Diana Hall - Warrior's Deception

Lenora felt a needlelike jab in her head and tried to fix her concentration on her meal. Under the table, her foot tapped the floor in a staccato beat. She wished it was Galliard under her foot instead of the rushes.

“You were so brave to attempt such a rescue.” Matilda continued to heap praise on Roen. Every word of gratitude triggered another pain. Lenora’s head felt like a pincushion.

“Lady Lenora, you have a fine cook. The meal is…” Her dinner partner, Sir Alric, stopped his polite conversation at her icy look.

Alric retreated into a quelled silence. Lenora grabbed their shared wine goblet without asking for help from the knight seated next to her. She dared him to comment on her breach of proper etiquette, which demanded the knight hold the goblet. The last thing she wanted was help from any of Roen de Galliard’s men.

Just as she took a huge gulp of wine, she heard Roen say, “’Twas pure luck that she stayed on the beast’s back after the first jump. Then to see her barreling down toward a second! Well, dear lady, I knew I had to intervene or a terrible accident would occur.”

Her wine almost spewed across the table. She forced the liquid down her constricted throat and was seized by a fit of coughing. All eyes at the head table turned toward her.

“It seems the lady needs my assistance once again.” Roen smiled ruefully at Matilda. He started to rise from his seat of honor next to the saltcellar.

“Nay. Nay.” Lenora waved him back to his seat. “I am fine. The wine was sour.”

“Really!” He took a long swill from his cup. “Mine is deliciously sweet.” Roen gave her a crooked smile. Mischief brought out the blue in his eyes. “Perhaps, ‘tis not the wine that’s sour.”

He turned to Hamlin, seated next to Beatrice on his right. “I have heard, my friend, that the flavor of the meal is enhanced by one’s disposition. I myself feel extremely well satisfied, and my meal was extremely savory. Perhaps ‘tis the lady’s disposition that soured her meal.” The high table exploded with laughter.

Beatrice opened her mouth to defend her dear cousin. Hamlin lightly placed his callused hand over her delicate one. “Nay, Lady Beatrice, this battle is not for one as gentle as yourself. Besides,” he whispered, “I do not think the Lady Lenora is ready to admit defeat just yet.”

As if in response to Hamlin’s statement, Lenora, her eyes aflame, parried back. “Nay, Galliard. My disposition is wonderfully content after my refreshing bath. How could one help to be otherwise when the water was so soothingly warm and scented with mint. I trust yours was the same.”

Roen tapped his index finger on his wide, generous lips, forcing his smile to remain. When he had seen the scrawny, toothless old woman sent to assist him at his bath, he suspected Lenora had arranged it. His men relaxed in hot tubs while he nearly froze in a bucket of tepid water. Not to mention he had had to bear the tale of the hag’s many ailments. Roen nodded appreciatively toward his adversary. Lenora was not a woman to give up any battle easily.

“My bath was exactly as you would expect it to be.” Roen turned toward his dining partner. “Lady Matilda, your niece sent the…”

Matilda giggled like a young girl. “Lenora is too interested in her horses and plants to be concerned with taking proper care of her guests. I am afraid the stress of managing this keep falls on my shoulders and those of my daughter.”

“Then I have you to thank for my bath and the care I received?” Roen questioned.

He was surprised to see Matilda accept the statement as a compliment when he knew Lenora was responsible for his inhospitable treatment. He turned toward the young woman, her face radiant with triumph.

“Sir Roen, my lord will see you now,” the castle seneschal announced. Roen tore his gaze from Lenora. Sir Hywel continued, “Sir Edmund apologizes for the delay in addressing you, but his illness forces him to rest at midday. If you are finished with your meal, I will lead you to his chambers.”

Roen stood and turned to face Lenora, a mocking gnn unsuppressed on his lips. It vanished when he found her seat empty.

“Sir Hywel…” Roen was surprised to find Lenora at his side as she spoke to her father’s steward. “Since ‘twas I the knight assisted, I feel that I should present the man to my father.” Turning to her aunt, the vixen transformed her waspish tongue with a demure guise. “’Tis only the proper thing to do.”

Before her aunt could reply, Lenora grabbed his arm and led him across the room to the stairs. He lengthened his stride to keep up with the girl.

Roen’s battle senses noted with approval the construction of the stairs. As the stone steps reached the upper stories they narrowed and curved. Forced to climb single file, an invading army was blind to what lay ahead. A snatch of Lenora’s dress was all he could see of her as she disappeared around the curve of the step.

The creak of wood contrasted with the cold echo of the stone. Roen quickly identified the sound, wooden defense steps. The structures could be burned or demolished if invaders entered.

“Hold, Galliard!”

Roen pulled himself up short. Lenora blocked his passage. She stood on the upper step, her eyes level with his own. Her chin tilted at a defiant angle and she crossed her arms over her chest. The golden shade of her eyes signaled her state of mind. The docile lamb had reverted back into a bad-tempered lion.

Lenora held her ground. The narrow steps prevented Galliard from brushing past her and the curve of the stair hid them from people below, in the great hall, and above, in her father’s room.

“We will talk before you see my father,” Lenora commanded.

“Orders! You give far too many orders for a woman!” Roen sighed, exasperated.

Her voice dripped with false sincerity. “And would the words sound sweeter coming from the mouth of a man? Do you want me to look humbly at the ground and ask requests of you in my own home, in my own hall, after you have eaten my food and drunk my wine?

“This battle we have—” Lenora saw Roen’s startled expression. “Aye, ‘tis a battle, Galliard. But this is between you and me. You will not involve my father. The story I told him is the same we told his steward.” Lenora clenched her fists and fought to control the timbre of her voice. “My father is ill. He must not be unsettled.”

Afraid to show her tears, she lowered her head. A hand on her chin forced her face upward. She searched his face through blurry eyes for a sign that he understood her pain. His eyes, no longer the color of cold granite, warmed to mist gray. They reminded her of a stubborn fog that lingered in the morning sun. Could he really have a heart after all?

He cupped her upturned face in his large rough hand. His fingers massaged the knotted muscles at her scalp. A solitary tear escaped one eye and meandered down her cheek. Roen tenderly wiped it away with his thumb.

“Ah, Nora, if only Henry had a dozen warriors like yourself, he would have England back to rights in no time.” Roen dropped his hand from her face. He stared at it and the evaporating remains of Lenora’s tear.

“I do what I must to protect my father,” she explained hesitantly.

“I see that now,” Roen whispered. “Which is the crux of the problem.” He fought the desire to wrap Lenora in his arms, to reassure her with brave words.

The tender feelings he felt toward her must be killed. Love was an emotion for bards and women, not warriors. He stepped away and jeered at the tender emotions he accidentally felt. To push away the sentiments, he gave a brisk wave with his arm. “Come, Nora, I see your point. I’ll do nothing to upset Sir Edmund.”

Confused and surprised that the battle had been won so easily, she led him to her father’s chambers. She knocked on the heavy oak door and whispered, “One more thing.”