Claudia Dain Page 36

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  He had not meant to come. Worse, he had not known Nicolaa would be in residence. A woman in possession of five strong towers had five places to lay her head. It was his own fool judgment that had brought him to her door. There was nothing for her to think but that he had come to claim her.

  Today would be his wedding day.

  He looked down at himself He was dirty. He had come from a minor battle—a skirmish, more accurately—just to the west. He had come on impulse and was ill-prepared to marry.

  He did not want a wife, even a wife with five towers.

  She could not buy his loyalty or his heart with that; by command of the king, he would give his pledge of loyalty to Nicolaa of Cheneteberie. He would obey. But he would keep hold of his heart. Not even the king could command his heart.

  So he would marry and become the lord of a vast, rich holding in England, when all he had ever wanted was to fight.

  Rowland smiled ruefully to himself. A married man often found himself in more battles than he wished for, depending on his wife's temperament. Of what temper was Nicolaa of Cheneteberie? By the look of her holding, she was no slattern. Rich and prosperous, yea, but beyond that, Weregrave looked well ordered and well managed. The people were clean, which William had noted straight off, and intent on their duties. In fact, his arrival had not caused the smallest stir of interest.

  Suspicion grew like a shadow at dusk. Such was not the norm, not even for a messenger, and he was lord of this place and these people.

  Rowland pulled his sword free as the suspicion rooted in his mind; he was ready for battle, his heart and mind at rest as he balanced the steel, searching for his enemy, eager for whatever battle Weregrave had to offer him.

  William, at his side, pulled free his own blade. "Where?" he asked, his gray eyes searching the bailey for threat.

  "Everywhere," Rowland answered. "Why do they not react? I am lord here. Where is my welcome?"

  "Perhaps they only wait for their lady."

  "And where is the lady of Weregrave?" Rowland asked. He had come. Where was she that she did not rush to greet him? Had not Cathryn stood waiting when William had come as lord of Greneforde?

  A movement at the top of the stair drew their eyes. The flutter of skirts, the movement of hair as it hung down, and they stopped their speculation. Lady Nicolaa had come.

  His first thought was that she looked nothing like Lubias, and for that he thanked God. She was cloud-pale and slim, her hair curled and the warm red of sunrise. Nothing like his Lubias.

  She paused at the top of the stair, looking down and across the bailey at him, her manner calm and assessing. He sat still and let her look her fill. Strangers they were to each other, yet they would be wed today.

  "You had best give her a sign," William said, "else she will not know whom she is to wed. You are not known to her."

  Rowland nodded. It was sound counsel. He urged his horse forward a pace or two, his eyes on hers, his helm lifted. He sheathed his sword. The lady had come; the threat had passed. All continued on within the bailey. The armorer beat a sword against the anvil. The servants talked within the kitchen. The men-at-arms looked from the curtain walk out to the horizon.

  All was calm within Weregrave, even perfunctory. As was Weregrave's lady.

  She came down the stair, her ladies at her back, and stood on the packed earth of the bailey. She was tall for a woman, her features fragile and fine, and she was calm. So exquisitely calm.

  "Good morrow, Lord Rowland," she said. "You have arrived in good time. You will want the contracts finalized today, is that not so? When would you like the ceremony performed?"

  Her voice was light, almost musical—nothing at all like the husky tones of the woman he loved. Another point on which to thank God for mercy in a most unwelcome circumstance.

  He studied her as she stood before him. A fragile maid, but strong, like the finest blade. But perhaps not a maid? She was not nervous—he could see that in her very stance—and she was older than he'd expected. Too old not to have married. A widow then. The idea warmed him toward her; they would have their losses in common, at least.

  "Good morrow, Lady Nicolaa," he said, smiling. "I must ask your pardon in coming upon you unheralded. I was in a skirmish to the west and thought to look at Weregrave while near. An impetuous impulse." He smiled, an apologetic smile for coming upon her so suddenly and unexpectedly.

  "Would you like the marriage delayed, to await the arrival of family?" she asked.

