CHAPTER FIVE

 

William the Marshal, despite the three score and six years he had already put behind him, was still a handsome man, immensely strong, with limbs as stout as the abutments of a bridge. He bore a full mane of long, thick hair, the black less evident than it once had been, the gray streaking down into the neatly trimmed, luxuriant beard. His voice could quiet a battlefield and his eyes, bright blue, sharp as daggers, could turn a man’s courage to water on a single glance.

He had been knighted by the old king, Henry Secund, and had spent most of his younger years in fierce and loyal service to his liege. He had been devastated by his mentor’s death and sickened by the way all three of the king’s surviving sons had conspired to break their father’s spirit and drive him into an early grave.

When Richard had succeeded to the throne, he had considered himself a champion in all things to do with battle and combat. He had harboured an intense dislike for William since the age of eighteen when he had been unhorsed by the seasoned veteran and publicly humiliated in a tournament. But the Lionheart also had a keen eye for valour and had not only retained William in his service upon being crowned, but had invested him as Marshal of England and rewarded the reluctant bachelor with a marriage to the wealthiest and most sought-after heiress in the kingdom: Isabella of Pembroke.

Eduard FitzRandwulf had good reason to fear the earl’s umbrage. At last reckoning, William the Marshal had championed over five hundred tournaments and single-combat bouts —an impressive feat that most likely would never be surpassed. His closest rival for trophies and honours was Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, who could count slightly more than half that number of victories in forfeited pennants and prizes. But Randwulf had also retired from the tournament circuits over a decade ago and had no intention of picking up a lance again for the sake of amusement.

The two men had become friends over the years—a respectful friendship between two old warriors, both of whom had been men of action and honesty all their lives and who found it hard to tolerate ineptness or deceit, especially from their king.

“Give me a sword and show me an enemy to fight,” the Wolf remarked dryly, “and I would gladly do so seven days of the week rather than have to debate a point of law for a single hour.”

The earl shook his head ruefully. “The king’s right to manipulate marriages is not even a law; more of a habit the crown has assumed in order to suit political needs. I myself had no choice in my bride, but …”

“But yours was a reward, not a punishment?” the Wolf suggested gently.

“I loved Isabella the moment I saw her,” the marshal admitted. “If she was a reward, I cannot think what I must have done to deserve her.”

“Possibly saved Henry’s life a time or two; surely saved the throne for Richard.”

The marshal chuckled. “Then ’tis no wonder John dislikes me so. Yet I had thought my family to be relatively safe from his interferences, especially now, when his mind should be occupied with other, far more pressing matters. I should have known better. When he is in one of his fevered moods of accomplishment, he can think on ten different subjects at the one time, giving each an equal amount of importance in his mind.”

William of Pembroke had come into the great hall just after sunset, refreshed by his bath and nap, his dusty travel garb changed for clean, richly embossed velvets and leathers. He had assured the Lady Servanne he was in no hurry to dine and would welcome a few moments of quiet conversation with her husband before he had to don the smiling face of a guest.

“I should also have known, or at least anticipated, that he would not pay off his valued mercenaries in gold—which he does not have—but in lands and titles and bribes of respectability. In this case, he is merely returning an unprofitable estate he had confiscated from the family during his time as prince regent.”

“Shall we assume your niece objects to being traded off as a reward?”

“She made use of the swiftest ship and fastest horses to bring me her opinion of the king’s meddling.”

“She crossed the Channel on her own?” Randwulf asked, mildly amused.

“Not entirely,” William said, casting an acerbic eye at the fourth man who was seated in the alcove with himself, Lord Randwulf, and Alaric FitzAthelstan. Henry de Clare reddened somewhat and fidgeted under his uncle’s fixed stare. “My nephew is as neatly and completely wrapped around his sister’s finger as a length of twine, although I have no doubt she would have found a boat and rowed it across herself if she had to. She is … a little headstrong. My own fault, I suppose, for coddling her the way I have all these years. I should have taken the flat of a sword to her rump a few times, as Isabella suggested, and perhaps she would have already been safely wed and out of the reach of an avaricious king.”

“Do we dare ask the identity of the prospective groom?”

William seemed to hesitate a moment before answering— “Reginald de Braose”—and even longer before meeting the Wolf’s eye.

Lord Randwulf and Alaric both reacted visibly to the name, leaving only Henry to glance from one rigid face to the next and wonder what ghastly secret he had not been privy to.

