Once a Bride Read online

  And the bride, Lady Eloise Hamelin, hadn’t shed a tear over the man who worshiped her, who would heed no argument against his betrothed. Roland had tried to convince Hugh to reconsider the marriage, to no avail.

  The earl’s fingers drummed the chair’s arm. “One might wonder if a scoundrel of unsavory character and low morals, not God, intervened.”

  Given the suddenness and timing of Hugh’s death, Roland had suspected treachery, too, but been disproved to his satisfaction. “My father’s physicians assured us ’twas Hugh’s weak heart at fault, not villainy of any kind.”

  For a villain, Roland had only to look to himself. That last heated confrontation with Hugh still haunted him. He couldn’t help suspect their argument had overtaxed Hugh, contributed to damaging a failing heart. Hastened his death.

  “A shame, that. Had villainy occurred, you would now be in a position to avenge Hugh’s death. Such an opportunity does not come often.”

  Wary of the earl’s tone, Roland sought to make his position clear. “I have no personal quarrel with Sir John other than his treachery toward our beloved sovereign.”

  “Ah, but personal quarrels are the most satisfying to settle.” Kenworth abruptly rose. “If we are to sample Lelleford’s hospitality this eve, we must be off. Ready the men.”

  Roland shook off the bad memories and traces of guilt as he followed the other knights out of the tent, their exit a signal to all to break camp. He headed for the horses—his particular assignment on this journey—to ensure them properly cared for. Not a hard job due to the efficiency of squires who knew their knights’ horses were their most highly prized possessions. Even now the squires and grooms scrambled for saddles, including Timothy, Roland’s own squire.

  Odd that, to have a young man at his beck and call, doing those tasks Roland had always done for himself until recently.

  So much had happened in the two months since Hugh’s death.

  Soon after the ill-fated wedding, Roland had gone to the Scottish wars with Sir Damian, the knight with whom he’d fostered for most of his life, and who he afterward served as a trusted squire. All had changed in the flash of a sword. He’d been in the wrong place at the right time on Halidon Hill, guarding a king’s back when it was most needed.

  A year older than the two and twenty king of England and a bit taller and broader in the shoulder, Roland had earned King Edward’s admiration for his prowess on the battlefield and his timely intervention between the king and a Scot’s claymore.

  Rewards followed. During his few weeks in the king’s service, he’d been dubbed a knight, been granted several horses right out of the king’s own stable, received all the weapons and armor necessary for the rank, and taken Timothy as his squire. Now all he required was an income rich enough to support his new rank and gifts.

  Which was why, Roland was sure, King Edward set him to this task. Kings could be extremely generous to those who served them well.

  Roland planned to begin his upward rise by faithfully following royal orders, even if the damn earl of Kenworth took it into his head to cause mischief—or worse.

  The earl’s tent tumbled to the ground. Soon tent, poles, furniture, and foodstuffs were being loaded into the baggage carts. Knights and men-at-arms prepared to take their places in line.

  Swiftly, Roland completed his final inspection of bridles, bits, and straps. When sure neither the knights nor the earl would lose his seat from a squire’s carelessness, he approached his own horse and squire.

  “All is ready, Timothy?”

  With a toothy grin, the tow headed lad of ten and six bowed at the waist. “Aye, Sir Roland. You can tug all you wish and not find a loose or misfit piece anywhere. ’Twould not do for the knight in charge of the horses to fall off his own, now, would it?”

  Roland couldn’t withhold a smile. “Impudent imp. What news?”

  Timothy furtively peered around Roland’s huge black stallion to locate the earl’s squire.

  “There is something afoot,” the lad said just above a whisper. “Gregory knows, but he is not saying, just smiling like he hoards a secret. Could be the rest of us are wrong, and I dislike speaking ill of my fellow squire, but …”

  “Then speak no more. Speculation does us no good.”

  “My apology, milord, for falling short of my task.”

  Roland grasped the squire’s spindly shoulder, still amazed a lad so slight, though tall for his age, could heft a saddle to such a great height as a stallion’s back.