  He had dismounted while she spoke, and her question caused him to swing his head around to look again at her. Perhaps she did not want this marriage any more than he. Did she seek to delay?

  "I ask for your sake only. I am well content to have the matter settled today," she said, her expression as conciliatory as her words.

  There was nothing of rebellion in her words or in her face, and he found himself warming toward her. Surely such a considerate and dutiful woman would not burden his life overmuch. She would not demand a place in his life that belonged to another.

  If he had to take a wife, Nicolaa of Cheneteberie would do very well in the role.

  "I am content," he said, facing her. She was tall, but he taller still. "We can say our vows at your pleasure, lady. Nothing binds me. We may proceed."

  William and Ulrich dismounted behind him, and their mounts were handed off to a groom for stabling. Ulrich, William's squire, was holding his tongue, which was a mercy unexpected and much approved. 'Twas a tender time, a husband and wife meeting for the first time, and Rowland wanted to find his way gently, without an enthusiastic and talkative squire to manage. William's careful silence he did not question; his friend read his intent better than any other. He would know to watch and wait, allowing Rowland to feel his way forward.

  "If you will allow," Rowland said, "I would like to send a messenger to Greneforde, Lord William's holding, so that my belongings may be delivered here."

  "Of course," Nicolaa said, her eyes on William. "It shall be done."

  Rowland watched her watch William. 'Twas well known William was a handsome man, and he wondered if her heart would catch at the sight of such a renowned knight. But she did not react to William in any way that Rowland could detect. A most calm and self-possessed woman to not at least blink in pleased surprise at having William le Brouillard to feast her eyes upon.

  "I know of you, of course," she said, smiling up at William. "You are well received here, Lord William."

  "Thank you, Lady Nicolaa," William said with courteous reserve. "To be well received is all I wish for," he added with a teasing smirk. "And this is my squire, Ulrich."

  "Lady Nicolaa." Ulrich bowed, his eyes on the ladies at her back. "I am pleasured to meet the bride of Rowland."

  She nodded her welcome and then turned back to Rowland, a small and serene smile upon her lips. "Welcome, all. Weregrave and her people welcome you."

  She turned and, by her manner, encouraged them to follow her. If this woman was afraid, she masked it well.

  Rowland and William exchanged a look that defied definition and then followed Nicolaa up the stone stairs into the hall, her ladies following silently, as ladies are taught to be yet so seldom are. Ulrich followed the ladies most avidly, his eyes alight at so many comely ladies upon whom to slake his thirst for romance. He would have his hands full if he attempted the lot. Two were of an age beyond the romantic notions of an amorous squire, but the rest were young and unmarried, the two requirements most necessary. Perhaps the only requirements necessary.

  "Remember your place, Ulrich," William said softly to his squire. "Better still, remember Rowland's place. We are strangers here. Keep yourself in hand."

  "Aye, Lord William," Ulrich said in agreement while his eyes caught and held the eyes of the comely lass with dark hair five steps above him.

  Rowland had no mind to keep his attention on the ever-present tussling that made up the bulk of William's conversation with his squire; he had entered the
hall of Weregrave.

  The hall was long and the ceiling lower than the one at Greneforde; that was what he first noted. The hearth was long and low and centered within the hall. A stairway rose on the left, a sweep of stone that turned with solid grace to the upper floors. And then there were the tapestries. They lined the hall, flat panels of color and form and texture, softening the stone, brightening the gray interior of the hall. He had never seen so many tapestries in one place, and each one expertly executed. Weregrave might be a tower that could withstand siege and war, but it was also a home.

  She watched him, and he feared she would think he surveyed her home, to calculate its worth. He would not have her think him so ill-mannered. He smiled in apology.

  She did not return the smile.

  "The tapestries are quite fine."

  "Thank you," she said, eyeing him.

  "Yours?" he asked.

  She nodded her answer.

  "You are gifted with rare talent."

  "Thank you," she said again.