“Reginald de Braose,” the Wolf said with a deathlike intensity. “I have not heard that name in a long while, although it should come as no surprise to hear he is still in the king’s favour.”

“More so the father than the son,” William explained. “A routier who bears mine own name: William. He was in command of the king’s garrison in Rouen, although he and his wife Maude have both been in England these past two months, gleefully settling back into their newly restored estates at Radnor.”

“And planning the wedding of his son to the House of Pembroke?” Alaric whistled softly. “The king gives generous rewards to those who lick his spittle.”

“I warrant De Braose did a good deal more than that,” William declared. “He is a misfit brute who shares Lackland’s tastes for blood and pain. I am told he was put in charge of the knights who were captured along with Arthur at Mirebeau, and how he did make them suffer for their misguided loyalties!”

“Twenty-four of the bravest knights in Brittany,” Lord Randwulf said, staring down into his wine goblet. “I knew most of them by sight and reputation; a few have been welcomed guests at Amboise. We heard they had been transported back to England to stand trial for treason. Had I known that to be their fate, I would never have handed them over to John’s guard, but paroled them on their own honour. Have you had any news of them? Have they been released yet, or has the king decided to keep them on royal display a while longer?”

William looked shocked. “You have not heard? No. No, of course not, how could you? You have been guarding the king’s back at Blois.” He paused and gripped his own goblet tighter. “You had best brace yourself, old friend, for the knights you speak of are all dead.”

“Dead?” the Wolf gasped. “How? When?”

There was no easy way to say it, and the words came out like small gritty pellets. “They were taken to Gorfe in chains and rags, there to be thrown into cells and left to starve to death. And although they were given neither a morsel of food nor a dram of water, I am told some took upwards of sixteen days to die.”

The Wolf’s breath laboured harshly in and out of his chest. His eyes turned black as coal and began to burn with a fury that spread to the grinding hardness of his jaw.

“They were nobles” he hissed. “They were knights! Most of them were my neighbours and friends. Brave … brave men, to a one. Fighting for what they believed was right and just. Christ Almighty, had it not been by mine own command, my son might have been among them. I might have been among them, by God, had they struck in any other direction but Mirebeau. And now dead? All of them?”

“All,” William nodded. “To England’s shame.”

The Wolf pushed out of his chair, unmindful of the wound in his thigh. He turned away from the three men and slammed the palms of his hands against the stone wall in frustration. He slammed them a second time, then a third, then leaned his weight on his arms and hung his head between his massive shoulders.

“Stupid, stupid boy! I had thought his grandmother would have raised him with more sense. If only he had not joined forces with Philip. If only he had bided his time …”

“Arthur came by his rashness honestly,” William pointed out. “His father Geoffrey was never wont to conceal his dealings with the French king. And they have both paid the highest price for their lack of judgement.”

Lord Randwulf stiffened and faced the earl again, but the chill in his spine answered his question before it was asked. “Have the rumours of Arthur’s death been confirmed then?”

“He has not been seen alive since the king left Rouen for Cherbourg more than two months ago.”

“He promised his queen mother he would let the boy live.”

“John has as little love for his promises as he has for Eleanor, although I suspect something about the deed has left him with a taste of guilt. When I last saw our noble king, his neck was hung with so many holy relics, he could barely stand upright under the burden.”

“Would that I had his neck under my boot this instant,” the Wolf snarled, “I warrant he would never stand again.”

Movement out of the corner of Randwulf’s eye caused him to glance over the marshal’s shoulder and to acknowledge Eduard’s arrival in the alcove. Because his expression so closely mirrored his father’s, it was obvious Eduard had overheard most of their conversation. It was also obvious, by the steadfast way the Wolf and his cub were staring at each other, they were reliving some private argument they had had at the outset of the young duke’s ill-fated quest to claim the throne away from John.

“You did try to warn him,” Randwulf said evenly. “You warned Arthur he would risk losing everything if he attacked Mirebeau. I warned you of the same thing and can only thank God you heeded me.”

Eduard drew a deep breath. “It did not … does not change my belief that the Duke of Brittany was the rightful heir to the throne of England. Or that our present king is nothing but a greedy usurper—now a murderer—who would stop at nothing to keep the crown seated firmly on his head.”

