To the Lady Born (7 page)

He looked away, gazing across the snowy landscape. “Wealthy enough.”

“Where are you from?”

“My family has lived at Netherghyll Castle in Yorkshire for over two hundred years,” he told her. “My grandfather is Baron Cononley, Constable of North Yorkshire and the Northern Dales. He commands a large army.”

“Will you inherit the title?”

“I will.” The conversation had switched to him and he was suddenly very uncomfortable.  He didn’t want to speak of himself or his family, not in the least.  “I suppose I should return to the castle and collect my purse if you truly wish to go on a purchasing offensive.”

Subject successfully diverted, Amalie grinned, casting him a sidelong glance. “No need,” she said. “The merchants in town know me. They know they will be paid.”

“Ah,” Weston nodded. “I take it you have done this before.”

She wriggled her well-shaped eyebrows. “Not me,” she said. “My brother. He had his favorite merchants.  There is a woman in town that makes sticky buns with cinnamon, honey and butter. They are decadent and my brother would often buy out her entire stock.”

He wondered if mention of her brother would bring about bitter memories so he tried to stay away from any mention of him. 

“Still,” he said, “I should return to collect my purse.”

She shook her head, leapt over another puddle, and slipped.  He caught her before she could hit the ground.  When she looked at him in apology, he merely shook his head at her.

“Fortunate for you that my reflexes are fast,” he set her on her feet. “If you will not let me get the horses, will you at least let me carry you so that you will not fall?”

She straightened her cloak. “Absolutely not,” she sniffed, looking around and realizing they were on the edge of the main avenue of the small village.  The first thing that caught her eye was the stall with the cinnamon buns and she gathered her skirts with determination. “Come along, de Royans.”

With a lifted eyebrow and a grin, he followed.

In spite of the big snow drifts and extremely muddy avenue, the street was crowded with vendors and customers.  People were everywhere conducting business under crisp, sunny skies. Weston followed Amalie across the mud, watching her slide twice before regaining her balance. 

He knew it was inevitable that she was going to end up on her arse at some point but he was helpless as long as she so willfully refused his assistance.  He wished she wouldn’t refuse him; he was thinking of any excuse he could come across to get her back into his arms.  He hadn’t been around her more than a half hour and, already, he was succumbing to the attraction he felt for her.  It was growing by the moment.

Weston could smell the cinnamon in the air as he approached the baker’s stall.  Amalie was already accepting one of the sticky-sweet buns from the woman, showing more joy than she had exhibited the entire time Weston had known her. She pulled off a piece and popped it in her mouth, groaning with delight as she chewed.  Noticing de Royans standing next to her, she offered him the bun.

Weston waved her off. “No, thank you.”

She only held up the bun higher, waving it in his face tauntingly. “You cannot resist.”

Her humor was enchanting but he didn’t crack. “Aye, I can.”

“No, you cannot. Taste it and you will be enslaved to its delights forever.”

He gave her a half-grin, then. “Then I most certainly will not taste it. I do not wish to be enslaved by a piece of food.”

“Please?”             

His grin grew. “Why is it so important that I taste it?”

She shrugged, without a good answer, and lowered the bun. But before she could take another bite, he suddenly grasped her wrist with surely the biggest gloved hand she had ever seen.  It covered most of her forearm. He pulled her arm up until the bun met with his mouth.  Their eyes met and Amalie watched as he took a big bite of the tasty treat. 

Even when he began to chew, their gazes were still locked, an oddly fluid warmth beginning to flow between them.  Amalie could feel herself getting sucked in to the dark blue eyes, the excruciatingly handsome features, and for a brief second she allowed herself the weakness of giving in to whatever charm the man radiated. It was a truly delicious sensation. 

Before she became too upswept in it, fear and disorientation swept her and she yanked her hand away, averting her gaze nervously.  Something about de Royans made her nervous and giddy at the same time and she had no idea how to gracefully deal with it. 

Weston saw her reaction but he knew he hadn’t imagined the warmth that had sparked between them just seconds earlier.  It was inappropriate, wrong and undesirable, in any fashion, to imagine something more between the two of them. They were two different worlds and philosophies apart. But he was imagining it nonetheless. 

“You are correct, my lady,” he said in his deep, sweet voice. “I am now a slave to a piece of bread.”

Even though she wasn’t looking at him, she giggled. “As I have been for several years now,” she turned away from the stall and, with the bun still in her hand, began to move down the avenue. “Do not feel so badly about it, de Royans. Good food has enslaved many a man.”

He watched her lowered head, studying the fall of her hair and the shape of her head.

“Weston,” he said quietly.

