Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Ransom

“She’s here,” Perrin muttered. He didn’t need to explain further, for Lady Catherine Sommerville’s name rushed through the crowded hall like an ill wind.

Gervase stiffened, but he didn’t turn to watch her progress through the throng of knights, nobles and ladies assembled for the tourney banquet. “I’m surprised she dared show her face.”

“They are snubbing her…just as we’d heard they did this morn,” Perrin added unhappily. “She is ignoring them all. Damn, but she’s a brave one, her head high, her eyes fierce.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” He’d hoped to blackmail her into keeping company with him, the better to steal her away. Now she’d think he had spread the rumor and would shun him totally.

“I suppose not, still I don’t like hurting an innocent.”

“Innocent?” Gervase snorted. “We know she is not that. And I swear she won’t be harmed, only held till her sire renders up—”

“She’s already been harmed,” Perrin muttered. “Thanks to us, her reputation here is ruined. The only men who’ll be pursuing her now are those looking for an easy tumble.”

“I did not spread that rumor.” A quick investigation pointed to Lady Clarice as the source. Still Gervase’s hand tightened on his cup, the crest of the English kings biting into his flesh. A reminder of why he was here. Catherine Sommerville was a means to that end. He couldn’t afford to feel anything toward her, not pity and certainly not this inconvenient desire. “Who’s to say she was not bedding them all on the sly,” he growled.

Jealous, my friend? Perrin wondered. Though Gervase was adept at hiding his feelings, Perrin had not missed the flash of hunger in his lord’s eyes when he looked at the lady. Poor Marie had never kindled that kind of fire in her husband. Nor had any other woman, come to think of it. Pity Lady Cat was not only English but the daughter of one Gervase hated above all others.

“Thor shows great promise,” Gervase said suddenly.

Perrin sighed and accepted the change of subject. “He’s magnificent, but I wish you had longer to work with him ere the tourney. He’s strong willed and not yet used to your ways. Which could be a liability, especially in the melee.”

“With another horse, that might be true. But Thor is disciplined and responsive to my commands.”

“Aye, and the other Sommerville horses we observed on the tiltyard were likewise fine specimens. ‘Tis a puzzle, is it not, that a man as vicious in war as Lord Ruarke would have the patience and sensitivity to raise such fine beasts?”

Gervase’s smile fled. “I doubt he had a hand in it, but even so I am trying to forget I bought Thor from that bastard.”

“Speaking of bastards, Sir Malkin approaches Lady Cat.”

Gervase whirled, his hand reaching reflexively for his sword and coming up empty. By order of the duke, all weapons were forbidden at the banquet, lest an excess of drink and strong emotions lead to trouble. Sure enough, the worst lecher in all Bordeaux, the man whose tastes were so depraved ‘twas said the whores charged him twice the going rate, was bowing over Cat’s hand. The din in the hall covered Malkin of York’s words, but they leached the color from her face.

“Bloody hell,” Gervase muttered, teeth clenched as tight as his gut. He shouldn’t care, didn’t want to, but the instinctive urge to protect prodded him forward. He’d only gone a step when her two bodyguards moved in front of her and chased Malkin off.

Embarrassed by his reaction, Gervase changed direction and headed for one of the long trestle tables where the servants were just setting out the meal. Swinging a leg over the bench, he sat and reached for the wine pitcher. Though ‘twould take more wine than there was in Bordeaux to wash the guilt from his mouth.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Perrin said, sitting beside him.

“Agreed.” Gervase drained his cup and set it down with enough force to jar the nearby platter of roasted hare. “Why did she come? Surely she must have realized what ‘twould be like.”

“Pride.” Perrin grabbed a joint of meat and set it on his manchet bread trencher. “Fragile as she looks, the lady has courage and pride in abundance.”

“Gall, more like. She doubtless enjoys being the center of attention, even if ‘tis the attention of one such as Malkin.”

“She didn’t appear to welcome his advances, and she doesn’t look one bit happy now.”

Against his will, Gervase followed Perrin’s gaze to the dais where Lady Catherine occupied the end seat. Beautiful, he thought, her crimson surcoat the perfect foil for skin pale as the pearls banding the neck. Unnaturally pale. And were those shadows beneath her eyes a trick of the light or lack of sleep? He forced the notion away and remembered instead the destruction that had greeted him when he’d returned to Alleuze, the charred walls, the pitiful graves of his wife and daughter. The mementos left behind to mark Lord Ruarke’s passing through the valley. Lady Catherine’s discomfort was naught to what his people had suffered at her father’s hands.

“If she doesn’t like it, she can leave,” Gervase said gruffly, and turned his attention to the food. It tasted like ashes, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he needed to build up his strength for the tourney events.

“The cook has outdone himself,” Perrin said. “I swear we’ve put on a stone since coming here. Weight we both needed.”

“A year of eating only what little our ravaged land would yield made us skinny,” Gervase replied bitterly. “Would that we could take some of this bounty back to our people when we leave.”

“We’ll soon be able to buy whatever we need…seed to plant, meat, flour, beans and such to tide us over till the crops are ready to harvest. And stone to rebuild.” Perrin grinned. “Aye, we’ll be warm, dry and well fed this winter.”

“Hush,” Gervase warned as three people took their places on the other side of the table. An older knight, his lady wife and their daughter, a plump young woman he recalled seeing much in Catherine Sommerville’s company.

“May I at least speak with her?” the girl asked.

“Nay, Margery,” her mother snapped. “You’ll stand no chance of attracting a husband if you’re seen in such loose company.”

“Cat’s not like that, Mama. She isn’t. I…I know it’s a terrible mistake. If only you’d talk with her—”

“Me?” The woman’s jowls trembled with agitation. “And have these good people think I condone such behavior?”

“Good people.” Margery’s eyes narrowed. “I think they are terrible to treat her so for an unfounded rumor.”

“‘Tis not unfounded,” the mother replied. “I had it from a woman whose maid knows the duke’s squire that Lady Catherine did indeed run off with a man…a horse trainer,” she added in a horrified whisper. “Some nobody named Henry Norville. Her parents hushed up the disgraceful business as best they could. The duke knew of it, apparently, and swore his people to secrecy, but since all was revealed last night…”

“I still think ‘tis mean to condemn her for one mistake.”

“A costly error, that,” her father interjected. “With her bloodlines and dowry, Lord Ruarke could have made an excellent match for her. But now…no honorable man will want her.” He cleared his throat and scowled. “Wed a woman who’ll spread her thighs for anyone and no telling who’ll sire your children.”

“Too true,” his wife said.

Gervase slammed down his cup and quit the table before he did something stupid, like defend a woman he didn’t even like. ‘Twas the principle of the thing, he told himself as he threaded his way through the tables. But then the English were known to be petty and narrow-minded. Sickened by the stench of so many English bodies, offended by the way their tongues twisted the Norman French, he made for the garden.