The Wolf sighed and eased himself painfully back into his chair. He noted the marshal’s concerned frown, for King John’s spies were everywhere, but he offered a smile that contained no sign of apology. “You have, I believe, met my son Eduard? He tends to be a little … headstrong … himself, at times.”

The earl stood, his barrel chest glittering with the blazon of the Pembroke device—a black shield with bars of green and a lion rampant, embossed in gold. He thrust out a hand the size of a large slab of beef, and clasped FitzRandwulf’s arm warmly.

“Aye, we have met. But it has been five … six years at the least, has it not?”

“More like eight, my lord,” Eduard replied stiffly. “You were present when I won my spurs, and it was as much an honour to be in your presence then as it is now.”

“We shall share the honours, shall we? I have been hearing how your reputation grows as a champion in the lists. Another year or two of seasoning and mayhap I will have to take you on myself.”

Eduard’s grace was a little strained despite the immeasurable weight of the compliment. He had bathed and changed his clothes and come quickly to the great hall in the hopes of finding the earl and offering his deep-felt apologies along with what he hoped was an amusing explanation of the misunderstanding with his niece. Now he was being flattered and asked about his successes on the tourny circuits.

“My triumphs are nowhere near as outstanding as your own, sir, and extremely modest compared to my father’s.”

“Nevertheless, you buckled on your spurs when you were seventeen; an admirable achievement by any measure.” The marshal paused and glanced beside him. “I do not believe you have made the acquaintance of my nephew, Henry de Glare. Henry … bare a hand to the only man I might be inclined to bet against you in a match.”

Henry moved forward and extended a greeting, noting the steady eye that met his.

“FitzRandwulf,” he murmured amiably. “I confess my uncle’s reservation intrigues me. Perhaps when there is more time for such things, we could put his faith—or lack of it—to the test?”

Eduard smiled tightly. An uncle and a brother to appease. Lord Henry’s hair was not the same fierce red as his sister’s, it was more of a brassy gold, but there was a distinct resemblance in the general character of the face—most notably in the stubborn cut of the jaw. Shoulders almost as broad as his own bespoke a comfortable strength, as did the fighter’s eye for instinctively gauging an opponent’s potential at first glance. De Glare would be no easy conquest in the lists or in hand combat, nor did he appear any more likely than his famous uncle to see humour in a case of misdirected insults against his sister.

The two knights eased the intensity of their handclasp, but not their mutual wariness of each other.

A disturbance further along the hall ended any further speculations. Servanne d’Amboise had returned from seeing the children tucked safely abed and her arrival was the signal for the cooks and servers to begin the final preparations for laying on the banquet. She had donned a gown of blue baudekin, a cloth from faraway Syria which combined azure silk and gold thread so that the folds shimmered and glowed with each step as though the copper rays of the sun had been caught and imprisoned in it. A girdle sparkling with jewels encircled her waist, and around her neck, a chain studded with sapphires and diamonds. Her long blonde hair had been divided into two gleaming plaits and bound within a woven crespine, over which she wore a thin, plain circlet of hammered gold.

Walking by her side, their arms linked, was Alaric’s wife, Lady Gillian FitzAthelstan, very obviously heavy with child and descending the stairs with the slow, careful steps of a woman unused to such imbalance. Her skin wore a healthy tan, attesting to her preference for remaining out-of-doors in all weathers. It also camouflaged the faintly visible initial that had been branded into her cheek. The mark of a thief was so faded by the years as to be hardly noticeable—indeed, Alaric, Randwulf, and Servanne had grown so accustomed to seeing it, they would not even have acknowledged it by description if pressed. Nor, for that matter, would any of the knights or men-at-arms in residence at Amboise. They had far too much respect for the beauty of Gil’s bow arm, for most of them had been trained to shoot both the longbow and the crossbow under her expert tutelage.

“Ahh,” said William the Marshal. “And there walks the bane of my life; the curse of my old age; the true test of mettle the likes of which I was never forced to meet in battle.”

His remarks, delivered with a heartfelt sigh, were directed toward the young woman who followed closely behind Gil and Servanne. At first glance she looked demure and complacent enough to suit the exalted company. Her tunic was a muted nutmeg brown, drawn tight at the neck and wrists with bands of green braiding. Her hair, that glorious abundance of fire tamed by little else, was confined within the folds of a modest linen wimple, its colour only hinted at in the glint of thick auburn lashes that framed her eyes.