She came to a stop in the middle of the mucky road, turning to him curiously. “What did you say?”

His dark blue eyes glittered at her. “My name is Weston,” he said quietly. “I would be honored if you call me by my name, my lady.”

She stared at him, her features washing with confusion.  He thought she looked frightened and he was fearful that he had overstepped himself.   When she replied, it was carefully worded.

“Although I am flattered, I am not sure it is appropriate,” she said quietly, some of the joy so recently acquired fading from her manner. “I have never heard of a jailor and captive becoming familiar on a first-name basis.”

He lifted an eyebrow, approaching her with his hands coming to rest on his hips. “That is something else we must discuss,” he said. “At no time have I called you a captive. I am not entirely sure where you received that impression.”

Her brow furrowed. “My brother fled because the barons who oppose the king sentenced him to death for his support of Richard,” she pointed out. “I did not flee with him and Bolingbroke confiscated Hedingham. What else am I if I am not a prisoner?”

Weston’s dark blue eyes glittered at her. “A guest,” he said quietly. “To me, you are a guest, my lady.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Can I leave if I wish it?”

He nodded. “I will not stop you. Do you have some place else you wish to go?”

Amalie was surprised by his answer; she hadn’t expected it in the least. “I… I suppose I could go to my mother.”

“Where is your mother?”

“She has her own properties in east Essex. I have not seen her in years.”

“Why not?”

She sighed faintly. “Because my mother does not acknowledge that she bore a daughter,” she said, shrugging. “She has only ever acknowledged my brother as if he is an only child.  I was sent to foster when I was three years old, returning to Hedingham two years ago. I am not entirely sure my brother wanted me here but he could not refuse my mother. She did not want me to live with her so she sent me to him. I am the child and sister that no one wants to be burdened with, apparently.”

It seemed like a sad tale, Weston thought, but he didn’t comment.  He was coming to feel more and more pity for the woman who had not known much kindness in life.  In a sense, he felt akin to her because their family ties were much the same; parents they did not bond with, general unhappiness, and then the added insult of an attack by a man who was supposed to show her respect based simply on the chivalric code.   Weston’s mood dampened, thinking of her story that seemed to grow darker by the moment.

Before he could reply, however, the sounds of horses and men suddenly distracted him and he turned to see several armed men on horseback escorting an expensive carriage.

And it was heading right for them.

CHAPTER SIX

The soldiers escorting the carriage were well-armed and clad in expensive tunics bearing colors of green and yellow.   There was a well-dressed knight in the lead, snapping orders to the driver of the carriage to plot a smooth path through the road that was in impossible shape.  The driver did his best but the carriage lurched and jerked through the mud. 

Weston reached out to pull Amalie out of the road but she seemed distracted by the sight of the carriage. When she didn’t move fast enough, he tugged on her arm and quickly moved her to the edge of the street. She fussed at him but he ignored her, more concerned with the heavily armed men now making their way down the street. 

Weston was armed but, for Amalie’s sake, he didn’t want to get into any manner of conflict. He wasn’t sure, given her fragile mental state, that she would take it well.  More than that, it would be just him against several armed men. As good as he was, the odds were not in his favor.

The big chargers splashed in the mud, causing Amalie to jump back to avoid being hit by the frigid goop.  But she was waving at the carriage and a dark head suddenly popped out from one of the windows along with a gloved hand.  Someone in the carriage was waving back.

“Amalie!” came a cry and the door suddenly jerked open.  A dark-haired young woman appeared, smiling brightly.  She waved again as she began to climb out of the cab that was still moving. “It has been too long, darling! I have missed you!”

Realizing that her driver was not stopping, the young woman snapped at him and the carriage came to an unsteady halt.  The woman edged her way onto the muddied avenue and in Amalie’s direction. She and Amalie came together near the edge of the road, hugging one another happily. 

“What brings you to Hedingham?” Amalie asked. “You are far from your home.”

The woman shrugged; she was rather plain in appearance, colorless in spite of the dark hair and light eyes.  She was also rather tall for a woman, with gangly long arms, and she wore expensive clothing. Given the new carriage and host of well-dressed soldiers, it was apparent that she came from money.

“’Tis not too far,” she said. “Halstead is only a few miles to the south.  I came into town to see Brigid.”

Amalie knew exactly who she was speaking of. “Of course,” she said. “I had forgotten; she is sewing your wedding dress, is she not? The woman sews beautiful garments.”

The woman nodded eagerly. “She has been working on it diligently,” she said. “I have come for some alterations. My wedding is the first of September, you know. You are coming, aren’t you?”

