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  He glanced down at their clasped hands and heaved a sigh. Eloise gave the barest thought to being embarrassed when he said, “I beg pardon, milady, Roland. A messenger from the earl of Lancaster has arrived. He brings news of Sir John.”

  Chapter Eleven

  SHE REVEALED no emotion as she read the missive in the dim torchlight of the great hall.

  Was this the same bright-smiled woman he’d observed all day? The same warm, blatantly sensual woman he’d kissed in the dark, who’d been leading him up to her bed-chamber? Roland could hardly believe how instantly she’d changed from wanton to regal, from sheer woman to mistress of the keep.

  And yet, Roland had to admire Eloise’s dignity in the face of adversity. If there was a battle to be fought, he’d want her on his side. Look how long it had taken them to come to a wary truce, longer yet to reach an accord. Physical attraction sped the process, or they might yet be snapping at each other.

  She rolled up the scroll before she addressed the messenger. “You will find food and drink aplenty in the outer bailey. Pray partake of our hospitality.”

  The messenger bowed. “My thanks, my lady. I must be on my way at first light, and would be pleased to carry a reply, if you so wish.”

  The messenger dismissed, she handed the missive over to Simon. “ ’Tis not good news.”

  She began to pace, rubbing her hands together, palm sliding over palm, a sure sign of her agitation.

  He wanted to go after her, hold her, tell her all would be well, but held his ground. First he had to find out how bad was the news. Nor did he think she’d welcome an embrace just now, in front of Simon. She’d been taken aback enough when the steward caught them holding hands.

  Eloise might intend to allow him liberties she allowed no other man—but in her own time, privately. ’Twas his intention, too, to keep them both from derision.

  Simon sat at a trestle table and unrolled the scroll. Roland tore his attention from Eloise to read over the steward’s shoulder.

  With the earl of Kenworth hot on his trail, Sir John had made for London and turned himself over to the protection of Henry, earl of Lancaster, who Roland knew to be a staunch supporter of King Edward. Instead of giving sanctuary, Lancaster had sent Sir John — and Roland imagined Edgar, too—to the Tower of London to await the king’s pleasure.

  That had happened two days ago.

  No wonder Roland hadn’t heard from Kenworth. The earl must have picked up John Hamelin’s trail and forced the man’s hand.

  “Why did he go to Lancaster?” Eloise asked.

  Simon pondered a moment. “Lancaster is a reasonable man. He and your father often agree on the issues brought before a parliament. They are not fast friends, but I suppose Sir John considered the man his best ally.”

  “A misjudgment.”

  Roland didn’t think so. Henry of Grosmont was not only the earl of Lancaster, but also of Leicester, Debry, and Lincoln. A powerful ally. Nor was the Tower of London merely a prison, but a fortress that boasted the royal armory and mint, a menagerie, and a very secure royal residence.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, but your father may have made a good choice.”

  She took exception. “Lancaster locked him in the Tower! How can that possibly be good?”

  “The Tower is not so bad a place.” To her incredulous look, he explained. “True, your father is locked in a chamber, but his rank affords him some comforts. He will have a decent bed and meals and be allowed, under guard, of course, to stretch his legs in the yard. Too, he is in the heart of London. From there he can contact those he believes might aid his cause, and have access to the latest gossip. Most importantly, he is no longer in any danger from Kenworth.”

  She rubbed at her forehead, as though she tried to ease an ache. “So what do we do to help him?”

  Just like Eloise. Wanting to do something when there was nothing to be done.

  Simon answered. “Your father asks us to bide our time. We will send him the coin he needs and await further instructions.”

  She gave a little huff. “Again he asks me to do nothing.”

  “Again?”

  Eloise bit her bottom lip and cast a chagrined glance between him and Simon.

  A shiver slithered down Roland’s spine. When he’d caught Eloise trying to burn her father’s missive, he’d thought she’d revealed everything she knew before John Hamelin took flight from Lelleford. Apparently not. She yet kept a secret.

