Margaret Moore - [Warrior 14] (11 page)

Becca looked at Blaidd with wonder and gratitude. She’d never thought of this explanation, but perhaps it was true. It was an unlooked-for comfort, and she blessed Blaidd for suggesting it.

His expression grew more grave. “Since we are speaking of your father, I can’t help noticing he doesn’t think much of the king. He should, perhaps, not voice his frustration quite so often, or in public.”

Becca sighed and played with the lace of Blaidd’s tunic, subduing the urge to slip her hand inside and stroke his naked chest. “It’s not the king himself he
hates. It’s the way Henry’s rewarded his wife’s relations, for nothing more than being his wife’s relations. From what I’ve heard about the court, my father has a point.”

“Whether his opinion is valid or not, a wiser man might think twice about announcing such views to all and sundry.”

“Then you don’t agree that Henry’s filling our government with Frenchmen who don’t have the welfare of England at heart? You think they aren’t lining their own pockets and giving him bad advice?”

Blaidd sighed and loosened his hold. “I can’t say I agree that the king makes wise decisions every day. I think he’s a good, devout man who’ll do well with wise counsel—perhaps this parliament that Simon de Montfort suggests. However, when all is said and done, and whether I agree with every decision or appointment he makes, Henry’s my rightful sovereign, to whom I’ve sworn an oath of loyalty—as has your father.”

As Blaidd gazed at her, she was taken aback by the intensity in his brown eyes. “Do you believe he will abide by that oath?” he asked.

“Of course!” she assured him. “To do otherwise would be treason.”

Blaidd nodded. “Yes, it would,” he said grimly. “And the consequences could be disastrous, for him and for you.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “Are you saying my father may be betraying that oath just because he
dares to suggest that Henry’s making some mistakes?”

Blaidd rose and took hold of her hands, his grip strong and warm as he pulled her to her feet. “I’m saying that unless your father wants people to wonder about his loyalty, he should be careful about what he says.”

She cocked her head to regard him studiously. “Do
you
doubt his loyalty?”

“No. No, I don’t,” Blaidd said, without hesitation. His lips twitched in a little smile. “Praise God, I don’t.”

Her ire disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. “I’m sorry. You startled me. I thought you were accusing him, and you’re a friend of the king. If you were to repeat what you said at court…” She didn’t have to finish.

“I’m not accusing him,” he assured her. “I’m just warning you, and I’m hoping you can warn him in a way that won’t make him angry, either.”

“I’ll do my best,” she vowed, seeing the wisdom of his words.

He smiled that slow, devastating smile again. “Why, my lady, we’re standing very close together again. You know what that means, don’t you?”

She shook her head.

“I’m going to have to kiss you.”

She let him. Well, truth be told, she kissed him, too. For quite some time. She kept kissing him as he inched back and sat on the log, drawing her down until she was cradled on his lap.

“Blaidd?” she murmured as he nibbled her earlobe, sending the most delicious ripples of pleasure through her body.

“Yes?”

She managed to move away and get up. “I’m discovering I’m not as strong as I thought I was,” she said. “If we don’t stop, I’m going to want to make love with you here and now, muddy ground or not. I think I should fetch my harp.”

“I think you’re right,” he replied. “And I appreciate both your wisdom and your self-control. I seem to have left both those qualities somewhere back in the meadow.”

She laughed as she went to Claudia and took her well-wrapped harp out of the leather pouch tied to her saddle. Despite her care, the strings were woefully out of tune when she sat down and began to strum it. She tightened the pegs, and saw the way Blaidd watched her.

“Can you play?” she asked as she sat beside him.

Resting one foot casually on his other knee, looking completely at ease, he gave her a rueful grin. “A bit. You’re much better.”

“Is that really true, or are you just being modest?”

“Alas, my lady, it’s true.”

“I’d still love to hear you. Please?” She held out her harp to him.

Placing his feet flat on the ground, he accepted it. The instrument wasn’t worth much, except to her, yet he handled it as if it were made of gold and precious stones, and that pleased her.

“I’m beginning to realize I’m going to have a difficult time ever saying no to you, my lady,” he said as he started to tune the instrument.

“Perhaps it would help if you quit calling me ‘my lady.”’

