Merline Lovelace - His Lady's Ransom

‘Twas no disgrace to take a lover, after all. Queen Eleanor herself had postulated the rules for courtly love years ago. Following well-established procedures, a knight pursued his objet d’amour with poetry and song and feats of arms, using all his skills to win his lady’s favor. Once she accepted him as her lover, a lady was bound to her knight even more than to her husband—at least in the songs of the troubadours.

All too often, Madeline acknowledged sardonically, courtly ideals and reality clashed, sometimes with brutal results. More than one lady discovered in the arms of her chivalrous love had been beaten or even killed by her lord. Only last year, one enraged husband had served his wife her lover’s heart on a golden plate, forcing the horrified woman to partake of it before he threw her from a tower window. The queen’s courtiers still argued the lovers’ rights in that sad affair, much good it did the unfortunate pair! The bald fact was that church and canon law gave a husband absolute mastery over his wife, whatever the troubadours might sing.

Which was why Madeline intended to use all her influence with John to ensure that she had a say in the choice of her next husband. Whichever lord she chose, he would not , she decided, bear the remotest resemblance in face, figure or temperament to Ian de Burgh.

She snuggled deeper in the furs, pitying the poor woman given to the man as wife. She knew he was a widower of some years’ standing. Although she didn’t believe the earl quite so barbaric as to cut out a rival’s heart, he would no doubt make a most exacting husband. That lazy smile hid a ruthlessness Madeline had herself tasted of just yesterday. She slid a hand from under the coverings to touch her lips, still swollen and tender from his kiss. How dare he use her so, as though she were some kitchen wench, his for the taking! She hoped with all her being that Lord Ian’s lip throbbed far more painfully than did hers this morn.

“The devil take the man!” Madeline muttered, shoving aside her furs.

The rushes covering the stone floor rustled as the slumbering form on the pallet beside hers stirred. “Be ye awake, mistress?” a sleepy voice asked. “So early?”

“Aye, Gerda. Come, get you up and help me dress. I would attend early mass this morn, that I might break my fast before I ride out to watch the tourney.”

The maid rolled over on one broad hip, yawning prodigiously and scratching her hair under the nightcap she wore as protection against the chill night air. At her movement, the other maids began to stir, as well. Soon the chamber was filled with the rustle of straw pallets being rolled up and the clatter of wooden shutters thrown open to allow in the faint glow of dawn. One by one the other ladies burrowed out from the curtained nest and began their morning toilets.

“Will ye wear your red?” Gerda asked, rummaging through the tall parquet-fronted chest that held the ladies’ robes.

“Aye, and be careful with that veil!”

Madeline’s warning came too late. The gossamer silk head covering Gerda reached for snagged on a wooden peg and tore. The maid’s brown eyes flooded with remorse as she held up the ruined strip of crimson silk.

Shaking her head, Madeline poked two fingers through the ice encrusting the washbowl, then bent to splash her face with the frigid water. ‘Twould do no good to remonstrate with the maid. She had the clumsiest hands in all of England. A sturdy lass whose mother had attended Madeline as a child bride, Gerda had neither her dam’s light touch with delicate linens nor her skill with the needle. In truth, she was more apt to step upon the hem of her mistress’s robe and rend it than not. But, though she tried Madeline’s patience, she was fiercely loyal and devoted to her mistress. In Madeline’s mind, such loyalty more than compensated for the girl’s heavy hands. Still, there were times…

“Here, let me.”

Shivering in her thin wool shift, Madeline took the scarlet bliaut from the maid’s fumbling fingers. She pulled the robe over her head and thrust her arms through its wide fur-trimmed sleeves, then twisted sideways to reach the laces. A rich Burgundian red wool edged with sable, the bliaut fitted tightly over her bust and waist, then flared in thick folds over her hips. Sitting on a low stool, Madeline pulled on brightly embroidered stockings and broad-toed boots. She winced as Gerda fumbled a comb through the heavy mass of her hair, then rebraided it with rough, if competent, hands. Bending to retrieve the wooden pins the maid had dropped for the second time, Madeline herself stabbed at her scalp to anchor the braids to either side of her head. At this rate, she’d miss not only early mass, but the escort to the tourney field, as well.

At the thought of being confined to the castle all day, Madeline threw her fur-lined mantle over her shoulders and hurried out of the tower room. Lifting her skirts to avoid the occasional droppings deposited by the hounds during the night, she sped through the drafty halls. In the distance she heard the faint echo of the priest’s voice lifted in holy song. Breathless, she rounded the corner that led to the chapel—and careered headlong into a solid, wool-clad chest.

The man she collided with wrapped an instinctive arm around her waist. Madeline found herself held firmly against a hard, muscled plane. A chuckle rumbled in his broad chest under her ear.

“’Ware, sweetings. Such impetuous haste is ever the downfall of man and maid.”

Biting back a groan, Madeline fought the urge to bury her face in the smoky wool. She had no difficulty recognizing the rolling north-country burr of the man who held her, or the huge feet of the one who stood beside him. Drawing in a deep breath, she drew back slowly and raised her eyes to Ian de Burgh’s.

The laughter faded from his eyes when he saw who it was he held. His arm dropped to his side, freeing her.

Madeline stepped back. “Your pardon, my lord.” She forced the words out through stiff lips.

“Lady Madeline!” William’s exclamation drew her attention. “I hope you took no hurt.”

She managed a small laugh. “Nay, none, except to my dignity.”

Will stepped forward and made as if to take her arm.

“Truly,” Madeline snapped with something less than her usual mellifluous charm, wanting only to be away from both of them, “I’m fine. ‘Tis your brother who took the brunt of my charge. Look instead to him.”

Undaunted by her sharpness, Will gave a good-natured laugh. “In truth, he does need someone to protect him from the women of this castle. Yestereve he was marked by a jealous wench, and today he’s all but brought to his knees by a lady half his size.”

At the lighthearted words, Madeline’s gaze flew to the discolored swelling on the earl’s lower lip. Her own mouth curled in a faint sneer. “A jealous wench?”

Will’s grin widened. “Well, that’s how I describe her. My brother’s description is not fit for the ears of a lady.”

One sable brow arched. “Oh, is it not?”

“’Tis not fit for polite company, at any rate,” Ian drawled.

Madeline bit back a gasp at the implied insult behind his words. ‘Twas plain to her from his careless tone that he chose not to number her among the “polite.” At that moment, with the icy drafts swirling about the hem of her skirts and the distant chanting from the chancel sounding faint in her ears, Madeline swore she would bring this man low. She didn’t know how, nor when, but she would see him humbled if ‘twas the last thing she did on this earth.

One sure way, she fumed, would be to tell Will just how his esteemed brother had earned that bruise on his lips. She could imagine the young knight’s reaction to the knowledge that his hero had molested the lady he himself revered. She debated within herself, torn between the desire to hurt the earl and a reluctance to do the same to Will.