Lyn Stone - My Lady's Choice

Richard felt his heart turn to cold lead, weighting down his very soul. Edward’s test of his loyalty was no longer an idle supposition, but a near certainty. “He may, though he has not mentioned him to me. Question is, my lady, what have you heard of this man? You are saying he is the one behind these raids?”

Her eyes took on a hatred so intense he marveled at it. When she spoke, her words contained pure venom. “That one boasted of his name to our men whom he left lying wounded in the wood. After he slew my father, he made certain all would learn of his deed.”

Her voice grew quiet with determination. “If you do nothing else when you are sound and hearty, my good sir, I would you brought me this man’s head. Do this, and I shall grant you anything that is within my power to give.”

Richard clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He dared not speak for fear of what he might say.

The woman could not know what she asked of him. Or perhaps she did. And he had small doubt that the king knew it also.

Richard wondered if Edward had brought him north for the sole purpose of pitting him against Alan. The wounding had not been planned, of that Richard was certain. However, it did seem fortuitous that the incident had left him in this particular place and with the responsibility of handling this border trouble. This, rather than the marriage itself, was to be his supreme ordeal.

Sara of Fernstowe wanted retribution for her father’s death and the king wanted rid of the threat to the Middle March. They could have conspired to accomplish both goals, using him as the instrument. Or all of this could be coincidental.

Not likely. But no matter what the circumstance, Richard could not do what they wished. Leastwise, not the way they wanted it done. Not for his king’s approval, not to satisfy his own resentment, and certainly not for this woman’s revenge, would Richard slay his own brother.

Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.

His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.

Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.

Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.

He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.

Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.

Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.

“He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”

Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.

Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.

Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.

Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.

“So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself did I possess the skill.”

“Make no mistake, I shall find him,” Richard answered, glancing up at her.

He did not expect this marriage of his to offer anything in the way of happiness. That would be a foolhardy hope, indeed. But if Sara did not already know, he had to wonder what this bloodthirsty wife of his would resort to once she discovered the man who boasted of killing her sire was her husband’s brother.

Sara fought to control the feelings that rose in her breast each time she thought on her father’s death. Lord Simon had been the best of men, undeserving of a horrid death at the hands of the marauding Scots. Had she been a man, they would all be dead now. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, regaining her calm.

Her husband appeared preoccupied, but no longer unduly angry. Now might be as good an opportunity as any to attempt the establishment of a friendship. The task would be hers alone, for he would never initiate such a thing.

There was an excellent basis to build upon, however. They had a common enemy and like goals, even if his had been set for him by the king.

Though she wanted more from Sir Richard than he would give, all willing, Sara knew she would get nothing at all if she did not befriend him first.

She reached inside herself and drew out a smile she did not feel. Over the years she had learned that even a forced display of contentment did much to help dismiss agitation within herself.

“I would caution you again not to move too quickly in taking up your duties as lord, lest you overtire,” she said. “But I can see that you must feel better since you have dressed yourself. Would you take your meals in the hall with our folk come the morrow? We could speak more then of gathering the men and planning our strategy.”

“Um,” he answered, still lost in other thoughts, troubling ones by the look on his face.

“You might sit in the pleasuance a while and take the sun, if there is any to be had. What think you?”

“What?” he asked, finally abandoning his distraction, whatever it had been.

Sara laughed a little. “My, but you do turn a woman’s head with all of this attention!”

He attended her than, surveying her head to toe and back again. Only when his gaze held hers once more did he speak. “You seek attention, do you? Of what sort?”

Sara sat down again and smoothed her gown flat over her knees. “Whatever you wish to give, Richard. I demand nothing of you.”

He rested his head against the back of the chair and regarded her through narrowed eyes. His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrests. “Then let us clearly mark what I demand of you.”

Sara bristled, but she thought she hid it well. Was this a test of some kind, or did he mean to order her life as though she were a servant? Many noble women lived as such, she knew. Her own mother would have been one of those had not her father been disposed to kindness.