“Perhaps it would…Becca…but I doubt it.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Indeed, I think you’re going to be able to twist me ’round this little finger of yours the rest of my life.”

His action thrilled her, but not so much as his words. The rest of his life?

As for the way he said her name in that deep, soft, baritone voice… “I fear you’ll be able to get me to do anything you want, sir knight, if you simply ask me.”

He got the most devilishly seductive gleam in his eye. “Really?”

She gulped and her hands trembled as she folded them in her lap. “Perhaps you should sing now.”

He thought a moment, idly stroking the strings. Then he paused to let them grow still before he began to play and sing. In Welsh.

She had no idea what the words meant, but as the music of the harp and his low, crooning voice filled the wood, she didn’t have to understand them. She felt the meaning, and knew he was singing a love song.

To her.

Her eyes focused on his strong, lean fingers, capable of so much more than wielding sword or lance or mace. His hands weren’t smooth and soft, either,
as so many noblemen’s were. They were a man’s hands, and when they touched her…

Her breathing quickening, she studied his head as he bent over the harp. Sir Blaidd Morgan was a curious, thrilling mixture of the civilized and the untamed, courteous yet primitive in his passion. He could sing and play, ride well, use a bow, dance…. Was there anything he
couldn’t
do?

The strings stilled and his voice fell silent. He looked at her expectantly.

“That was wonderful, even if I didn’t understand a word.”

“It’s about a man far from home, thinking about the woman he loves. He wonders what she’s doing, and if she’s missing him as much as he’s missing her. He remembers all the little things about her—the way she brushes the hair from her cheek, the crease at the corner of her eyes when she smiles, the warmth of their bed.”

“I thought it was a love song,” she said happily.

“What else would I be singing to you, Becca?” he asked in a whisper as he set the harp down carefully on the log.

She couldn’t think of an answer to that, especially when he drew her close. “I would sing love songs to you all day, if I could.”

She had to smile at that. “Somehow, I think a man as vigorous as you would get tired of that.”

He tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re probably right. I might decide some activity was in order.”

She tucked his own hair back. Even his ears were attractive. “What activity might that be, sir knight? Riding, hunting, a tournament?”

“Kissing, caressing, making love,” he countered, leaning close to do the first.

Before he could, the harp slipped and he twisted to catch it before it fell.

Sighing, she rose and reached for it, glancing up at the sun. “I fear that’s a sign we should be on our way. We’ve been here quite some time already.”

“Not that long, considering I’ve rarely had a chance to talk to you alone.”

“I wanted to be with you, too, Blaidd, but we have to be careful,” she said as she began to wrap the harp again.

“I’m doing my best to change Laelia’s opinion of me,” he said as he fetched their horses.

“That’s not going to be easy. You’re a very fascinating man, after all, so she may be willing to overlook any flaws she may discover.”

He muttered a curse as Becca put the harp in the leather pouch cushioned with fleece.

“You can’t help being so handsome, but perhaps you could try a little harder not to be so charming.”

“I did my best to bore Laelia this morning,” he protested as he stepped behind Becca and wrapped his arms around her. “I can’t be too disagreeable, though. I want your father to like me, or he might refuse to give me his permission to court his
other
daughter.”

She leaned back against his hard chest. “What would you do if he did?”

“I suppose I’d have to steal you away under cover of darkness.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Does it?” he murmured, his breath warm as he nuzzled her neck. “Perhaps I should do it, then.”

She turned so that she was facing him, still encircled in his arms. “I wouldn’t mind, but I doubt my father or a judge of the king’s court would listen to me.”

“I have plenty of friends there. They’d be on our side.”

She cocked her head and regarded him quizzically. “You’re not serious, are you?”

He didn’t smile. “Actually, I am. If we were desperate enough, I’d risk it.”

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “That’s for offering, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Now, you must go back to the castle. I’ll wait here awhile, then return.”

“I’ll wait. You ride back. I don’t want you here all by yourself.”

“Blaidd, haven’t I made it clear that—?”

“Becca, my dearest, most stubborn woman, please indulge my male urge to protect the things I cherish.”

She saw an unmistakably obstinate glint in his eyes, as well as sincere concern. “Since you put it that way, very well, sir knight, I concede—on one condition.”

“What’s that?” he asked warily.