Those eyes, as green as the emerald clasp she wore at her throat, roved from one end of the great hall to the other, clearly awed by the rich trappings and barely able to conceal her excitement at being there.

The small party consisting of Lady Ariel, her brother, Lord Sedrick, and Dafydd ap Iorwerth, had left Pembroke and sailed on board one of her uncle’s ships to the tiny port town of Fecamp, on the coast of Normandy. They had ridden quickly and without mishap directly to Rouen, only to find they had missed the lord marshal by a fortnight. He had gone, at the king’s behest, to meet with King Philip in Paris, ostensibly to negotiate terms for peace. But since the French king’s only term was the safe return of Arthur to France—which John already knew could not be complied with—William’s quest had been a useless waste of time and diplomacy.

Hoping to intercept him on his return (and not wanting to linger in Rouen where the king’s spies might apprise him of their presence) the De Glares had set off in pursuit of the marshal’s caravan.

Returning to his pavilion one night to find his niece and nephew appeared from nowhere … suffice it to say, it was one of the few times Ariel could recall her uncle threatening her with physical harm—and meaning it. Neither tears nor tempers nor pleas for understanding had any effect. He roared and shouted and went back two generations to draw upon a slack-witted ancestor who happened to have the same shade of red hair as Ariel, and whose adventures had seen her into an early grave at a similar age.

Henry had fared little better. He was railed from one end of the pavilion to the other for agreeing to bring Ariel to Normandy in the first place, then to setting out across the country without a proper, heavy escort. Moreover, when the earl heard of the pact they had made with the Welsh prince— to kidnap the king’s messenger and hold him to ransom— William’s wrath knew no bounds.

To Henry’s credit, he had remained rigidly silent during most of the earl’s tirade. The blame for everything could easily have been settled on Ariel’s shoulders, as indeed it should have been, but he bore the weight of the plottings with Rhys ap Iorwerth himself, with only a stony glare directed at his sister now and then to warn her of the huge debt she would owe when the ashes had settled.

The third one to bear the brunt of the marshal’s anger was Sedrick of Grantham. He too let wrath descend unchecked, waiting until the earl had run dry of invectives and spittle. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the gruff and normally reserved knight corroborated Henry’s version of the events, assuring the earl they had not had the luxury of time or precedence to make any other decision. Enlisting the help of the Welshman in waylaying the courier seemed like a convenient means of buying a few weeks’ time—long enough to apprise the lord marshal of the situation so that he might take steps to act upon it. Bringing Lady Ariel to Normandy had, in all likelihood, forestalled her from doing something even more foolhardy (and here he too had casually added his own reservations concerning Ariel’s heritage) when there would have been no one around with the strength or wit to stop her.

The marshal had found logic in what he said; difficult to argue.

A final trump was played when the letter Lady Isabella had written was presented. It confirmed the loathsome prospects of the king’s proposed groom, the deplorable audacity of a sovereign who would abuse their loyalty in such a callous manner, and the unavoidable necessity of enlisting the service of renegades to protect their home and family in his, the lord marshal’s, continuing absence. Whether or not it was this veiled accusation, laying at least some of the blame on his own broad shoulders, that finally blew the tempest out of the marshal’s sails, none of the others could say for certain. Somewhat mollified, however, he had announced he would sleep on the matter but for none of them to be surprised to waken and find themselves turned back on the road to Fecamp.

That ominous announcement had been made over a week ago, and now here they all were, standing in the majestic great hall of Amboise Castle, with minstrels settling into the upper gallery and servants rushing to and fro. Lights glittered everywhere, but on the dais, at the table reserved for the lord and lady of the chateau and their guests of honour, the candles were backed by circlets of silver so that the flames glowed like small sunbursts.

Ariel had heard a great deal about the famed Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, and was not disappointed in meeting the living flesh. He was equally as tall as her uncle, with a darkly savage handsomeness that had deservingly earned him the name Black Wolf. To his right was Alaric FitzAthelstan, another legendary knight of brave deeds and keen intelligence. She admired and respected him instantly for the open, unabashed love he had for his wife—a woman whose predilection for manly skills would have turned most men away in disdain … or jealousy.