  “You did not fall short, Timothy. You cannot inform me of those things you do not know. Keep a sharp eye and ear. ’Tis all I ask.”

  With his chin set in determination, the squire nodded, then bowed off to see to his own mount.

  Roland swung up into the saddle and nudged the stallion forward. Near where the line began to form, the earl spoke earnestly to the two men assigned to ride ahead and beg a night’s hospitality at Lelleford for the earl and his retinue.

  Would John Hamelin open the gate or tell Kenworth to go to the devil? Given an open gate, would the earl arrest Sir John with the dignity due his stature, or do mischief?

  Roland wished he knew, but he’d learned no more over a meal with the knights and earl than Timothy had from the squires and grooms.

  Perhaps there was nothing to learn. Perhaps he feared treachery when none was forthcoming.

  Perhaps cows gave wine and sheep gave linen.

  His instincts hadn’t failed him yet. The prickling on the back of his neck yet nagged. The earl of Kenworth intended to torment Sir John Hamelin just as surely as that man’s daughter had intended to rule Hugh.

  Truly, ’twas a mercy Hugh had escaped that particular noose, wrapped in silk and gently tightened, but a stout rope all the same. Her sunny smile disguised a heart of ice; her courtly manner concealed a will of steel. Behind her beautiful face lurked a shrewd, cunning mind.

  He’d gone to Lelleford hoping to like the woman who would be his sister-by-marriage. And he had, perhaps too much.

  Unfortunately, he’d also determined she was an unsuitable wife for his half brother.

  Roland smiled, looking forward to the moment when Lady Eloise Hamelin learned that Hugh St. Marten’s “disgusting toad of a brother” had been given royal authority over her home.

  ’Twould be an interesting test of wills to see who prevailed over the weeks ahead. A contest he had no intention of losing.

  Chapter Two

  ELOISE SAT Brother Walter down on a bench near the huge stone hearth, which cast flickering light and welcome warmth into the cavernous room. If forced to declare a favorite spot in the entire castle, this would be the place.

  Here, as a young girl, she’d sat on the rush-covered floor at her mother’s feet and learned how to work wool. From here she could see the various colorful banners hanging from the high beams and the assortment of ancient weapons displayed on the walls, each with its own tale of her family’s renowned, proud heritage.

  And here, on most evenings, her parents had settled in, surrounded by their children and her father’s favorite hunting hounds. They’d talked of the day’s trials and joys, played quiet games, made plans for the future.

  One by one they’d left her. Mother had died, Jeanne given away in marriage. Geoffrey’s self-imposed exile in Paris, Julius’s pilgrimage to Italy. And now her father.

  She’d endured each disappearance in its time, accepting the reasons. All but the last.

  She glanced down at the huge deerhound that spent most of her days lolling near the fire, now too old for the fields but too dear for her father to be rid of as he’d dispensed of other animals no longer able to work. The bitch wouldn’t understand why her master no longer took a moment during his day to scratch her behind the ears, just as Eloise couldn’t understand why the lord of the castle chose to desert his daughter.

  Determined to shake off the self-pity, an indulgence she couldn’t afford, she sent one of the serving wenches to fetch a basin of water and strips o
f linen for bandaging, then nudged the monk’s blood-sticky, coarse brown hair away from the ugly gash.

  He winced. She felt no remorse for hurting the monk her father considered untrustworthy. The cleric likely knew why her father deemed it necessary to leave Lelleford, might even be the cause. And she dared not inquire or risk giving away her knowledge of her father’s escape.

  Where were her father and Edgar now? Had they passed through the gate? Where would they go once clear of Lelleford’s lands?

  She struggled to keep her voice light. “ ’Tis not deep enough to need stitches, I warrant. I shall clean the blood away to make sure, but I believe you came away from your mishap with no lasting harm done.”

  Still pale, Brother Walter mumbled, “Praise be the Lord.”

  “Praise be,” Eloise responded, mostly from habit, but also grateful the monk retained his senses.