“Another kiss before I go.”

The warmth of his smile enveloped her. “Gladly, my lady, gladly.”

T
he cook threw up his hands in exasperation. “Boys these days!” he cried, turning from Becca to glare at the two downcast scullions standing near the large stone sink set in the wall. “Lazy things, the pair of them! My pots haven’t been properly cleaned in a week. And that one—” he jabbed his plump finger at the smaller of the two “—used my best ladle to kill a mouse!”

Becca was used to Rowan complaining about the kitchen boys; he did it twice a week at least. But the news about the ladle and the mouse made her feel a little sick.

“I had to use the ladle as kindling, didn’t I?” Rowan shouted, gesturing wildly toward the largest hearth, which could hold a whole cow for roasting.

Becca felt better. In spite of that, she continued to regard Rowan as if his trouble was nothing short of a catastrophe. “A great pity, Rowan.”

Rowan slammed his broad hands down on the long,
scarred oak table where all the food was prepared. “These two have
got
to go!”

He shoved off from the table and crossed his arms. Behind his bulky body, Becca spotted a mouse running across the floor toward the pantry. “Perhaps if you’d allow the cat into the pantry—” she began.

“It’s not about the mice!” Rowan roared. “He broke my best ladle.”

When he was in this sort of state, Rowan reminded her of nothing so much as a big baby. Her lips started to twitch as she imagined him in a giant cradle, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a tired, cranky infant.

Doing her best to look serious, she said, “I understand that, and I agree that some punishment is in order. I’ll speak to them and—”

“Speak?
What good will that do? I’ve spoken to them till I’m blue in the face, but they won’t listen! Brats, the pair of them!” Rowan bellowed.

Becca was no longer amused. They had enough trouble keeping maidservants; all too often, once they were properly trained, they left Throckton for other towns, or got married. “Rowan, I can appreciate that you feel your property was wantonly destroyed, but the hiring and letting go of servants is not your province. It’s mine. Now I suggest you get to the bread, and leave me to deal with the scullions.”

Rowan scowled, but he wisely realized she was in no humor to hear more. Nodding, he turned and headed to the pantry, where the flour was kept.

“Come with me, boys,” Becca said, leading them out into the courtyard, where a brisk breeze made her
skirts whip around her ankles. It tugged at the cloaks of the sentries on the wall, as well.

A quick scan revealed that Blaidd wasn’t there. He and his squire—who seemed to have gotten over his anger with Blaidd—were likely in the outer ward with Dobbin and his men, training.

The friendship that had sprung up between Dobbin and Blaidd pleased her immensely. They were very alike in some ways: strong, confident, skilled. It would upset her terribly if Dobbin didn’t like Blaidd, or vice versa, because there was no doubt in her mind about how she felt about Blaidd. It had to be love, a love that had grown in the past several days, as they’d shared a few more very pleasant moments alone, talking quietly when they could manage it, and exchanging a few brief, surreptitious kisses, too.

Laelia didn’t seem quite so eager to be with him now, while her father still clearly enjoyed his company. They’d played chess more than once, and spent a few hours talking politics just last night.

Becca pushed thoughts of Blaidd to the back of her mind in order to concentrate on the domestic crisis. “Now, boys,” she said when they reached the well. “What are your names?”

“I’m Bert,” mumbled the one who’d used Rowan’s ladle as a bludgeon. He was a tanned, brown-haired boy of about ten. “He’s Robbie, my lady.”

Robbie looked to be about a year older and had vibrant red hair, slightly dusted with flour. His skin
was pale, almost translucent, where it wasn’t covered with freckles.

“Very well, Bert and Robbie,” Becca said gently, “I’d like to hear your side of things. Why haven’t you been doing your work properly?”

“We ’ave, my lady!” Bert cried defensively. “But he was always sayin’ it wasn’t right, so we…so we…”

“So you gave up working as well as you could?”

Neither boy said anything. Bert’s toe traced the circumference of a cobblestone.

“Can you see that using Rowan’s best ladle to kill a mouse wasn’t the wisest idea?” Becca asked.

“He was getting away,” Bert protested. “I just grabbed the first thing to hand, my lady.”

She studied them a moment. “Tell me, do you like working in the kitchen?”