Lady Ariel had heard the stories, many and widespread throughout England, of how the Black Wolf had taken a select troop of knights into the forests of Lincolnwoods disguised as outlaws. Poets and troubadours in as remote a region as the Welsh Marches sang chansons de geste boasting of the great tournament at Bloodmoor Keep where the Wolf had slain the Dragon lord and rescued his beautiful demoiselle from certain death. They sang of the feats of Gil Golden, the best archer in all of Christendom (though none ever specified she was a woman) and of Sparrow, the magical wood sprite who could sprout wings and fly.

Here they all were, in the flesh and blood, as normal as normal could be, greeting her, welcoming her as if she were already an equal.

“… and my son, Eduard,” the Wolf was saying, extending the introductions to a figure who had been standing a little behind and to the side of his father, keeping well cloaked in shadows.

Ariel’s smile froze.

It was him. It was the scarred beast from the cellars. In place of the linsey-woolsey shirt and coarse hosen, he wore a quilted surcoat of the finest black samite, banded in stripes of velvet and studded at each junction with knots of heavy gold thread. He had given his jaw a close shave, scraping off the dark stubble that had blunted his features earlier, but the clean, square lines only emphasized the extent of the damage wrought to the flesh of his left cheek, and drew attention to the arrogant jut of his chin. His hair, while still looking as unruly as if he had just ravished a dozen maidens in a row, had been washed free of dulling dust and glowed the same rich chestnut as his father’s … but there could be no mistake. It was him: The lout. The brute. The voyeur. And he was stepping boldly forward to take up her hand in a formal greeting.

“Lady Ariel,” he murmured, bowing his head respectfully. “God grant you health, honour, and joy.”

“Peace and good health to you as well, milord,” she answered by rote, cracking her words like nuts. She had also heard the heart-warming tale of the Wolf’s long-lost son rescued from the donjons of Bloodmoor; the troubadours had sung of his many subsequent feats in the lists and she had been admittedly curious to meet this icon of chivalrous deeds and derring-do.

Met him she had, and at his scurrilous best. Sneaking about like a thief, spying through peepholes, terrorizing helpless women … forcing himself upon them at his merest whim, swelled by his own self-importance. She supposed she should be thankful he had not pilloried her on the floor of the armoury that afternoon. Had she not had the shield of her uncle’s name to bring to her defense, she might well have found herself used as a brief diversion by the bold, ugly brute.

On the other hand (and here she almost groaned aloud with the mortification), what a sight she must have made in her pelisson and hose, capering about the armoury engaged in mortal combat with an imaginary foe. How swiftly would the story spread throughout the castle and how comical would the embellishments grow with each retelling? Were there hands being raised even now to conceal the whispering and sniggering? Were heads and necks craning to have a closer look at the addle-witted niece of the Earl of Pembroke?

As if to confirm her suspicions and deepen her discomfort, the level of noise rose markedly in the great hall. Knights and castle retainers had begun to fill the seats along the trestle tables that stretched down either side of the chamber, and the savoury odours from the cooking braziers were causing a general restlessness.

“Come, my lord,” Lady Servanne directed, patting her husband’s arm lightly as he grappled with the cumbersome crutches. “Best we seat ourselves before the rabble begins to chew on the linens. My Lord Marshal, will you honour my husband’s right? Eduard … you will partner the Lady Ariel, of course, and Lord Henry, you may take your sister’s left, unless you would care to have the trouble of sitting next to Sparrow.”

Henry weighed the dark look he saw on Ariel’s face against the brief introduction he’d had to Sparrow earlier, and chose the least damaging threat to his digestion.

“I am advised Sparrow has vast knowledge on many subjects.”

“Advice which came from his own beak, no doubt,” Alaric said dryly. He slipped his hand beneath the crook of Gil’s elbow and started to lead her toward the dais. “Trust that you will rue the day you ask him to expound on any of it.”

Laughter prompted the others to walk away from the alcove, leaving only Ariel and Eduard to share a terse silence.

After a long moment, he cleared his throat and offered his arm. “Shall we, my lady?”

She glared at his arm, then followed the black samite of his sleeve up to his shoulder, finally braving the cool slate gray of his eyes. The wry amusement she saw reflected there did nothing to temper her resentment, and she drew on the only defense she had—her anger.

“I am but a mere breath away from scarring the other side of your face, my lord. You would be wise not to challenge my patience … or my silence.”

