Margaret Moore - Hers To Command

Ah well, this wouldn’t be the first time his brother would think him less than wise, he thought as he started to disrobe, and Lady Giselle wasn’t completely out of his grasp.

Yet.

AFTER SHE LEFT Sir Henry, Mathilde paused on the steps and leaned back against the curved wall, her hands clasped to her breast, her heart racing, her blood throbbing, her breathing ragged. Why had she lingered? Why hadn’t she simply told him not to pursue Giselle and left the chamber at once?

Because he was handsome and friendly and charming. Because she had both feared and hoped that he would kiss her. Because she was weak and lustful, and he aroused a desire in her so overwhelming, she felt almost helpless to resist, in spite of the chiding of her conscience.

At least now one thing was very clear: she must never be alone with the handsome Sir Henry again.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, after another restless night disturbed by dreams of the dungeon and the beating and the pain his friend had inflicted, Henry leaned over the basin in the lord’s chamber of Ecclesford and splashed cold water over his face. God’s wounds, would he never sleep well again? It had been weeks since those terrible days. His injuries had healed. So why could he not sleep soundly? Why did the memories still come so vividly, as if he were again chained to that wall and despairing that Merrick, a man to whom he had sworn to be loyal even to death, had been so quick to believe that he was a traitor?

A soft knock sounded on the door.

When he bade the person enter, he more than half-expected Lady Mathilde to march over the threshold. Instead, it was that full-figured serving wench, carrying a tray, and with a coy smile on her face.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said brightly. “Lady Mathilde said although ye’re not an early riser, it’s well past mass, so you should be getting up and I was to bring you something to eat and wake you.”

Lady Mathilde had seemed to believe he was lust incarnate last night, so he was rather surprised by her choice of servant…unless this was some sort of test. Or perhaps it was a trap intended to “prove” his lascivious nature to her sister, and so prevent any hope of a marriage.

Clever, but doomed to fail. “What o’clock is it?” he inquired, drying off his face with a square of linen.

“Nearly noon, my lord,” the wench replied, setting the tray on the table beside the bed and running a blatantly lascivious gaze over him.

“Thank you.”

“My name’s Faiga, my lord.”

He bowed as if she were a lady. “Thank you, Faiga.”

Grinning with delight, the maidservant whipped the cloth napkin from the covered tray. “Here’s fresh bread, my lord, and honey, and ale. Good ale, too, not like some you get. The alewife here’s a good one.”

“Excellent. Now you may go.”

The maidservant’s expression could only be called a pout and her progress to the door was desultory at best, but he ignored her in favor of the delicious bread and welcome honey. The ale was excellent, too, some of the best Henry had ever tasted.

His repast complete, Henry contemplated what he should do. He had no duties here, beyond waiting for that lout Roald. A glance toward the window showed that the storm had blown itself out overnight. The sky was clear, and the sun shone as if it were still summer, so he decided to take a stroll about the castle.

As he passed through the hall, he noted that neither lady was there. Lady Mathilde was probably running around issuing orders somewhere. As for Lady Giselle, maybe she was trying on gowns or brushing her hair or whatever it was beautiful ladies did while their sisters ran the household.

He halted on the steps leading down to the courtyard and surveyed the fortress of Ecclesford. A keep—square, squat, ugly and old—stood at the southern end of the yard, while various other buildings had been built against the inside of the protective wall. The stables were to his right, with barracks above, judging by the men’s garments hanging out of the open windows to dry. At least one was a gambeson, the quilted padded jacket soldiers wore beneath their mail.

The small building in the corner opposite the stables with the carved door was probably the chapel. Good Father Thomas could have spent his days leisurely there, saying mass once a day and otherwise doing whatever he wanted. Truly, he seemed a kind and honest churchman, and Henry hoped he saw more of him.

The kitchen had to be the building attached to the hall by a covered corridor, so that should fire break out, it wouldn’t spread to the hall. He sniffed the air and recognized the wonderful smell of baking bread and gravy.

When he had been released from his imprisonment, the first thing he had asked for was wine, but what he had enjoyed most was his first bite of a loaf of freshly baked bread. It still seemed to him the very taste of freedom.

Turning his thoughts from those days, he noted the well near the kitchen, which meant that if the castle were ever besieged, water wouldn’t be a problem, unless some bloated carcass of a beast was thrown over the wall and landed in it by a stroke of luck for the attacking force. As was usually the case, several women were clustered around it, drawing water and gossiping, no doubt. He wondered what they made of his presence here.

He looked up at the wall walk, trying to determine how many men patrolled the battlements. Not enough, that seemed certain, and several of them stood together, clearly much more interested in what was going on in the courtyard than keeping watch over the village and the approach to the castle.

Sir Leonard de Brissy would have had them all in the stocks and so would he…but this was not his castle or his garrison to command. He was a guest, so he would keep his opinions to himself. Besides, he could easily imagine how Lady Mathilde would take any suggestion he attempted to make.

When Henry started across the yard, the bustle came to a momentary halt while those at their work stopped to look at the Norman in their midst. The women gathered at the well eyed him with approval, while laborers repairing the base of the wall near the gate were considerably less impressed.

As before, Henry ignored their scrutiny, paying more attention to the guards, if they could be called that, at the gate. They leaned on their spears, chatting as if they were passing the time in a tavern. As Henry strolled out the open gates, they barely glanced his way.

God’s blood, if he were in charge here, they’d be having bread and water for a week. No wonder Roald had not yet come to make his claim. He probably assumed he could simply saunter through the gates whenever it pleased him, demand the castle, and no one would be able to stop him.

How Lady Mathilde thought such a garrison could defeat Roald…

He came to an abrupt halt. In the open area between the dry moat and the village, Cerdic and another man, stripped to the waist, were fighting with clubs. Other men had formed a half circle around them, apparently offering advice or encouragement. Both combatants were intent on each other and clearly determined to win, yet he didn’t detect animosity—just determination.

Not a fight between enemies or a settling of accounts, then. A practice? God save him, could it be? Was it possible there was some kind of attempt to train these men after all? But why clubs?

One of the men in the semicircle spotted Henry and made a comment to the man next to him. Soon others were staring at him, and in the next moment, Cerdic and his opponent had turned to look at him, too.

Having nothing better to do, Henry sauntered toward them.

“What dost thou seek, Norman?” Cerdic demanded.

“I was wondering what you’re doing with those clubs.”