  He couldn’t keep his disappointment from his voice. “Eloise, is there something important we should know?”

  She eased down on the bench next to Simon. “On the morning he left, my father summoned me to his accounting room. Brother Walter lay on the floor, bleeding, not moving.” She paused, no doubt reliving the experience. “Father was furious with the monk, called him untrust-worthy. Then he told me the earl of Kenworth would arrive within hours, and why. He instructed me to allow the earl in the gate, wine and dine him, do nothing to prod the earl into taking Lelleford by force.”

  Simon frowned in disapproval. “All along you knew the earl’s true intentions, knew your father had not gone out hunting. Yet you gave neither me nor Marcus a warning?”

  “My father did not suggest I do nothing, Simon. ’Twas an order I could not disobey! Had it been you he called to his accounting room, would you not have done the same, said not a word to me?”

  Simon squirmed. “Then why tell me now?”

  “Because I can no longer sit back and watch my father be punished for a crime I do not believe he committed. Father also said I was not to contact my siblings to enlist their aid. I think the time has come to send for Geoffrey.”

  After a moment, Simon nodded. “Sir John may not be pleased to see him, but ’twould seem sensible.”

  Roland couldn’t help ask, “Why Geoffrey?”

  “My brother studied law in Paris.”

  He realized how little he knew of Eloise’s siblings. Her sister, Jeanne, had married very young, and he’d heard gossip about a falling out between Sir John and Jeanne’s husband, which had prevented her from attending the ill-fated wedding. Nor had her eldest brother, Julius, attended, being off on pilgrimage to Italy. Nothing had been said about Geoffrey’s whereabouts.

  One would think a man in trouble would seek help from a son who read law.

  “Why did your father not want Geoffrey to know?”

  Eloise’s spine stiffened. “The two do not get along well.”

  Roland guessed there was a long, hurtful tale here, one Eloise hadn’t told him about the other day while in her brothers’ bedchamber and didn’t seem willing to relate now. And now was not the time to push for answers to satisfy his curiosity.

  “Will your brother answer the summons?”

  “I believe he will. I just hope he can get to my father in time to do some good. ’Twill take days for my message to reach Cornwall, then several more for Geoffrey to travel to London. By then …”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Roland could well imagine the horrors she must be contemplating. A fast hearing. A hastily carried out sentence.

  “Geoffrey has time,” Roland said. “From what I have observed, these things can take weeks, even months. I know of one man who has been in the Tower since spring awaiting the king’s decision on his fate.”

  When she opened her eyes he saw hope, and wondered if he made a mistake in giving it to her. He also knew of a man who’d been dispatched within days of capture. But that man had murdered a king’s squire, his guilt attested to by several witnesses.

  Roland hoped the case against John wasn’t so quickly and damningly provable. He’d been told of evidence— the missive in the king’s possession — but not of its contents.

  Eloise rose from the bench. “Simon, choose a reliable man to carry a missive to Geoffrey. Also inform Lancaster’s messenger that I will make up a packet to send back with him.”

  “I know just the man to send,” Simon informed her, and left to fetch him, leaving
Roland and Eloise alone in the hall.

  She picked up the missive, rolled it up. “You will excuse me, Sir Roland. I have much to accomplish tonight.”

  A regal dismissal if he’d ever heard one. How could she be so cold and distant when only minutes ago they’d been about to become lovers?

  He put his hands on her shoulders, so stiff and un-yielding he almost pulled away. Then she looked up at him, sapphire eyes snapping with ire, as if he were merely an obstacle in her way. Still he held on, willing her to soften and allow whatever comfort he could give her.

  Nay, there would be no bed play tonight. The coupling he’d looked forward to with eager anticipation must wait. But he and Eloise would become lovers, if not tonight then another. The attraction between them was too strong to resist for long. He’d give her time to get over this latest upheaval in her life, be patient and available.

  Then he’d coax her from her regal throne to a soft bed, make her purr like the kitten he knew she could be.