Eduard glanced around, then lowered his voice to match hers. “My own lips have been sealed fast these past few hours, but a challenge, alas, is a challenge, and we have here a good hundred pair of ears and eyes to judge who was in the right and who in the wrong.”

Ariel’s eyes sparkled a moment before darkening around her retort. “You are known as Fitz Randwulf d’Amboise, are you not?”

“I am,” he admitted after a wary pause.

“Then I should think these hundred ears and eyes already know you to be the bastard you are. They require no further proof from me.”

Her eyes swept his broad frame with a final look of derision before she turned and walked, unescorted, to the dais.

 

In spite of the earlier pandemonium that had ruled the great hall, a creditable feast was set out in honour of William the Marshal. A steady stream of varlets flowed from the kitchens with cauldrons of soups and stews, platters mounded high with roast mutton, boar, capon. There were chines of pork and whole peacocks stuffed, roasted, and presented in fully restored plumage. Jellied eel and grilled trout came smothered in garlic and leeks, lavished with spices, swimming in thick sauces. Consumption of it all took several dedicated hours; a challenge met with undisguised glee.

The men ate and belched to make the walls tremble. The women chatted and laughed and tried to make themselves heard over the rumble of countless conversations. Dogs begged and rooted noisily for scraps tossed into the fresh-strewn rushes. Minstrels strummed the lute, viol, and guitten from the balustraded gallery that protruded overhead.

When the many courses of hot and hearty fare had given way to frumenty custard and wafers, tumblers took to the floor to display their talents, dancing and juggling and performing feats of acrobatic skill. Two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and oiled like carp, fought a heated match amidst howls of encouragement and heavy wagering.

Ariel was conscious of everything but able to concentrate on nothing in particular. Her every sense was held hostage by the broad-shouldered knight who sat so mockingly attentive by her side. Since it was the custom for couples to share a goblet and trencher at formal dinners, she had no choice but to suffer his company. Despite the fact she suffered it with a coldness that should have left ice crystals forming on the food, he was the model of solicitousness. He wiped, with exaggerated care, the gold rim of the goblet each time he offered it into her hands. He selected only the choicest tidbits of meat, fish, fruit, and legumes to adorn her half of the trencher, and if it seemed her appetite was waning, he called for sweeter, richer, more elaborate delicacies with an air that was patronizing enough to draw the concern of the host and hostess if she refused. If he spoke to her directly, which he often did purely to irritate her, she experienced such a heated rush of conflicting emotions, she more often than not returned his stare blankly, forcing him to repeat his initial question slowly and carefully, as if querying a dolt.

Fortunately for her patience, Alaric FitzAthelstan was seated on her right and proved to be an interesting conversationalist. In contrast to the startled responses she garnered in mixed company on the other side of the Channel, discussing politics or warfare at Amboise’s table, with men and women sharing an equal voice, appeared to be the normal state of affairs. Doubtless it was due to the mettle of the women who occupied the prominent seats on the dais. Lady Servanne showed no hesitation in confronting her husband on a point of order, nor did he attempt to exclude her from any subject under discussion. Lady Gillian, despite being in the very delicate state of pregnancy, argued the most efficient use of siege weaponry as if she had just walked off a battlefield. More than once, Ariel thought she could envision her aunt Isabella’s flustered, even shocked reactions to such talk coming over a course of poached salmon, and it was all she could do not to smile.

She forgot herself once and was rewarded by the sensation of a thousand tiny hairs across the nape of her neck standing on end.

“Do you always stare at your guests so intently?” she asked, turning slowly to confront the source of her discomfort.

Eduard FitzRandwulf grinned through an overbearingly white slash of unchipped teeth. “Only when I see something so totally out of keeping, it astonishes me.”

“What, prithee, could have caused such an upheaval?”

The bold, smoky eyes descended languidly to rest on her mouth. “You smiled. And nothing cracked or broke when you did so.”

Ariel’s gaze narrowed. Why, the arrogant, self-serving beefwit. Was he about to try flattery now?

She was not to know, for her uncle chose that moment to thump his goblet on the table and call for silence from the gathered throng.

“A toast, my lords and ladies, to our gracious host and hostess. God grant I still have the strength in my legs to carry me off to my chambers after partaking of such a feast as has been set before us tonight. A king could expect no better fare at his table, nor better company at his side. A l’Amboise!”

Benches scraped and booted feet shuffled to attention.

