Anne O'Brien - Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

‘Foolish girl! How could you think that you have no value! Believe me, Rose, this place will look far better after a good scrub!’ Petronilla managed a semblance of a smile as Edith called on the Virgin to give them succour. Only too well aware of the probable live occupants of the mattress, they made a discreet exit from the chamber. The fleas and bugs might be invisible, but the mice and rats were not. Nor the enormous spiders that had spun cobwebs over every corner.

‘I can think it well enough. Consider this. Earl William and Gilbert thought to attract a husband for me by using this … this midden as a dower. What value does that give me? What worth have I?’ But Rosamund squared her shoulders against the hurt. She would not let it crush her spirits. She could at least pretend that the pain of humiliation in her chest did not exist. ‘Perhaps the storerooms will give me hope.’

They did not. A cursory inspection suggested that Rosamund de Longspey owned nothing but a serious quantity of barrels of ale. A sad fact confirmed by the mid-day meal, served by an ill-washed kitchen boy in the squalor of the Great Hall. The array of dishes comprised, apart from the ale, nothing more than a thick mutton broth, a platter of boiled onions and coarse flat-bread, burnt at the sides.

They did their best with it in a horrified silence that at least gave Rosamund time to marshal her thoughts. She dipped her spoon into the fat that pooled glossily on the surface, pushing aside the gristle before pushing aside the bowl itself. She had three choices as she saw it. To accept defeat, retreat to Salisbury and Ralph’s noxious embrace. The shudder that ran over her flesh at the thought had nothing to do with the ferocious draught that had frozen her feet into splinters of ice. She could not do that. Why, oh, why had the Wild Hawk not agreed to take her? The shiver that rippled over her skin had even less to do with the cold, but a remembered awareness in her belly as his eyes had travelled over her body. It had lingered, a knot of heat, even when he had rejected her with nothing but the briefest of salutes to her fingers. Now to have his hands awaken her body …

Well, he hadn’t wanted her. And as she could not possibly take Ralph, so she must turn her back on marriage.

The second possibility—she let her affectionate gaze rest on the Countess who was in the act of pushing the platter of onions toward Sir Thomas with a gracious and entirely false smile. She could take up residence at Lower Broadheath with her mother and grow old in extreme and graceful boredom.

Or … she inhaled slowly as her eyes travelled round the stained walls of her Great Hall … she could remain here and claim her inheritance as Lady of Clifford.

‘If you wed Ralph de Morgan, you would not have to live here, Rose.’ Petronilla’s advice was tentative, but accurate.

‘Would you give yourself into Ralph de Morgan’s sweaty hands?’

‘No.’ The Countess sighed.

Rosamund had stiffened her shoulders. Despite the impossible horror of it all, she would remain here at Clifford, but there were changes to be made. Immediate and wideranging, and very much to her own liking. She would make this place her own. Was she not the undisputable Lady of Clifford? She remembered smiling serenely at the Countess and a suspicious Sir Thomas.

Now Rosamund scowled.

‘Changes to my own liking?’ she announced, coming to an abrupt halt in her pacing, her recollections overlaid by a bitter truth and a slick layer of dread. ‘What could I have been thinking? Any authority I thought was mine has just been denied me at the point of a sword.’

Just when she had made her decision to stay, to make the best of it, what did she find? That ruffian taking possession of her castle, her dowry, her only protection to stand between herself and Ralph de Morgan. Just when she had come to terms with her new home with all its imperfections, had forced herself to challenge the sneers of Sir Thomas, had accepted the hard work it would take to make it her own, it was snatched out of her hands by this disreputable riff-raff. This oaf!

‘Did you hear what he said? The audacity of that … that plunderer !’ Rosamund rounded on her mother as soon as Petronilla entered the Great Hall.

‘Yes. I could not help but hear it.’ Lady Petronilla looked back over her shoulder, thoughtfully, to the distant figures, the sounds of activity.

‘The castle is his and would I kindly see to the preparation of a meal!’ Rosamund raised her hands, smacked her palms together so that the sound echoed sharply in the high roof-space. ‘I have the documents, the seals of ownership. He can’t do this to me.’

‘I fear that he has.’

Rosamund gnawed at her bottom lip, frowned at her unperturbed parent. ‘You seem very calm with all this.’ Of late the Countess had a tendency to accept the vagaries of life with a lack of spirit, a worrying development, but now was not the time to discuss it. ‘I will not eat with him.’

‘We can’t starve, Rose. Besides, hunger is bad for the temper. You need to be cool here, Rosamund, when you decide what you will do.’ She looked at her daughter’s flushed face. ‘What will you do?’

The green eyes snapped. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Then let us set food before the two knights, as we should with all good manners toward our guests, and see what unfolds.’

Rosamund nodded at the wisdom of her mother’s advice. Otherwise, would she not show herself to be as uncouth as the man who had just held the point of his sword to her breast? But she would not retreat, as he would soon learn. ‘Very well. I will feed him. But mark this. I will not give my home up to some unprincipled Marcher ruffian—whoever he says he is—without a fight.’

‘No, dear Rose. Of course you won’t. But it might not be wise to antagonise him.’

If Gervase Fitz Osbern had any thoughts on his intimate encounter with the de Longspey heiress, he was not saying, although close acquaintances might have considered him more taciturn than usual. By mid-day the disposition of his troops was to his satisfaction. Not the strongest of fortresses, with only a wooden palisade, but he could not fault the recent constructions of the Earl of Salisbury. The stone structure of walls and towers on the natural rock-based mound forming a cliff above the river would hold all but the most determined army at bay. He frowned at Sir Thomas de Byton’s busy figure in the distance. He did not like the de Longspey commander, but the man was capable and quick to carry out orders. Gervase’s lips twisted. Preferred the authority of a man to that of a woman, no doubt. Perhaps he could be left to hold the castle in Fitz Osbern’s name. So as the winter sun struggled to the meagre heights of mid-day, Gervase and his men-at-arms repaired to the Great Hall. The servant girls hastily commandeered from the village had been busy. Scents of roast meats and newly baked bread wafted across the bailey. Tables had been put up on trestles. His men crowded in to take their seats. Fitz Osbern, with Hugh accompanying him, walked forward to the dais where the two women waited.

Very pretty, Gervase acknowledged dispassionately, his second meeting of the day with Rosamund de Longspey confirming his first impressions in the bailey, and he was not a man immune to a pretty woman. There his quick assessment had taken in her vibrant colouring and glowing skin, the cold wind having brought a delicate tint to her face. The formidably straight nose, and the strikingly beautiful arch of her brows, spoke of nothing but trouble for himself. A woman, not a girl—the rumours had been wrong—who had far too much sense of her own importance. Came of growing up in the household of the Earl of Salisbury where her will would never have been thwarted, if he knew anything about it. But how she could be the child of the second marriage he could not guess. Nor did she follow the usual de Longspey colouring or feature … There was a little tug at his memory, but one that promptly eluded him. No matter. She was not to his taste. And the mystery of the de Longspey heiress aside, Rosamund de Longspey was here and claiming the castle as her own and, thus, she was a hindrance to his plans, which had otherwise worked to smooth perfection. Unexpectedly, uncomfortably, he was conscious of where her hand had pressed against his chest, of her slim figure held within the protection of his arms—even if she had felt the need to belabour him with her fists. Until she had fought against him, for just one heated moment, she had fitted perfectly against him so that he was conscious of every curve and flat plane of her flesh against his—he pushed the memory away. She would not be allowed to hinder him. His father’s ruined inheritance and sullied pride had both been superbly avenged. The castle was his—as would be the other two Marcher fortresses before the week was out.