The boys exchanged wary glances. No doubt they liked the pay and the fact that they would never go hungry working there. It was always easy to slice off a bit of meat or nick an apple.

“I’m not sure I can persuade Rowan to give you another chance,” she said. “If I can’t, you’ll have to go home, or I’ll have to find something else for you to do.”

“I like horses, my lady!” Bert piped up immediately. “I’d rather be a stable boy than a scullion.”

“Me, too!” Robbie echoed.

Becca considered a moment. One of the stable boys had recently left the village to go to London. A groom had spoken to her just the other day about wanting to
marry and become a farmer, which meant a stable boy would become a groom. There would be room for two more boys. “Here’s what we’ll do. If you can find me two likely lads among your friends in the village to take your place in the kitchen, I’ll think about putting you to work in the stable.”

“Thank you, my lady!” Bert said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Now, give me your aprons and be off.”

They quickly divested themselves of the white cloth aprons and handed them to her, all bunched up. As they dashed toward the gate, she smiled at their enthusiasm, although not for long. Now she’d have to find somebody else to wash the cauldrons, bowls, ladles, brushes, and clean the spits. Maybe Bran or Tom—

“Becca!”

She turned to see her father trotting down the steps of the hall and come hurrying toward her. He held a rolled parchment in his hand, which he tapped against his leg when he halted.

“Yes, Father?” she said, wondering what message had brought that air of expectant excitement to him.

“We’re going to have guests arriving after the noon today. A Danish prince, in fact, and his entourage of fifty
herremaend
—lords of that country. I wasn’t sure when they’d arrive, but this message says they’re nearly here.”

Becca stared at her father, completely flabbergasted. “A Danish prince? With fifty men?” she repeated as if in a daze. “Why are they coming
here?
”

“He wants to trade, or so he says. Perhaps tales of your sister’s beauty have reached as far away as that. Wouldn’t it be something if Laelia were to become a princess?”

Becca looked around swiftly, wondering who else had heard the news. “But a Dane, Father!” she quietly protested. “Prince or not, his people have been our enemies for centuries. Have you forgotten?”

Her father didn’t look at all troubled. “That was long ago, Becca. We’re not at war with them now. So if a Danish prince wants to buy our wool or court my daughter, I’m not going to refuse.”

“But what will the king think of—?”

Her father made a sweeping motion with the parchment, as if sweeping Henry himself out of the way. “Henry won’t give a damn, as long as I pay my taxes so he can give presents to his French relatives and friends.”

Remembering Blaidd’s warning, Becca opened her mouth to offer more objections, but her father held up his hand to silence her. “I’m not going to debate this with you, Becca. See that there are sufficient quarters prepared for Valdemar and his men, and that there’s plenty of good food at table. And the best wine.”

“Sir Blaidd Morgan is still here,” she reminded him, wondering what her father was going to say to that. “I gather he’s a good friend of the king.”

“Of course he is! And he’s welcome to tell Henry all about Valdemar, if he thinks it’s important. It might be good for Henry to hear that there’s a world
out there beyond France and the pope.” He winked, as mischievous as a boy. “And there’s nothing wrong with a little competition for Laelia, either, eh?”

Chuckling, he headed off to the stables, likely to have the grooms start preparing for the arrival of the Danish horses.

As Becca watched him jauntily walk away, she had her doubts that even if Blaidd wanted Laelia, he’d ever be chosen over a prince, by either her father or her sister.

On the other hand, if Laelia was to be offered to a Danish prince, Blaidd would be free to court Becca as he willed, which was a very pleasant, exciting thought. And surely Laelia wouldn’t begrudge her sister’s relationship with Blaidd if she herself became a princess.

Yet what would her family’s alliance with a Danish prince mean to Henry?

They were minor nobility, as her father said and Laelia complained. Perhaps her father was right, and the king wouldn’t care, as long as Lord Throckton paid his taxes.

She should ask Blaidd, Becca decided. He would have a better idea of the king’s possible reaction, and if he thought the visit was risky, she could try to dissuade her father from doing business with the Danes.

Unfortunately, before she’d even gone a step, a guard shouted from the wall walk that a large party was approaching.