“A l’Amboise!” echoed a chorus of voices.

Cups and tankards were raised, swords drawn and held high in a salute to the lord of the manor and his exalted guest. Many remained standing, including those on the dais, for the varlets had begun clearing away the remnants of the meal. Ariel kept to her feet as well, pointedly turning her slender back on Eduard FitzRandwulf. She had borne enough of his sarcasm and mockery, and had no intentions of lingering to watch the foolish games of strength and dexterity with which the knights would amuse themselves while they drank their way into a drunken stupor.

A pair of boasting combatants were taking to the centre of the floor even as she watched, their swords drawn, their challenges earning shouted wagers from the laughing onlookers.

“A pity women are not invited to participate,” a voice murmured close to her ear. “With what fancy footwork as I witnessed this afternoon, a canny opportunist could make a handsome profit over the course of a bout or two.”

Meant as a compliment to the skills she had displayed in the armoury, Eduard’s words were, naturally, misconstrued as being anything but complimentary.

Ariel turned her head and found her gaze level with the top of his shoulder. He was standing infuriatingly close— enough for her to mark the individual stubbles of hair that grew on his chin and neck, and to see the pale line of white flesh where a second scar slashed through the arch of his eyebrow. Had that been the only mark on his face, she would have had to admit to a distinctly unnerving handsomeness. His body was certainly adequate. There were few, if any, knights who could have the term lean applied to their builds; fewer still who were not muscled like plowhorses simply from the weight of the armour they wore and the rigorous training they endured to become champions. Exchanging iron link mail and bullhide gambesons for studded and embossed velvet surcoats softened the effect somewhat, but there was no possibility of completely camouflaging massive shoulders, chests, and thighs. Partially camouflaging it was an art. Done with careless charm and sensual indolence, it was a breathtaking achievement.

Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise was a breathtaking achievement in raw masculine power. He was a beast in his prime. His arrogance, scorn, and cynicism, however, reduced him to the level of a brawny oaf.

Eduard was easily able to translate each of the Lady Ariel’s fomenting opinions of him in the hot green sparkle of her eyes, but in truth, he was enjoying the backwash effects of baiting her. Each highly charged emotion she communicated by word, glance, or flush met with a strange reaction in the way his blood flowed through his veins. He could not fathom why, for his dislike for women of high self-regard was thorough and unchangeable, and the Lady Ariel de Glare undoubtedly held herself in the highest regard possible. Perhaps it was the image burned into his mind’s eye of her spinning and jousting half-naked in the torchlight of the armoury. The demure wimple could not erase the memory of flame-red hair swirling around her shoulders in a fiery cloud. Nor could the modest, almost drab tunic blunt the recollection of firm, upthrust breasts and coltishly long legs hidden beneath.

Eduard arched a brow and Ariel frowned.

The way he was looking at her … why … it was almost as if he could see clear through the brown cendon of her tunic, through the sheer linen of her blanchet to her bare flesh.

Their eyes met without warning and in the taut, vibrating silence that followed, a fresh welter of heat flushed through Ariel’s veins, prickling pink and warm into her cheeks.

“You have a bold manner, sirrah,” she said in a furious underbreath. “And a tongue that wants disciplining when in the company of your betters.”

“My … betters?” The smoky gray eyes scanned the room and his grin widened. “You mean, of course, that I should be seated below the salt with the other bastards in the hall?”

“Such arrangements are not unheard of,” she replied primly.

“Whereas the practice of seating petulant children on the dais … is little unusual.”

Ariel drew a deep breath. This was too much. He was pushing too far. Something—the loud snap of a bone clenched between the jaws of a nearby wolfhound—cracked the last shreds of her composure, but her hand had no sooner started on its upward intent to slash the grin off FitzRandwulf’s face, when it was caught and held in an ironlike grip.

“You tried that once and failed miserably, my lady,” he warned quietly. “I would not recommend you attempt it again … not unless you crave the thorough embarrassment of finding yourself flat on your backside.”

Two bright, hot spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. “Do you dare threaten to strike me? Have you no shame whatsoever?”

“Not when it comes to dealing with women who pout and taunt and repeatedly disdain sincere attempts to apologize,” he said evenly. “A simple misunderstanding occurred this afternoon. You were found somewhere you should not have been, touching things you should not have touched. Even so, I made certain assumptions I should not have made and reacted in a manner which obviously caused offence. Thus, I would say we were both in error to some extent.”