  Except his senses seemed muddled. He stared at some spot across the expanse of the hall, as if his thoughts roamed far from the cut on his head, too. Did he feel guilt for his part in her father’s predicament? She hoped so.

  At the sight of blood, several of the castle folk gathered around to satisfy their morbid curiosity. The serving wench approached with careful steps, heeding the water in the basin she carried. Beside her shuffled Isolde, Eloise’s handmaiden, clutching towels, favoring her disfigured foot.

  Did Isolde know her beloved older brother, Edgar, had left Lelleford with its lord? Had Edgar informed Isolde that Sir John Hamelin required the young squire’s attendance in a heedless dash from home?

  Eloise took the towel Isolde held out, noting no worry in the curve of the maid’s bow mouth, no concern in her brown doelike eyes. Concluding Isolde either didn’t know of her brother’s peril or hid her concern very well, Eloise dipped a corner of the towel into the basin.

  She gently dabbed at the monk’s wound. “As I thought. ’Tis ugly but not deep. No need for needle and thread.”

  Isolde tilted her head to get a better look. “Aye, ugly. How did you come by such a cut, good monk?”

  Brother Walter yet stared across the hall. His continued silence bothered Eloise.

  Since coming to Lelleford near winter’s end from Eve-sham Abbey, a monastery to which her father generously contributed, Brother Walter had kept mostly to himself. He either tended her father’s accounts or prayed in the chapel. He rarely spoke unless addressed, but he always acknowledged a question or comment. Had the bump on his head done more damage than she thought?

  “Brother Walter?”

  He jerked at the sound of his name. “My lady?”

  “Isolde asked how you came by your wound.”

  His hand rose to touch the gash. “I must have hit my head on the desk when …” His daze began to clear as he glanced around the hall. “Lady Eloise, your father, I must speak with him.”

  He is gone, and you know why.

  “I know not where my father is right now. Surely whatever you have to say to him can wait until after we patch your head.”

  “No time.” He slid off the bench, becoming agitated. “I must find him forthwith.”

  She grabbed the wide sleeve of his brown cleric’s robe. “You yet bleed. Pray sit before you fall over.”

  He glared at her with uncharacteristic ire, then tugged his sleeve from her grasp and called out, “Has anyone seen his lordship in the past few minutes?”

  He was answered with silence and shaking heads.

  “Saints preserve us!” Brother Walter hustled to the stairs and then disappeared up them. Cries of “Sir John!” echoed back into the hall.

  Isolde giggled. “How odd. I did not know the monk could move so fast or shout so loud. ’Tis as if a bee got up beneath his robes and threatens his privates.”

  Eloise couldn’t withhold a smile at the maid’s irreverence, or from thinking Brother Walter deserved to get stung.

  She shook her head at her foolish musings. Soon an earl would arrive, seeking to arrest her father, and she should be preparing somehow. Except how did one prepare when one wasn’t supposed to know? She wasn’t even sure she should allow Brother Walter to run about the castle shouting for Sir John.

  Eloise turned to the serving wench. “You may empty the basin. ’Twould seem the good monk’s head wound is the least of his concerns.”

  With the dismissal, the other observers wandered off, too—except Isolde, who stared at the stairs, puzzled. The sound of leather sandals slapping stone preceded the return of the monk, who made a quick perusal of the hall before scurrying out the door that opened to the bailey.

  Isolde sighed. “He must have something right important to tell his lordship. What do you think it might be?”

  “I have no notion.”

  Likely she’d find out soon enough, though. When Brother Walter didn’t find Sir John, he’d likely come to her—she hoped—though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  ’Twas unsettling being torn between wanting to know the worst of her father’s troubles and fearing to learn the details. She certainly wasn’t about to make an undignified dash after the monk. Until he came to her, all she could do was carry on as if her world hadn’t been flipped up into the air, threatening to land with a horrible thud.

  Eloise put a hand on Isolde’s shoulder. Three years separated them in age—mistress and maid. Right now Eloise felt as old as the towering oaks in Lelleford’s woodlands.

