To the Lady Born (8 page)

Amalie was standing next to Weston, listening to the instructions.  She turned her green-eyed gaze in his direction.

“Perhaps he is correct, Sir Weston,” she said. “The day seems quiet enough and I am sure you have other men who can take your duties for you while you rest.  Surely you can spare a few hours for your recuperation.”

Weston looked at her, feeling himself relent with her soft words.  But as he looked at her, he realized she was still muddy from where he had fallen on her and pushed her into the mud.  His gaze was on the mud on her neck and shoulders as he spoke.

“I would not worry about me, my lady,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, had an ox fall on you. Are you sure that you are well?”

She grinned at him, such a lovely gesture with a tiny dimple in her chin.  “I am well,” she reassured him. “But thank goodness for the soft mud or I might have been flattened.”

Behind her, Cecily giggled. Weston lifted an eyebrow, amused, as both women chuckled.  He nodded as if to concede the point.

“Kind words, my lady,” he muttered.

She gave him an expression as if he had brought it all upon himself. “You called yourself an ox, de Royans; not I.  I was simply agreeing with you.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head at her, although he was both enchanted and amused by her humor.  He turned away from the women and looked around for his tunic.

“Where is my clothing?” he asked to anyone who could answer him.

Heath and John were a few feet away; it was John who retrieved his woolen tunic from a bench near the great hearth.  Heath sent a soldier for the mail coat, which had been whisked away by a squire when they had removed it from his battered body.

“Here is your tunic,” Heath took it from John and handed it to Weston. “Your mail will be here shortly.”

Amalie watched Weston’s determination to return to duty and her humor faded. “The surgeon says you should rest, Sir Weston,” she pointed out. “Perhaps you should listen to him.”

Weston shook his head. “No need,” he grunted as he lifted his arms to pull the tunic over his sculpted, and bound, torso. “I will heal with or without rest.”

“Sir Weston,” Cecily’s pale face was open and anxious. “Will you not sit and take refreshment with us at least?  Even that small respite might help and then you may go about your duties if you so choose.”

Amalie looked at Cecily, her brow furrowing with some confusion as the woman asked de Royans to share what was considered a social event.  In fact, Amalie hadn’t even asked her friend to stay for refreshment, mostly because she didn’t want to hear about the impending wedding.  But Cecily’s gaze was purely on Weston.

“Cece,” she whispered. “You cannot ask that of him. He is the garrison commander.”

Cecily ignored her, her hopeful face on Weston. “Please, Sir Weston? Perhaps you will tell us something of yourself.  Since you serve Bolingbroke, it is possible that you and I know many of the same people.”

Weston was flummoxed by the woman’s invitation and his first instinct was to decline, but in the next breath he realized that Amalie would be there.  He wasn’t about to pass up a chance to sit with her, in conversation that would have nothing to do with suicide or horrors from the past. He knew she would steer clear of anything like that.  It would be his chance to get to know the woman a little better in a perfectly proper setting.

“Very well,” he said, moving to sit on the bench of the great banqueting hall’s table. “If it would please you.”

Cecily appeared thrilled while Amalie appeared resigned.  Weston sat carefully on the bench, shifting until he found a comfortable position as Amalie sent one of the servants for food and wine.  Both women sat across from Weston at the great table with Cecily taking charge of the conversation. Amalie stared at her lap.

“Do you know of my betrothed, Sir Weston?” Cecily began eagerly. “His name is Sir Michael Hollington, a knight under Thomas de Mowbray’s command. Surely you have met him?”

Weston’s gaze was mostly on Amalie but he forced himself to look at Cecily. “I am afraid I have not had the pleasure, my lady,” he said. “There are thousands of knights in England and I have not had the opportunity to meet every one of them.”

It was a bit of a tribute to her ridiculous question but Cecily didn’t catch on; it was becoming apparent that she was smitten with Weston’s strong, blond good looks.

“A pity,” she said. “He is an excellent knight; wealthy, too. My father has known him for years and was able to negotiate a contract with him when his wife died.”

Weston glanced at her as a servant set a pewter cup of wine in front of him. “So you will be his second wife?”

Cecily nodded. “Michael’s first wife bore him two daughters. He very much wants a son and paid my father handsomely for the privilege of marrying me.”

Weston refrained from any outward reaction, although inside he was thinking on the desperation of a man who would buy another wife to bear him a son.  In Weston’s beliefs, a man married one woman for life, good or bad, sons or no sons, death or no death.  He was fairly rigid in his thoughts on that matter.  But instead of a reply to that regard, he merely lifted his cup.

“Then I wish you health and happiness in your marriage, my lady,” he said. “May you bear many strong sons if it is God’s will.”

Cecily grinned happily, sipping at her own wine that a servant politely provided.  Amalie collected her own cup and drank the toast, although her features were tight.  She remained silent as Cecily continued the interrogation of Weston.

“And you, Sir Weston?” Cecily set her cup down and reached for some cheese. “Are you married?”

Weston shook his head. “I am not, my lady.”

Cecily looked surprised. “Why not?” she wanted to know.  “Surely you are much esteemed by Bolingbroke, which means you are wealthy and connected. Surely there is some young woman worthy of you.”

Weston shouldn’t have looked at Amalie as he replied, but he did. He wanted her to get the message. “There is, somewhere,” he said, meeting her rather dubious green eyes. “When the time is right.”

He watched Amalie flush a violent shade of red and look to her lap again as Cecily continued her onslaught.

“And your family, Sir Weston?” she asked. “Where are you from?”

“North Yorkshire,” he replied, increasingly unwilling to carry on this line of conversation.  “Netherghyll Castle is my family home.”

“Will the castle become yours on the passing of your father?”