  When her stiff tension finally eased, ’twas like a reward, a precious gift.

  “I beg pardon, Roland. I had wished the night…different.”

  He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Do what you must do. I will still be here. Can I help?”

  She shook her head. “I need to write letters to both Geoffrey and my father, then pack up several tunics and some coins for my father. ’Tis best I do it alone.”

  There must be something he could do. “What about Edgar? He might appreciate a change of garments.”

  Eloise groaned and lowered her head to his chest, her hair tickling his chin, the smell of the bonfire and some spicy scent he couldn’t identify teasing his senses.

  “Isolde. She must be told. ’Struth, I have no notion where she might be found.”

  “I will find her. Go write your letters.”

  He meant to kiss her again, but she slipped away too fast, leaving his arms empty and heart heavy.

  Eloise sanded the letter to Geoffrey, an easy message to write. Now, if she could only decide what to say to her father.

  She’d begun twice and not finished either letter—one too angry, one too cold — making her wonder if she should write at all. Perhaps she should merely send him the coin he’d requested and the tunics he hadn’t and be done.

  Was he as comfortably settled into a chamber as Roland seemed to think? Or had they tossed him in a dungeon with the rats and foul refuse? She shuddered, remembering her visit to Lelleford’s dungeon, imagining the Tower’s much worse. Her father had given no hint either way in his missive, just a short, terse telling of how he’d come to be in the Tower and that he required coin. He hadn’t mentioned Edgar. Heaven knew where the squire might be.

  And what could she tell her father anyway? That life at Lelleford went on, that they’d lit the bonfires for All Hallows as if he were here to enjoy the festivities? That she’d allowed herself to push aside his horrendous problems while she planned to make Roland her lover?

  Guilt and self-loathing nearly overwhelmed her. She could almost hear her father’s booming voice, in a grand rant, telling her what he thought of her scheme, of her wasteful use of lemons.

  How could she think, for one moment, she could blithely take a lover and not suffer any consequences? Especially with the man who’d been sent to oversee Lelleford. A king’s man. Connected to those who wished to see her father brought low, convicted of treason.

  The enemy. The invader.

  Except he was also a gallant knight, a man whose kisses and gentle touches thrilled her as no other man’s had ever done.

  ’Twas folly to recall how vigorously he’d kissed her in the dark, setting her head to spinning and yet conveying she had nothing to fear. And later, how he’d grasped hold of her shoulders and not let go. Forced her to realize he intended to be there for her whether she wanted him or no.

  Eloise pushed the letter to Geoffrey aside and fetched a large leather pouch. Into it she stuffed as many coins as it would hold and still draw the strings tight. ’Twas a hefty sum to entrust to a messenger, a stranger who might not be trustworthy. But what else could she do?

  She wrapped the pouch in a long-sleeved, heavy wool tunic that would ward off any chill, then stuffed it into the sack that already contained two others. One of lighter weight linen, the other of midnight blue velvet she deemed appropriate for an audience with the king.

  Father must look his best for the trial. Appearances, she knew, counted for much. A clean, richly decorated tunic would remind all of Sir John Hamelin’s rank and wealth, of whatever power he might have left to wield.

  Surely he had allies to lend aid, perhaps even Lancaster despite what seemed to her now as treachery. Roland judged the Tower a good place for her father to be. She wished she knew more of how these things worked so she could judge with better clarity.

  Then again, soon her father would have Geoffrey to give him aid — of that she had little doubt — and that calmed her some. At least one family member in whom Father could place complete trust would be in London. And perhaps Geoffrey’s willingness to help might give rise to a healing of old wounds, bring father and son closer together.

  She wished she could be there to see it.

  Her hand stilled on the bundle.

  She could go to London with the messenger.

  Eloise scoffed at the notion. Wouldn’t everyone have a grand fit if she announced such a plan? Simon and Marcus would flatly refuse to consider allowing her to travel so far. Her father would shout the beams down at her arrival.

  Roland would likely object, too.