“And do you now expect me to apologize to you?”

Eduard’s penetrating gaze held hers for several moments longer before sliding down to where his fingers were slowly relaxing from around her wrist. “Wringing an apology from you was not my intention, demoiselle. I regret you did not enjoy your meal or the company with whom you shared it. With luck, however, the experience will not have to be repeated … for either of us.”

He offered a curt, mocking bow and walked away to join an animated conversation Lord Henry was having with Sparrow. The heat ebbed and flowed in Ariel’s cheeks and she massaged her wrist with a hand that trembled visibly. Lout. Buffoon. Bastard! How dare he speak to her like that. How dare he presume to lecture her on the rules of polite behavior.

“Lady Ariel …?”

She spun around, her face set for further battle. “What is it?”

Dafydd ap Iorwerth flinched an involuntary step back. He and Sedrick had been seated with the other knights, close to the dais as befitting their status, but too far to have joined any conversations. He had witnessed the hostilities between Ariel and FitzRandwulf, and had thought to offer himself as a diversion.

“F-forgive me for disturbing you, my lady. I only thought to inquire if you enjoyed your meal.”

The deep green sparks in Ariel’s eyes flared. “Enjoyed it? It is a wonder my belly has not soured beyond redemption. And the air … it is so stifling, I can barely breathe.”

“If the air is close, my lady,” he suggested eagerly, “perhaps you would care for a walk in the garden? I have been told of Lady Servanne’s success with winter roses.”

Just like a Welshman, she thought angrily. Or any man for that matter, thinking to placate her with a walk in the gardens, as if the workings of nature should be the most important thing on her mind. Ariel steadied herself to tell him precisely where he could put each and every thorn of those winter roses, but a gust of masculine laughter farther along the dais lured her eye to where FitzRandwulf and Henry were standing together. Henry was looking her way and nodding with one of his wretchedly indecipherable smiles; the Bastard was deliberately not looking her way, but she could tell he was watching her nonetheless.

Seething, she slipped her hand through the crook of Lord Dafydd’s arm. “A walk among the roses would be just the thing, my lord,” she said loudly. “I thank you for your concern.”

Henry, his mouth still crinkled with amusement, watched the Welshman and his sister beg their leave of the lord and lady of the chateau before making their way toward the rear of the great hall.

“Odd,” he mused. “I would not have wagered she knew the difference between a rose and a thistle.”

Eduard glanced at the departing couple. “Whereas I would wager neither have as many prickles as her tongue.”

Seeing Henry’s slow frown, FitzRandwulf sighed and hastened to add, “I fear your sister did not enjoy my company overmuch this evening. We, ahh, happened to have met earlier in the afternoon when I found her in the castle armoury, and when I attempted to ascertain her reasons for being there, she apparently took umbrage at my manner.”

Henry stared at Eduard for a long moment before allowing the corner of his mouth to relent and turn upward again. “Pay no heed. Ariel tends to take umbrage easily, especially when she is caught doing something she should not be doing. I wondered why she acted as if she had caught a mouthful of hornets when the introductions were made. Raiding your armoury, was she?”

“Inspecting it, more’s the like. With a surprisingly keen eye, I might add.”

“She has a surprisingly keen ability to go along with it,” Henry advised.

“I will bear it in mind.”

“Bear also that she is my sister, and I love her dearly despite her faults.”

Eduard nodded slightly, acknowledging the sentiment and the warning.

Sparrow, who had thankfully been distracted during most of the exchange, received a nod from Lord Randwulf and looked up at both knights. “A finger has wiggled at us, inviting us to a private meeting with the lord marshal. Where is the Welshman gone?”

“To smell the roses,” Eduard said dryly.

“Eh? Just as well, he was not invited anyway. Come, my bold blades. Touch your toes to my heels and bring yon tankards. What I am smelling bodes nothing sweet ahead.”

Eduard spared a last glance at the far stairway, all but obscured behind the haze caused by the smoke and roisterous atmosphere raised by so large a gathering. Ariel and Dafydd had reached the top step and were a moment away from being swallowed into the heavier gloom of the outer landing. At the last possible instant, Ariel turned to look over her shoulder, but her face was nothing more than a pale blur and Eduard could not be absolutely certain she saw him, let alone his mock salute.