Weston looked at her, then, and his manner stiffened. “My father is already dead,” he suddenly stood up from the bench. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I have duties to attend to.”

Cecily’s face fell as Amalie leapt up also; she was so red in the face that she was having difficulty looking anyone in the eye.

“Cece, I am sure you have many things to attend to,” she had her friend by the elbow and was forcing her away from the table. “You must see Brigid right away. You do not want to keep her waiting.”

Cecily looked rather confused that she was being led towards the entry of the banquet hall but the mention of her wedding dress got her moving in the right direction.

“Of course,” she said, suddenly excited again. “Will you come with me to see her, Ammy?”

Amalie paused by the entry, not wanting to disappoint her friend but certainly not wanting to accompany her.  She quickly thought of an excuse.

“Not today, sweetheart,” she said. “I have not been feeling well lately and need to rest. But I thank you for your sweet offer.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye,” Amalie hugged her. “You will be a beautiful bride, Cece.”

“Please come to the wedding, Ammy. It will not be the same without you.”

Amalie didn’t want to commit; she smiled bravely and nodded somewhat, giving the woman the sense that she might indeed consider it. Cecily kissed her on the cheek and made her way through the fore building, down the stairs towards the outer bailey. 

Amalie stood at the top of the steps and watched her until she disappeared from sight.  Once the woman was gone, she turned to find Weston standing just a few feet away.

She gazed into his dark blue eyes, feeling the delicious liquid warmth spark between them again.  But the warmth scared her still and she lowered her gaze, unwilling and unable to entertain it.

“I must go change from these muddy clothes, “she muttered, moving past him. “I am glad you are not overly hurt, Sir Weston.”

He watched her brush past him. “You will not call me Sir Weston,” he told her as he watched her walk away. “Only Weston.”

She paused, turning to look at him. “Weston,” she corrected herself, the big green eyes appearing uncertain, perhaps confused. “You… you may call me Amalie if you wish.”

“Ammy,” he said softly. “I have heard your servants and your friend call you that.”

She smiled faintly, if not reluctantly. “That is what I called myself as a child because I could not pronounce Amalie.  It has stayed with me, unfortunately.”

He approached her with a smile on his face. “’Tis a sweet name. I should like to use it if it will not offend you.”

She wasn’t sure what she could say to him; the truth was that she would not be offended but she wasn’t sure it was proper. She wasn’t sure how the man’s familiarity would be perceived by others.   Still, she couldn’t help herself from agreeing.

“It will not,” she said quietly, eyeing him. “Are you sure that you are all right to go about your duties?”

He nodded, rubbing at the right side of his torso. “Well enough,” he said. “It only hurts when I laugh.”

“Coming from a man I have never seen laugh, you should be in fine shape.”

He grinned. “That is the thanks you give me for saving you from a runaway wagon? You have a keen sense of gratitude, lady.”

She couldn’t help but return his smirk. “I do not wish for you to think me ungrateful,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from the runaway wagon.”

He dipped his head gallantly. “I am your devoted servant, my lady.”

He said it so dramatically that she giggled.  But there was something more in his meaning, something deeper as she began to recall the history of their association.  His small statement had brought that about and her smile faded as she gazed into his handsome face.

“You have proven that from the start,” she said softly, her manner turning sincere. “I have not thanked you for the kindness and concern you showed me when you could have just as easily have disregarded me entirely.  I am… grateful. Very grateful.”

It was the first genuine thing she had ever said to him and his heart softened. He began to feel that liquid warmth flow again and as he gazed into her lovely eyes, he realized that her words, her manner, were giving him hope. Hope that there might be something more than polite acquaintance between them.

“I will always show you kindness and concern,” he said quietly. “And I am your sworn servant for life.”

“For life?” she repeated, a smile on her lips. “That is a bold declaration, Weston. Your future wife may have something to say about that. She may not appreciate the fact that you have made such a declaration to another woman.”

He cocked an eyebrow, grinning as his dimples carved deep channels into his cheeks.

“I would not worry over that,” he assured her, watching her shake her head in amusement at him. His smile faded. “I swore the night we met that I would always treat you with respect. I meant it.”

Amalie was beginning to feel the warmth again, too.  It flowed between them, binding them, filling them, until her heart was pounding loudly against her ribs.  Weston’s warm blue eyes had that effect on her and it was increasingly difficult to resist him.

“I appreciate that,” she murmured. “More than you know.”

The warmth was drowning them both.  Weston just stared at her, unable to look away, feeling something deep in his chest that he could not describe.

“Will you please answer a question?” he begged softly.

“What question?”

He looked rather pained, his mouth working as he searched for the correct words. “When… when I look at you, I see such beauty and strength,” he murmured. “I noticed it the night we first met and it grows stronger by the day.  You have wit and compassion and honor; I have seen these things in you and it makes me increasingly troubled as to why a woman of your magnificence would try and take her own life. Can you please explain this to me? I truly wish to know because I am terrified that one of these days, I will not be there to save you from yourself.  I feel as if I am living with an axe over my head, waiting for it to fall at any moment because I am still not certain you will not throw yourself from the battlements when I am not looking. It haunts me, my lady, in ways you cannot imagine.”

Amalie was staring at him intently as he finished his sentence.  “But why?” was all she could think to ask, earnestly, as if she was desperate to understand. “Why would you feel this way? I am nothing more than a captive, the sister of your enemy. Why would you feel this way about me?”

His dark blue eyes were unguarded. “Because I do,” he said simply, but there was passion in his tone. “I do not know why I do, but I do.  I cannot let anything happen to you and I need to know what is so horrible that you would feel the need to kill yourself. Do you not understand, Ammy? I would kill for you and I would die for you. I will protect you with everything that I am, always. But I cannot protect you from yourself and that sickens me. Will you not tell me why you would do this to yourself?”