  In the face of all the opposition, dare she even think about doing what she yearned to do, go to London and be with her father and brother?

  Geoffrey might be the only one who approved, or at least understood her reasoning. Did she truly need more?

  From the hallway she heard Isolde’s shuffle.

  ’Twould also be nice if someone could check on Edgar, report back to his sister. Her father wasn’t the only one in deep trouble.

  Dare she act on the impulse?

  Isolde entered, two of her brother’s tunics folded over her arm, a tear in her eye.

  “Is it true, milady? Are they in the Tower of London?”

  “So ’twould seem. Here. Put Edgar’s garments in with my father’s.”

  The sack wasn’t yet full. There was room for a gown if carefully folded.

  It could be done, not without raising a few eyebrows between the stable lads and the guards at the gate, but ’twas possible she could leave with the messenger and be well on her way to London before most of the keep was aware.

  Before Simon, Marcus, and Roland could tell her once again to do nothing.

  Marcus tossed his gloves on the trestle table, his ire overflowing. “Her ladyship left just before dawn, with the messenger from her father.”

  Simon nearly choked on his cheese.

  Roland’s heart sank clear to his toes, shocked to his core.

  Marcus continued. “She told the guards she was going to the village church, to ensure all in readiness for All Souls. When the guards objected to her going alone, she said the messenger was all the protection she needed. They assumed that as long as someone was with her, all would be well.”

  Roland pushed aside his trencher, no longer hungry. “I take it she is not at the church.”

  “Nay. I prayed all the way out to the village that she was, but she is not. I believe we all know where she goes.”

  London. To see her father in the Tower.

  Simon groaned. “Sir John will be furious when he finds out. Damn! I thought her content with sending a packet to him and a letter to her brother. I should have known better.”

  Marcus dropped onto the bench opposite Roland, next to Simon. “Aye, we should have. So, what do we do now?”

  Roland didn’t have any doubt. “Go after her and bring her back.”

  Both knights looked at him as if he’d proposed to contain a flood without a dam.
r />   “You have not yet tried to talk Eloise out of something on which she has her mind set,” Marcus commented. “ ’Tis nigh impossible.”

  “A waste of breath,” Simon agreed.

  Roland disagreed. “Eloise can be reasonable.”

  “When she wants to be. Unfortunately, in this instance, I very much fear she will not listen to reason.”

  He rose from the bench, not happy with either man. “If neither of you believes you can sway her, then I will go. I do not intend to give her a choice.”

  Eloise had about two hours’ head start. If he was fortunate, he could catch up with her by early noon and have her back by nightfall to sleep in her own bed, where she belonged. If he weren’t blessed with good fortune—nay, he’d not contemplate failure before he even set out.

  “Did she take her mare?”

  “Nay. One of her father’s swifter palfreys.”

  Damn. Then he’d need to take bedrolls and food, just in case they must spend the night on the road.

  That idiot of a messenger was going to pay dearly for his folly, either way.

  Roland shot up the stairs, shouting for Timothy.

  All the while the two of them readied for the ride, Roland debated the wisdom of his actions. He shouldn’t be leaving Lelleford, abandoning his duty, too. He briefly considered sending Simon or Marcus, but they were too susceptible to her whims.

  Besides, Eloise was a part of his duty, too. She was under his protection, and he’d allowed her to slip away. Without warning. Without fully considering the consequences of her actions.

  He understood why Eloise yearned to go to London. She loved her father, and wanted to be available to aid him if the need arose. Apparently sending for her brother hadn’t been enough to ease her mind over her father’s fate.

  Duty he understood. Loyalty to and love of a parent he comprehended. Were his father in the same position, Roland wouldn’t have hesitated to do all he could to help.

  ’Twas different for a man. A woman had to be more careful, the dangers to her person on the road a greater risk. She could also become a pawn in the political maneuvering —Mon Dieu, if Kenworth somehow got hold of her, the results could be disastrous for not only her father’s cause but for Eloise as well.