For the first time, Amalie looked uncomfortable.  She smiled, semi-nodded and semi-shrugged, as if unable or unwilling to make the commitment.  “I would love nothing better, of course,” she held her friend’s hands tightly. “But… well, with what has happened with Robert, I am not sure that….”

The young woman cut her off. “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “Even my father says it is rubbish; all of it.  He says the only reason Bolingbroke took possession of Hedingham is because it is rich and powerful. Father says that all he wants is the riches and he is trying to kill your brother to get it, but Mother says that Father is jealous because he was not asked to occupy Hedingham. Bolingbroke is more powerful so he took the spoils.”

Amalie’s smile gradually morphed into something horrified as her friend chattered on. She knew that Weston was standing just a few feet away, hearing everything terrible word that the woman was saying.  So she did the only thing she could do; she turned to Weston to introduce her friend, mostly so Cecily would not say anything more that could be construed as a knock against Weston’s loyalties.

“Sir Weston,” she said politely, steadily. “This is the Lady Cecily Brundon.  Her father is Lord Sudbury and Cecily is marrying Sir Michael Hollington, a knight under Thomas de Mowbray’s command. Cece, this is Sir Weston de Royans, the current commander of Hedingham Castle and Bolingbroke’s knight.”

Cecily politely greeted Weston but the fact that she had been spouting off at the mouth did not go unnoticed.  In fact, she seemed quite horrified by it as she clutched at her friend and tried desperately to change the subject away from the occupation of Hedingham. Her pale face was even paler as she and Amalie exchanged anxious glances.

“Surely Sir Weston will allow you to attend the wedding,” she said to Amalie. “Perhaps… perhaps you can even come and stay with my husband and I for a time after we are married. I would love to have you as my guest.”

Amalie knew she made the offer because Hedingham was occupied with men that did not view Amalie’s brother in a favorable light. It was a hostile environment. Considering one of the subjects of her most recent conversation with Weston had been the fact that he did not consider her a prisoner, Amalie was emboldened by Cecily’s offer.  It brought about the fact that she was still invited to the wedding even after her brother’s flight from England.

Still, she wasn’t sure she wanted to attend, not after everything that had happened since that dark and fateful night.  Her social standing was already damaged by her brother’s behavior and she would become a social outcast completely once her condition was known. 

Moreover, her child would be due around that time. Perhaps it was better not to enjoy the last remnants of a world she would eventually be exiled from. It would only remind her that she would never have wedding, nor would she enjoy the benefits of a reputable husband.  Her life, in many ways, was over even if the frozen pond hadn’t ended it. 

“Your offer is sweet,” she said softly. “However, I fear that I will not be able to attend given… well, suffice it to say that it is better if I do not. My heart and prayers will be with you on your wonderful day, however. I wish you and Michael all of the happiness in the world.”

Until this point, Weston had been standing strong and silent several feet away. Mostly, he had been watching Amalie and the way she moved, the way she spoke, the sensual pout of her lips on her amazing face.  He’d been quite swept up in everything about her. He wasn’t particularly offended when her friend lobbed insults against Bolingbroke but when she began to talk about the wedding, he could see a change come over Amalie. She went from radiant and happy to demure and, he thought, depressed. He didn’t like the expression on her face at all. It reminded him of the night she….

“I will escort you to Lady Cecily’s wedding, my lady,” he interjected his offer before Cecily could respond. “It would be my pleasure.”

Both Amalie and Cecily looked at him, each with distinctly different reactions. Cecily was thrilled while Amalie simply appeared more depressed.

“That is kind, Sir Weston,” Amalie assured him quickly. “But it would not be appropriate.”

He approached the ladies, his enormous arms folded across his chest and his focus on Amalie.

“Why not?” he wanted to know. “Lady Cecily has graciously extended the invitation. All young women love weddings and hope for one of their own someday. Why would you refuse to go?”

Amalie’s composure fractured. Her mood was killed, her despondency swamping her like a black tide.  She turned to Cecily and held the woman’s hands tightly, kissing her on each cheek.  When she pulled back, she forced a bright smile into the pale, colorless face.

“You will make a beautiful bride, sweetheart,” she said hoarsely. “I love you very much. Please accept my apologies for not attending.”

With that, she darted off before Cecily could respond.  The woman watched her go with astonishment.

“Ammy!” she called after her, trying to follow but not wanting to get muddied. “Ammy, please come back! Please?”

Weston was already on the move, slogging across the muddy avenue as he followed Amalie’s flight.  She was several feet ahead of him, dodging big puddles, but in her haste, she ended up stepping in a couple and the mud splashed all the way up to her waist.   He could see that her cloak was becoming one great muddy mess. He was nearly upon her when she suddenly stumbled and ended up on her knees in a puddle of muddy snow. Rather than jump up and continue, she simply hung her head and wept.

