience astonishes me.” The mask of jovial friendliness disappeared. “But now that you have
finally
succeeded, Rennick, you had better wed and bed her soon. We need your alliance with her father and what that will say to others who hesitate to ally themselves with us. They will take your marriage as a sign of approval from a most respected man, and join us at last. Then we can move.”

As if putting his words into action, Oswald heaved himself out of his chair and poured himself some more wine, while Rennick struggled to contain his anger at being chastised like a child and reminded that he did not command much respect among the nobility of England.

However, he was indeed a patient man, and he could wait to have his vengeance on Oswald. Until then, he would be content to be second to Oswald—which meant that should disaster befall, there would be someone above him to blame.

After taking a sip of wine, Oswald said, “Prince John makes Auberan look like a prodigy. John has already done many stupid things another king would have had him executed for long ago. We must move soon, and I want you firmly allied to Montclair before we do.” He gave Rennick a knowing smirk. “Why, come to think of it, when news of your betrothal to Allis of Montclair reaches our sovereign's ears, Richard
might even wonder if he misjudged you when he did not select you to be in his retinue.”

Rennick didn't answer as Oswald set down his goblet. “Now I bid you good night, Rennick. It grows late, and my journey here has wearied me.”

Rennick watched Oswald stroll from the solar. Then he slowly surveyed the luxuriously appointed chamber. One day soon, all this would be his. He would be rich, he would be powerful, and he would have the woman he had desired for so long.

He would be respected.

And Richard would be dead.