Diana Hall - Warrior's Deception

Her father’s reply to her knock corresponded with Roen’s disgruntled, “What else?”

“Don’t call me Nora!”

Lenora opened the door and flounced across the chamber to stand next to her bedridden father. Tall and proud, she placed her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “Father, this is the knight that assisted me today, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy.”

Roen’s attention moved from her to the gaunt man lying on the massive bed. Sir Edmund lay atop the ermine-trimmed coverlet, propped up by several overstuffed pillows. His long legs filled the length of the bed. His feet were bare, his torso covered by a calf-length robe of rich blue, trimmed in dark sable fur. The shadows from the one window accentuated the darkness beneath his still-lively eyes.

“Sir Roen, I wish to express my deepest gratitude for your rescue today. Pray, avail yourself of my hospitality for as long as you wish.” Sir Edmund’s voice barely carried across the room. “Draw up the chair so that we may talk.”

Lenora ran to snatch the heavy oak chair from the table on the far side of the room. She struggled to drag it to her father’s side. Roen lifted the chair from her easily and placed it near the bed. She scurried to return to her father’s side.

Seated, Roen saw two sets of earth brown eyes assessing him intently. There’s no doubt she’s a Marchavel. She has the look of the old man, only softened, he thought bitterly. The strong family resemblance between father and daughter rekindled old childhood scars. Roen’s heart retreated into the emotional armor he had devised in childhood. He concentrated on the muted colors of the floral depictions on the whitewashed castle walls.

“Lenora, you may leave us now. I wish to hear news from London and swap battle tales.” Sir Edmund patted his child’s arm. “You have already heard the news and my old stories. ‘Twould only bore you.”

“Father, I don’t mind staying.” Lenora moved closer to her father, as though to shield him from Roen.

Edmund laughed and gave Roen a leering wink. “But, my dear, a father tells his daughter a story one way, and tells another warrior the same story in an entirely different manner. Certain details that he neglected to tell his wife or daughter are sometimes remembered with a fellow knight.”

Lenora pushed back a lock of her hair and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. She had hoped to remain and see that Roen kept his word. Her father’s dismissal left her no choice. To tarry longer would only make him suspicious.

She shot Roen a murderous glance, then moved to the exit. His back to the door, he heard the loud slam echo in the room and down the hall.

Edmund licked his lips and pointed toward a wardrobe near the window. “Those women seek to keep me on weak tea and watered-down wine. A man can’t regain his strength from such as that. Friend, look on the upper shelf of that closet and see if a bottle of ale can’t be found.”

Roen’s smile and mood brightened. He crossed the room in three strides and threw open the doors of the huge oak wardrobe. The piece held little, a fur-lined cloak, a green embroidered tunic and a leather jerkin. Several boots lay on the bottom. The wardrobe was so huge, Roen had to climb into it to reach the top shelf. He pushed aside the soft woolen braes and shirts folded neatly on the shelf. His hand found the smooth handle of a clay jug. Roen turned and displayed his prize.

“Well-done, man!” Sir Edmund smiled gleefully. “Grab that bowl and tea mug and we will toast each other’s good fortune.”

Relaxed, Roen retrieved the articles and returned to Sir Edmund. He drew his chair closer as he poured the strong ale into the mug and offered it to the ill man. After pouring his drink into the soup bowl, he placed the jug of ale on the floor between them. Edmund tilted his mug in salute. Forced to hold the bowl with two hands, Roen brought the drink to his lips.

“I hope ‘tis fine ale ye be drinkin’, ‘cause if’n ye don’t be tellin’ milord the truth, ‘twill be ye last.”

Roen felt the pressure of a dagger against the base of his neck. He drained the bowl and with slow movements set it next to the jug.

The older knight swirled his ale in his mouth, obviously enjoying the flavor of the strong drink. “Tom, we don’t know for sure he is a liar.” Edmund quirked a smile at the motionless Roen. “So tell me, Sir Roen de Galliard of Normandy, why are you here? Why the fairy story about saving my daughter? Lenora needs to be delivered from her sharp tongue and hot temper, but never from the back of a horse.”

“I come from King Henry.” Roen spoke quietly. He could feel the hot breath of his assailant and the prick of a dagger point on the back of his neck.

“‘E could be lyin’, Sir Edmund.” The sharp point pressed a trifle more.

Roen willed his heart to beat normally, his chest to rise and fall naturally. His huge hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white with indignation. As he spoke, his outrage spilled over. “You wrote a letter to the king using the code from the battle at Hastings. You asked for help, Henry sent me.”

His words caused Sir Edmund to pull back and the blade moved just a hair away from his neck. Now was the time to act. Roen dived forward and kicked the chair hard. It thumped into the midsection of the man with the knife. Roen scrambled to his feet. Grabbing the overturned chair, he prepared to break it over the head of his assailant.

“Wait!” Sir Edmund shouted.

Roen held the sturdy chair high over his head, his breath ragged. It took only a few seconds for him to realize the dazed man was unable to rise and was blind in one eye.

“Well, ain’t ye goin’ to help me up?” The old man wheezed and held up his hand.

“You must be daft, both of you.” Roen swung the chair to the floor. He grabbed the old man’s arm and plopped him into the chair Roen had nearly crushed his skull with.

“Tom?” Edmund examined his coconspirator with a critical eye. Tom nodded while he tried to regain his breath. “Sir Roen, I apologize for the subterfuge. In a case like this, I can trust very few.”

“And you trust me now?” Roen towered over the men.

“Aye. One, you held your blow when you saw the condition of your attacker, and second—” Edmund arched his brows “—I have no choice. I need help to protect my family.”

Roen paced the room before hitching a leg onto an ironbanded chest near the window. “What makes you think you are in any danger, other than from your own harebrained schemes?”

Tom stopped wheezing and started to sputter, “What—why, you…I don’t care if’n you are a lord, ye don’t go talkin’ to Sir Edmund like that.”

Sir Edmund silenced his man with an annoyed frown. “’Tis little proof I have, more of a hunch. My illness for one.” He released a long, anguished breath and eased himself back against the pillows. The stress of the recent events shone on his face.

“Aye, ‘tis a strange illness.” Tom’s muscles creaked, his bad knee popped. He used the back of the chair to pull himself up. “My lord grows weak, then grows strong, then weak again.”

“He’s old. It happens,” Roen replied nonchalantly.

“Then why is it when I bring his food myself, not from the kitchen, he gets stronger? Why is it that when I fed his kitchen food to the rats in the stable, they died?” Tom gave Roen a nearly toothless grin. “Someone’s a-tryin’ to poison ‘im.”

“Rats die, they eat spoiled food. You doped the stable with poison, they got hold of it.” Roen scrutinized the ill man, noted the paleness of his face.

“Aye, it could be so, I wish it were so,” Edmund replied wearily. “I do not wish to think someone of my house would poison me. But ‘tis true. Tom smuggles me food through a secret chamber into this room. Yet, I still suffer from bouts of illness. I know not if this is a permanent result of the poisoning, or if the traitor still reaches me, despite our precautions.”