  A woman of few words and remarkable self-possession. He had known another bride who appeared so to hide a frightened heart and a bruised soul—Lady Cathryn, William's cherished wife. Perhaps Nicolaa sorrowed still for the husband lost to her. It would explain the careful stillness of her.

  "Do you have a preference as to where you would like the ceremony performed?" Nicolaa asked.

  Rowland paused, considering. If she'd been married before—and he could not doubt that a lady of her age and property had been married before now—then to repeat the bonding ceremony in the chapel might wound her unnecessarily. Let them say the words where it pleased her. His pain he had carried across continents and seas; what mattered the room to him?

  "Nay, choose what will please you," he said softy.

  Nicolaa smiled slightly and lifted one delicate shoulder in a shrug. "Very well," she said. Was she amused?

  With a look and a nod, she sent one of the younger women off across the near-empty hall. Rowland could hear Ulrich sigh in frustrated longing. On the heels of that wordless exclamation came William's grunt of censure.

  "You send for your priest?" Rowland said. In this hall of silent gestures and sighs, he would have words to make all clear. He wanted to know Nicolaa, to understand her, the better to meet her needs. He needed more than grunts and shrugs.

  "Aye, Father Timothy," she said.

  "Is the hour acceptable?" he asked. It was close to None, by the afternoon sun. And he wanted to keep her talking.

  "It will be acceptable," she answered. "What we require of him takes but moments."

  An observation that bespoke experience, surely. All his senses told him that she had been married before. That knowledge left him feeling... nothing.

  "Your pardon, lady," William said, inserting himself in their sparse conversation. "I beg an indulgence. Say there is time for a bath for my friend. A man should not stand before God and swear his life to his bride covered in blood and sweat."

  "At least the blood is not mine," Rowland said, smiling.

  "It will be, for I will bloody you myself if you think to dishonor Lady Nicolaa with the dust of the battlefield," William rejoined.

  Rowland grinned and, turning once again to Nicolaa, said, "If it is no trouble, Lady Nicolaa, a bath for myself and for Lord William? He will not rest, nor be silent, until this act is accomplished."

  Nicolaa had listened in silence and her response was the same: silence. She looked dumbstruck.

  "You have no knowledge of William le Brouillard?" Rowland asked.

  "No knowledge that did not seem more of rumor than of truth," she answered.

  Rowland smiled at William, who shrugged. If she had heard of William and his love of the bath, then she had heard of him too. They were ever together, their tales joined as fully as their lives. If William was familiar to her, what had she heard of him? He was suddenly curious what this near-silent woman thought of him.

  Had she heard of his battle prowess? Did she know that he had never been defeated? Such knowledge would give her heart ease, no matter the strength of her tower. But more, did she know of Lubias? She must; there were few souls in all Christendom who did not know that tale. What did she see when she looked at him, knowing his heart was claimed by another?

  Yet, in fact, it mattered not at all. Nicolaa would be wife to him, but she would not be Lubias. There was none like Lubias.

  "We will delay then," Nicolaa asked, "until you are refreshed."

  "If it will not trouble you," Rowland replied.

  "I am not troubled," she said.

  "By delay?" he asked against his will. What thoughts passed behind her serene expression? He could not read her. Yet. Her eyes were as deep and still as the blue autumn sky.

  She looked to him then, her eyes to his. So blue they were; such eyes should be always merry, shining with joy, and hers were... still. Guarded. Wary.

  "I am not troubled. By anything, Lord Rowland," she said, looking up into his eyes.

  It was then that Weregrave's priest appeared, the damsel at his heels. Father Timothy was a young priest, with less than two score years on this earth, and he had a look of strength about him. Such could sometimes be said of a priest, but not often. His hair was tawny, as was his skin, his eyes the gray of heavy cloud; there was a beauty to him that even his robes could not diminish, and an intensity that bespoke more than godly fervor.

  But perhaps he was reading too much in just a glance. When he felt William go still beside him, he allowed the impression to stand. If he and William both felt that the priest was something more than prayerful, then he would not discount his impression. Never had the two of them been wrong. The fact that they were still living in a world bloody and battle-eager bore witness to the accuracy of their judgment.