Almost immediately, an entourage fit for a prince entered the inner gate, as if the guards had been forewarned to let them pass. Their banners waved in the breeze and the air was filled with the jingling of mail and harnesses, the babble of foreign words and the creaking of the baggage cart rumbling over the cobblestones.

A blond giant of a man—obviously the prince—rode at the head of the band of armed and armored men. His blue cloak, held with a huge golden broach, was thrown over his broad shoulder. His mail gleamed in the sun and he surveyed the courtyard as if he were a returning hero.

Becca watched, dumbfounded and worried, while the guards positioned on the wall walk and at the gate stared, and servants peered out of doors and windows. Moments later her father hastened out of the stable like a merchant spotting a customer with a large purse.

Becca moved closer to the steps. Dobbin and Blaidd, followed by a panting Trevelyan Fitzroy, came through the gate behind the last of the Danes. Both older men were perspiring and breathless, as if they’d run there. Dobbin looked shocked and confused; Blaidd’s expression was a masterpiece of non-revelation, but she could see the tension in his shoulders and the interrogative lift of his brows.

Blaidd began making his way through the company of scornful Danes, heading straight for her father and the prince, while Dobbin stayed by the gate with his men.

The Dane swung out of his saddle and landed lightly on his feet, which was rather unexpected considering he had to be over six feet tall and had shoulders like an ox. He strode toward Lord Throckton, who came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs leading to the hall.

“Greetings, Prince Valdemar!” her father began.

Before he could continue, the Danish prince checked his steps—not because of her father’s salutation, but because he’d seen Laelia, who appeared at the door of the hall.

For once when under a man’s scrutiny, Becca’s sister didn’t immediately soften like a half-wilted flower and look at the ground with every appearance of demure modesty. She stared at the Dane as if she’d never seen a man before.

He stared right back at her, completely ignoring everyone else.

Lord Throckton gestured for Laelia to come forward. “Prince Valdemar, allow me to present my daughter Laelia.”

She smiled and bowed with an energy and eagerness that made Becca’s eyes grow as wide as the wheels of the baggage cart.

The Dane bowed low and elegantly. “I am honored, my lady,” he said in a deep, accented voice.

Laelia’s smile widened. This was not the false-friendly smile she so often gave a man. This was a genuine smile of a sort Becca hadn’t seen on her sister’s face in years. “I’m delighted, Prince Valdemar,” she said, her voice clearly audible above the crowd.

“You must not call me prince, lovely lady,” he replied. “Lord Valdemar will do.”

Laelia looked confused, and so was she, and their father.

“I am the offspring of the king of Denmark, but not the queen,” Valdemar explained.

A bastard prince, then. Her father suddenly didn’t look quite so impressed. “And this is my younger daughter, Rebecca,” he snapped, gesturing at her.

At her father’s unexpected and brusque introduction, Becca bowed, stumbling a bit as she lost her balance.

Lord Valdemar’s scrutiny was distinctly scornful. But she was used to that sort of regard from handsome, arrogant men.

Then Blaidd reached the steps. The Danish prince ran a scornful gaze over him, too, taking in Blaidd’s leather jerkin worn over his naked chest that exposed his lean, muscular arms, his plain, muddy breeches and his worn leather boots.

“Who is this?” Valdemar haughtily demanded.

A fierce expression crossed Blaidd’s features for a brief moment and she feared he was going to draw his sword, but he didn’t.

Instead Blaidd put a genial smile on his face—which didn’t reach his dark eyes—and bowed just as elegantly as Valdemar had. “I am Sir Blaidd Morgan of Wales.”

The Dane smirked. “A Welshman? I thought all Welshmen were dwarves.”

Blaidd’s smile chilled her. “Obviously, we’re
not,” he replied, “any more than all Danes are pirates.”

Valdemar glanced at Laelia, who was still watching him as if he was made of solid gold, and then he laughed, a low, deep rumble of good cheer that echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard. “Well, once we were, but those days are over. Now we trade for what we want.”

“Exactly!” her father cried, hurrying to come between them. “Lord Valdemar is here to purchase some wool—and honor us with his presence, of course!” He steered Valdemar and Blaidd toward the hall. Laelia, for once forgotten, hurried after them like a puppy at their heels.

“Sir Blaidd is a friend of our king, my lord,” he continued, “and a fine fighter. Now come, and we’ll have refreshments.”