  “Have you finished your chores for the day?”

  “Almost, milady. If you have no further need of me, I will go up to your bedchamber and mend the rip in your gray dress.”

  Trips up or down stairs were painful for the maid, Eloise knew. A lass of ten and four, Isolde never complained about pain or belabored her hardship. She stoically carried on as if her foot were normally shaped, doing everything required of her. To reward the maid’s bravery and spare her pride, Eloise tried not to treat Isolde differently from other servants of the same age with similar duties.

  “As long as you go up, take a bucket of coals. If tonight brings the same chill as last night, we may light the brazier.”

  The girl bobbed her head. A few strands of her blond hair tugged loose from her braid to curl impudently about her forehead. So pretty. So sweet. So unfortunate.

  Needing a task to keep her hands and mind occupied, Eloise headed for the stairs, intending to straighten the mess in her father’s accounting room. Not that she knew where all those scrolls belonged other than scattered on the desk and floor.

  Before she reached the stairway, one of the gatehouse guards entered the hall and came straight at her.

  “Lady Eloise, your presence is requested at the gate.” A chill slithered up her spine. The earl couldn’t be here already, could he?

  “For what purpose?”

  “Two messengers wait without. They seek hospitality for the night for the earl of Kenworth and his retinue. Since his lordship rode out to hunt, Sir Marcus thought the messengers should make the request of you.”

  A household knight of long-standing, Sir Marcus served as captain of Lelleford’s guard. “My father went hunting?”

  “Aye, milady. He and Edgar had a falcon with them when they rode out the gate.” The guard smiled. “We placed wagers on whether or not his lordship brings down the big heron that has harried the trout pond.”

  Then as far as anyone knew, the lord of Lelleford was out flying his falcon. Her father had possessed the presence—or perhaps deviousness—of mind to give her a credible explanation for his absence.

  Eloise followed the guard out the door and down the slope of the dusty yard that served as a buffer between the keep and the gatehouse at the inner curtain wall. ’Twas the closest anyone was allowed near the keep without permission. In times of dire trouble, visitors were halted and questioned before being allowed over the drawbridge at the outer curtain wall. Both thick, high stone walls, manned by highly trained guards, served to defend against an invading force.

  She was tempted to or
der the drawbridge raised and the iron portcullis lowered. Unfortunately, her father had ordered her to allow the enemy inside. Which still felt wrong, unwise.

  Near the gatehouse Sir Marcus stood beside Sir Simon, her father’s steward. Both burly warriors had served her father since beyond Eloise’s memory.

  Had Father told either of them of his predicament? ’Twould make sense for him to take his knights into his confidence.

  Feign ignorance.

  Gads, how her father’s orders grated, especially those that concerned feeding and entertaining the earl. To have the enemy in the hall, drinking her father’s wine. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Obliged by customs of hospitality, she’d have to offer Kenworth the best bed in the keep—her father’s.

  Eloise halted before the knights. “I understand we are to have visitors.”

  Simon nodded, his gray eyes narrowing. “Unwelcome visitors. The earl of Kenworth brings several knights and men-at-arms with him.”

  Armed knights and men-at-arms wielding pikes. Invaders, not guests. She struggled for calm.

  “Not unusual for an earl’s retinue, is it?”

  “Nay, but Kenworth is no friend of Sir John’s. I sent a patrol out to find his lordship. ’Twould be prudent to await his return before granting the earl hospitality. Unfortunately, ’tis also not prudent to delay an answer to a man of so high a rank.”

  From his comments, Eloise deduced that Father hadn’t told Simon he wasn’t truly out hunting. Indeed, except for the monk, only she knew the reason for the earl’s visit, and she’d been ordered to let the bastard through the gates.

  “Do you think my father would deny the earl’s request?”

  The corner of Simon’s mouth quirked upward. “His lordship might be tempted, but I doubt he would deliver such an insult.”

  Damn. She’d hoped for the opposite answer as an excuse to delay. Eloise glanced at Marcus. “You agree?”