  "Father Timothy," Nicolaa introduced, "Weregrave's priest and mine."

  "Lord Rowland." The priest bowed slightly, his eyes assessing.

  "Father Timothy," Rowland answered, not bowing. He did not understand the impulse that kept him from that small observance of humility, but he gave in to it. His instincts he trusted more than civility. "Would you introduce your ladies, Nicolaa, that all may be named within this house?"

  "As you wish," she said evenly. "My mother's mother, Lady Jeanne," she said with a wave of her hand toward the eldest of the women in her circle. She was gray-haired and blue-eyed, her fingers twisted with age, as was the top of her back. Yet she looked none the worse for it and was smiling almost playfully at him.

  "My mother's sister, Lady Agnes," Nicolaa continued. Her hair had once been red, dimmed now by wide bands of silver, and she shared the same slim carriage as her niece.

  Lady Ermengarde, a distant cousin, was followed by Lady Blanche, a widow, Lady Perette, petite and pretty, and finally Lady Beatrice, barely past her girlhood and with a tumble of pale blond hair.

  Casting a glance at Ulrich, Rowland thought he looked ready to burst with joy at so many comely women. The women were far more subdued, with the blatant exception of Lady Jeanne. He could not see any resemblance between Nicolaa and her grandmother, though perhaps truer comparisons would come in time.

  "My friend," he introduced, though he was certain it was not necessary, "Lord William le Brouillard of Greneforde, and his squire, Ulrich."

  Ulrich bowed deeply and smiled his largest and most encouraging smile. Two of the ladies noted it and returned his look. Unfortunately for Ulrich, one of the ladies was Lady Jeanne.

  "Baths are required," Nicolaa said, and a servant rushed off to whisper to another servant, and then a stream of men went outside.

  It was all she said, but Rowland was certain that he and William would have hot water within the hour. She was very efficient, his bride, and ran an exemplary household. The knowledge brought him neither joy nor sorrow. He would not be here long enough to enjoy the efficiency of her household; the king would call him away soon enough.

  With a slight movement of her hand and a nod, she summoned the ba
iliff, a ruddy man of good size by the name of Edward. With a smile, she made it plain that Rowland was to follow Edward. He did so. Such smiling efficiency almost compelled obedience. He did want a bath, after all. Or at least, William did. For himself, he would do whatever was necessary to bring honor to the vows he was about to take.

  As they ascended the curving stair, William at his back, he turned to look down into the hall. What compelled him to turn he could not say, but, in looking down, he found her staring up at him, her eyes clear blue in the cream white of her face, her expression unreadable. Meeting his eyes, she spoke a whispered word to the women around her and they all, with only the brush of fabric to mark the movement, surrounded her so that only the top of her red head was visible to him. That and Father Timothy, looking up at him from the bottom of the stair, his stare as blunt as the smack of a sword.

  Nothing was said in the presence of Edward, but Rowland could feel William's amusement leaking out of him like red drops of wine from a cracked jug. William found amusement in unlikely places. As did Rowland. Usually.

  "Did you mark how the Lady Blanche smiled at me?" Ulrich said in a rush of enthusiasm. "And Lady Perette, is she not the most comely of women? Her black curls are deep enough to drown in, are they not?"

  "Enough, boy," William said sternly. Only his eyes revealed his humor. "Have you no breeding at all? Does a knight of chivalry discuss a lady's... attributes, and with a man of her house to bear witness? Shame, boy. Render your apologies now."

  "Your pardon," Ulrich said, his eyes wide with the shame of public rebuke. "Your most undeserved pardon, I beseech you. I am shamed that my tongue rules my head, and my heart the most willing witness to my shame. I was overcome. I have no defense beyond the beauty of the ladies of this house and my own weakness against it. Can you forgive, Edward?"

  They were in the chamber assigned to them. It was large enough for the bed and the ewer and little else, but it did have a wind hole, and the wind hole looked out over the wall to the distant western wood. The sky was studded with clouds the color of metal, the air freshened by a wind that came from the north.