Anne O'Brien - Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

He caught the condemnation in the lady’s eyes as she watched him approach from the high chair on the dais, read the contempt in the bold and supercilious stare. An uncivilised lout, was he? He quelled a sudden urge to laugh, well aware of his careworn and mud-splattered appearance. He must look exactly that—a border robber without finesse. She doubtless saw him as a penniless adventurer, boorish and illiterate, with nowhere to call his home but some squalid fortress of mud and timber. Now this lady was quite a different cauldron of eels, and had dressed for the occasion. And he’d wager she’d done it deliberately. A vixen, was the Lady Rosamund. The silk gown with its embroidered edgings to hem and sleeves, the veil secured by a matching embroidered filet were completely impractical for life in such a fortress on the far-flung edge of the kingdom. Yet the deep green enhanced the glowing translucence of her skin, the intense colour of her eyes, the rose-pink of her pretty mouth … Gervase Fitz Osbern breathed deeply and brought his wandering attention back into line.

She was simply a problem that he must solve, a vixen to be turned out of her lair. So she had dressed to put him at a disadvantage, had she? As she had, standing on the dais before him, the advantage of height over him. Well, he could change the latter if he could do nothing about the former. He came to the dais, stepped up, and halted before this unlooked for problem to be solved. And it struck him as he glared down into the beautiful face. Despite the flash of wrath in her eyes and the challenge to his authority in her very appearance, if he were not careful he might just feel a need to … well, to protect her, he supposed.

Rosamund de Longspey barely reached his shoulder.

His thick lashes hid a sudden gleam in his eye. The lady would get no protection from him, however decorative or vulnerable she might appear. His first priority, very simply, must be to get her out of his castle.

Rosamund had set the scene carefully. She had deliberately taken the lord’s high-backed chair, the only such chair in the Hall, to stamp her authority on the proceedings. As it had given her great pleasure to oust Thomas de Byton from his habitual seat and force him to take a more lowly stool, now it would give her equal satisfaction to do the same to Fitz Osbern. She watched him approach, never once taking her eyes from his face. If he was aware of her cunning handling of the occasion, he gave no recognition of it. He turned his head to exchange some comment with the other knight who had arrived with him. So she took the time to re-appraise him. Well! He had not combed his hair, but had at least used his fingers to give it some semblance of order. He might have brushed his clothes free of the worst of the mud and had abandoned his cloak, although he still wore sword and dagger, but his boots needed more than a cursory clean. He still looked like a marauding brigand.

She rose slowly to her feet.

The knight halted before the dais, bowed with token good manners to the two women, then stepped up, almost planting his mired boots on the edge of Rosamund’s silk gown. Intimidatingly close to her, a menacingly looming figure, Rosamund found that she had to fight not to step back. She held her ground, but the knight merely dragged forward a stool and sat without comment, without courtesy, even before she and her mother had taken their own seats.

‘Ladies.’ He swept the pair with an indifferent and preoccupied gaze. ‘Let me make you known. I am Gervase Fitz Osbern. This is Hugh de Mortimer.’

Rosamund sat, inclined her head, very much the great lady. Her fears were justified. They were nothing more than border lords, both of them. No better than the leaderless rabble who preyed on the unwary. Nothing to compare with the sophistication of the noble de Longspeys and those who visited Salisbury from King Henry’s royal court. Thus there was a touch of arrogance in her cool reply.

‘I am Rosamund de Longspey. Let me make you known to my mother. Lady Petronilla de Longspey, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.’

‘We welcome your hospitality, lady. Smell’s good after a morning’s work.’ It was de Mortimer who responded, rubbing his hands together, his first words for Rosamund, but then his interest centred on the widow. ‘I knew your husband a little, my lady. I last met him at the coronation of King Henry four years back. I heard of your loss. You must regret his untimely death.’

‘Yes. Thank you. It was unexpected.’ The Countess accepted the condolences with unruffled grace.

‘I thought your daughter must have been younger. That you had not been married to Salisbury for so very long.’ There was a decided twinkle in de Mortimer’s eye. ‘I did not think you old enough to have a daughter of marriageable age herself.’

To her astonishment, Rosamund watched her mother’s face grow pink, her eyes hidden by a down-sweep of fine lashes. Rosamund did not think she had ever seen her mother react in such a charmingly self-conscious manner. But Petronilla’s reply was quite composed as she saw fit to explain. ‘Rosamund is not of Salisbury’s blood, my lord, but my daughter of my first marriage to John de Bredwardine. I was married at a very young age, you see. It is simply that she took my lord of Salisbury’s name on my marriage. Earl William … well, he insisted on it.’

‘I see. You have my sympathies, lady.’ De Mortimer’s response was brusque in words, but gentle in tone. ‘As I recall, the Earl was always a man to get his own way.’

Petronilla smiled hesitantly. ‘Indeed, sir, I …’

Rosamund could wait no longer. She must stake her claim to her position in this castle immediately. With a stern glare at her mother, who promptly lapsed into a flushed silence, Rosamund gave a signal to her steward, Master Pennard, to begin the meal. Jugs of ale were brought in, the large platters of food. Master Pennard, with weighty ceremonial, carried in the lord’s goblet, a poor pottery affair with a chipped edge. Rosamund watched with narrowed eyes. To whom would he present the goblet? The steward hesitated. His glance edged nervously from one to the other, then, with supreme tact, placed it with a little bow before her. Without expression, Rosamund inclined her head at the minor victory, then turned her attention to the man who sat beside her. He was already watching her with a sharp awareness in his eyes.

‘We have much to discuss, sir.’ She addressed herself directly to Fitz Osbern, who began to apply himself to the meal with enthusiasm after such an active morning. He was already tearing apart a circular loaf of bread, when he looked up.

‘There’s nothing to discuss, lady, as I see it. Except for your imminent departure from this place. I have ordered your horses and your travelling wagon to be made ready at first light tomorrow morning. It’s too late now—it’ll be dark within two hours. First light tomorrow will enable you to reach Hereford with comfort during the day. And then you can travel on to Salisbury at your leisure.’

Rosamund stared her amazement. So immediate. So damnably peremptory! So unfeeling of her plight. She leaned forward. ‘I think you do not understand, sir. This is my inheritance from Earl William for my dower. I have all the legal documents to the land.’

‘But as I explained, the castle was stolen by Salisbury from my father. So if we are talking legality here, the castle is mine.’

‘And you would actually turn me out?’

Unable to sit calmly, Rosamund stood, forcing Fitz Osbern to look up. Their eyes met and held, fiery green locked with wintry grey, with no understanding between them. Fitz Osbern raised his shoulders and turned his attention back to a steaming platter of roast mutton, drawing his dagger from the sheath at his belt.