Weston came up behind her. Without even asking, he gently scooped her up under her arms and lifted her from the mud.  Before Amalie could respond, or even fight him off, a heavily-laden wagon slipped in the muddy avenue behind them, careening into Weston. His big body took the brunt of the blow as both he and Amalie went down.

Amalie ended up face-down in the mud, feeling Weston’s substantial weight on top of her. She tried to get up but he wasn’t moving very well. When he finally did roll off of her, his arms were wrapped around his torso as he struggled to his knees.  Amalie could see that he was hurt and she forgot all about her sorrows and desperation.  She gripped him by his big shoulders as if her small strength could steady him.

“Weston?” she gasped, greatly concerned. “Are you injured?”

He was smarting but trying not to show it. “A little,” he grunted.

“Where?”

“My back and my ribs, I think.”

By this time, the burly farmer who had been driving the wagon that had struck them came to see if they were okay. He could see the small lady trying to help the enormous knight and he rushed to the man’s other side to help lift him.  He helped Weston to his feet, listening to the man grunt.

“M’lord,” he said anxiously. “I am sorry if I hurt ye. The horse slipped and the wagon followed. Are ye bad off?”

Weston knew it was an accident; he waved the man off, more concerned with his ability to make it back to the castle at this point.

“I have been worse,” he replied, looking to Amalie covered in mud. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her big green eyes wide with concern. “I am fine,” she put her soft white hands on him, gently, as if to help him. “Let us return to the castle and have the surgeon examine you.”

He tried to wave her off but couldn’t quite summon the strength; the blow had been a hard one and his back and ribs on the right side of his body was killing him.  Before he could reply, Amalie was calling to her friend across the street; Cecily hadn’t left the scene yet.

Cecily’s escort came rushing across the avenue with their big destriers, taking charge of Weston in an effort to get the man back to the castle.  The last Weston saw of Amalie, she was climbing into the cab with her friend, which he thought was a far better place for her. He wasn’t distressed by it in the least.

He couldn’t mount a horse, so six men at arms walked him, however slowly, back to Hedlingam as the lone knight escorted the carriage back up through the gates.  By the time Weston reached the outer bailey, Heath and John were there to meet him.  His brush with a runaway wagon had put the entire castle in an uproar as his men hastened to get him examined by the surgeon. 

Weston resisted their attempts until he got inside the banqueting hall and saw Amalie there with Cecily, both ladies taking instructions from the castle surgeon.  The wiry old man who had known Amalie since birth was rattling off orders to the ladies and they were making all haste to fulfill them.  As he watched, Amalie and Cecily flew into action.

When Heath and John pulled off his mail and tunic in a slow and painful process, Weston perched on the edge of the banqueting table while the surgeon examined him because it was more comfortable than sitting down. It kept some of the pressure off his sore ribs. 

As the wiry man with the red beard poked and prodded, Amalie appeared at his side, holding a big bolt of tartan and taking a dagger to it. He watched curiously as she and Cecily ripped it up into great strips.  Those strips were then taken by the surgeon and wound around Weston’s bruised ribs to keep them from moving around too much. Although the surgeon didn’t feel any fractures, the fact remained that Weston was badly bruised and the tight wrapping would help.

When Weston should have been focused on his own injuries, he was more interest in watching Amalie.  Through the entire incident, he noted that she was calm, in control, and precise in her movements. She dealt with the servants in a smooth, even tone and handled both the surgeon and Cecily with cool efficiency. The woman appeared as strong as a rock.

It was difficult to fathom that this was the same woman from only a few days ago, determined to end her life, and her efficient manner was something he found deeply attractive. More and more, he was growing increasingly interested in her to the point where he didn’t care how inappropriate it was. He decided at that moment that he was going to make his interest known, but timing would be the key. He would have to be very careful how he went about it.

As Weston mentally schemed for Amalie, the old surgeon finally finished with the bindings and faced the big knight with his hands on his hips.

“Your pain shall be worse by tomorrow,” he told him. “I would suggest that you rest for the remainder of the day.  I will give you a potion to ease the pain and help you sleep.”

Distracted from Amalie, Weston stood up from the edge of the table, grunting softly as he moved and putting his hand to his right side as if to hold in his guts. “No potion,” he told him. “There is no need.”

The old man just shook his head, his bearded jowls quivering. “I thought as much,” he sniffed. “I never knew a knight who did not believe he was beyond my help.”