Ana Seymour - Lady Of Lyonsbridge

“Nay, I don’t want you to go to them. Let my whereabouts remain a mystery. If the welcome is cold enough, mayhap the guests will not linger. If Dunstan sees nothing but disorder in my household, he’d be a fool to want me for wife.”

“Ye ever were one to tempt the very devil, Allie. Ye’ve already chased away three different emissaries sent by the baron. I’d not risk further angering the man who is to be yer husband.”

Alyce paid no attention to her nurse’s warning. Three times since her father’s death men sent by Baron Dunstan had ridden to Sherborne Castle. Three times she had connived and bullied them into leaving. The last group had left three months ago, muttering among themselves about the harridan their lord had chosen to wed. But now that her year of mourning was almost ended, she’d been expecting another visit. And she’d suspected that this time the baron himself would assume the task. He could well be one of the group currently making its way up to the castle gate.

She tilted her head, thinking. “You may tell Alfred to promise them dinner,” she told her nurse.

Lettie looked puzzled. “Naturally—”

“And then tell Alfred to talk to the cook. Has that meat been thrown out to the dogs yet? The mutton that sickened half the castle?”

Lettie’s eyes widened in horror. “Ye wouldn’t!” she gasped.

Alyce smiled smugly. “I would. ’Tis only proper to offer the baron and his men a hearty stew after their long journey.”

Thomas Brand stretched his long legs toward the huge fireplace in the great hall of Sherborne Castle. The structure of the room was reminiscent of his home at Lyonsbridge, but the similarity stopped with the architecture.

His grandmother Ellen would never have left guests to fend for themselves the way the lady of Sherborne had this evening. At Lyonsbridge, dinner with visiting knights would be a festive occasion. Blazing wall sconces would keep the great hall bright as day, and minstrels would be called from the village to entertain the visitors long into the night.

It had been three years since he’d savored the warmth of a Lyonsbridge evening, and it appeared that his stay at Sherborne was not likely to ease the wave of homesickness that had flooded over him since he and his men had once again set foot on English soil.

They’d been to Jerusalem and back, following King Richard on his ill-fated holy war. Now that the cause was lost, they should be returning to nurse their wounds among the warmth of their families. Instead they were obliged to run around England gathering the ransom to free Richard from the hands of the German emperor, Henry, since Prince John was just as happy to let his brother languish in prison for the rest of his days.

Thomas looked around the dark room, squinting to see if his men had at least found pallets to stretch out and rest along the warm edge of the wall. The fire had burned down to dull embers, and he could only make out shadows in the vast chamber.

“Thomas!”

It was Kenton’s voice, whispering, but urgent. Thomas sat straight on the bench, pulling back his feet. “Aye?”

Kenton Hinsdale, his friend and second-in-command, appeared out of the gloom. “The men are sick,” he said. His thin face looked gaunt in the shadows.

Thomas frowned. “Sick? What ails them?”

Kenton crouched next to the fire and held his hands out toward the fading warmth. “I don’t know. But Harry’s been in the yard since dinner, turning his innards inside out, and now three of the others have gone to join him. I feel none too well myself.”

“’Tis your stomach, as well?”

“Aye.”

Blessed Mary, whatever had possessed him to stop at this wretched excuse for a household? Thomas asked himself grimly. Since they arrived, they’d been spoken to by no one but the doddering old chamberlain, who had ushered them into this cold and dark hall. They’d had no offer of bedding beyond the hard floor, no fuel to build up the fire against the night’s chill. And now his men were puking up the ill-conceived meal they’d been given.

Thomas himself had taken none of the dish. His bad humor had left him with little appetite, and, in any event, the stew had not had a savory smell. But his men had been hungry. The rotund Harry, in particular, was never one to turn down a meal.

Thomas rose to his feet. “I’ll bear cold and darkness and neglect,” he said, “but, by God, I’ll not have my men poisoned. I’m going to have an audience with the lady of this household if I have to root her naked from her bed.”

Kenton rubbed a hand along his waist. “I’d go with you to seek her, Thomas, but I fear…” He stopped, his face pale.

Thomas waved to him. “Off with you, Kent. I need no help to find the wretch who presides here. Let’s just hope that her medicinal skills are sharper than her housekeeping.”

Kenton clutched his stomach, then turned and ran toward the door to the bailey.

Alyce delicately picked the last succulent shreds off the capon wing and put the bone on the trencher with a sigh of contentment. Licking the cranberry glaze from her fingers, she grinned at Lettie, who stood watching her in disapproval.

“Yer sainted mother will be a-turning in her tomb, Allie, to think of visitors receiving such treatment at Sherborne Castle.”

Alyce wrinkled her nose. “I’d not wonder at finding the shades of both her and my father walking the yard at St. Anne’s at the thought of their only daughter being forced to marry such a one as Philip of Dunstan.”

Lettie crossed herself and whispered a quick prayer. “At least they’ll know ye have a strong man to protect ye. ’Tis not an easy thing for a woman to make her own way through this harsh world.”

Alyce swung her feet to the floor and bent to place the trencher next to her bed. “Well, this woman would rather face the world by herself than from the bed of someone she doesn’t love.”

Lettie gave a snort. “This from the girl who has always said that love is for minstrels. Pay no attention to their silly ballads, ye always tell me. In the real world—”

She stopped at the sound of angry pounding on the door. For a moment both women looked startled, then Alyce gave a slow smile. “I suspect one of our visitors has come to ask the recipe for the elegant pottage we gave them.”

Lettie gasped, “What will ye do?”

“I’ll not have them breaking my door down. You’ll have to open it. But first…” She stood and snatched off Lettie’s plain brown wimple, leaving the servant clutching her bare head in bewilderment. Then she bent to shove the trencher with the remains of her supper underneath her pallet. Jumping into bed, she wrapped the wimple around her head and pulled the blankets up to obscure her face. “We must tell them that I’m sick as well, so they don’t believe ’twas done apurpose.”

“Do you suppose it’s Dunstan himself?” Lettie asked, her voice shaking.

The pounding intensified. Alyce burrowed into her covering. “It matters little. ’Tis a male, and they’re all alike. They think because they’re stronger and built for dominion in the act of love, they can rule our very existence.”

Lettie’s face turned scarlet at her charge’s words, but she had no time for remonstrance as the pounding began to shake the solid timbers of the chamber door.

“Open it, Lettie,” Alyce said, her voice muffled by her coverings.

The servant crossed the room quickly and threw open the door. The angry man on the other side was indeed strong, Alyce noted from her quickly designed nest. His tunic was short, revealing wool hose that encased well-muscled thighs. Alyce let her gaze move up to his face, which was as well favored as the rest of him. And young. This was not, then, her prospective groom. Dunstan had sent a lackey to fetch his bride. In spite of her bold words, she gave a little sigh of relief.