Candace C. Bowen - A Knight Series 01 (3 page)

* * * *

Closing the door to Eddiva’s small hut, Reina splayed her hands on the
worn wood.
 
Still feeling the effects of
his lordship’s intense gaze, she needed a moment to compose herself.

In the midst of an argument with Warin for refusing to leave Rolfe’s
side, she looked up to find the most formidable, handsome man she had ever
seen, sitting astride an imposing black destrier, fifteen hands high.
 
Frozen in place by his piercing gaze, she
noticed the cleft in his chin beneath a full days beard growth.
 
Unlike his knights who sported mustaches with
pointed beards, he remained clean-shaven.
 
The folds of his gray cloak rustled in the chill; autumn air gently
caressing his powerfully built frame. Most of all, she noticed that beneath the
exterior of strength he projected, there seemed to be an even greater sorrow.

Garbed in a loose outer tunic of black emblazoned with the Erlegh coat
of arms, three silver shells on a field of red, his commanding presence stole
her breath.

In the old fashion, he and his men wore cloaks, short outer tunics, and
chainses with tight-fitting sleeves, breeches and high-leather boots.
 
Instead of the ankle length tunics, belled
chainses and striped hose currently in favor.
 

Envisioning the giant warrior in a flowing skirted tunic and flared
chainses almost made her smile. The baron’s choice of clothing clearly marked
him as an individual, something she found surprising in a nobleman.

If Warin had not recaptured her attention, she feared she would still
be standing there staring at him like a besotted maid.

Pushing from the door, she crossed to the pallet beside the hearth in
the center of the hut. All thoughts of the handsome baron fled as she knelt
beside the small form of her ill charge. Throughout the day, Rolfe’s condition
had taken a turn for the worse, his body weakened by the fever that held him in
its deadly grip.

Since his mother found her in the woods, Reina had labored to cool his
overheated skin. Seeing the fear in Eddiva’s eyes, she trickled water past the
lad’s cracked, blistered lips. Rolfe’s father died of an illness the previous
winter. She feared what it would do to Eddiva if she were to lose her only
child.

She motioned for more water with composed features.
 
When Eddiva stood to retrieve it, she closed
her eyes to send up a quick prayer.
 

* * * *

Built of stone in the Norman fashion, Kenwick Keep sat high on a
sloping hill, overlooking the village below.
 
The large single structure, boasted watchtowers at each of its four
corners.
 
As the group approached, serfs
were busy lighting torches set in iron brackets on the curtain wall surrounding
it.

Warin waited beside the gate leading into the courtyard. As the men
drew near, he reined his horse around to lead them to where Sir Everard waited
beside Osbert at the base of the steps.

Sir Everard’s cold green eyes briefly shifted from Warin to the village
beyond, before coming to rest on Fulke.
 
“You are most welcome, your lordship.”

Dismounting, Fulke tossed the reins to a stable-hand.
 
“Thank you, Sir Everard. We were pleased to
make it before vespers.”

Attired in somber black, Sir Everard stood in silence while the rest of
the men dismounted.
 
As serfs led the
horses away, he returned his gaze to Fulke. “Please follow me, your lordship.”

Walking behind the brusque elder knight, Fulke found his gaze returning
to the village below.
 
A hint of a smile
touched his lips as he envisioned a proper introduction to his future bride.

Sir Everard gestured towards the hearth once they entered the Great
Hall. “Warm yourself while refreshment is brought, your lordship.”

Fulke selected one of the two oak throne-like chairs set before the
large hearth in the center of the hall as Sir Everard sat beside him to watch
Warin lead the rest of the men to one of the two trestle tables lining the
sides of the hall.
 

Once the men were settled, he came to stand beside his father’s chair
as serfs rushed from the upper kitchen level.
  
Laden with large platters of steaming meat, loaves of crusty bread and
large foaming tankards of ale for the road weary men.

Accepting a pewter tankard of the cool brew, Fulke took a long
drink.
 
Surveying the dark hall, his eyes
burned from the smoke. Rushes soiled with animal excrement covered the filthy
slate beneath his feet.
 
The offending
hounds barking from the corner where they were currently chained.
 
What little fresh air there was came from the
ventilation shaft, high above the hearth.
 
Narrow arrow slits spaced along the outer wall cast slivers of light,
doing little to alleviate the gloominess. Without so much as a tapestry to keep
out drafts or brighten the soot-blackened stone, the only welcoming feature the
hall boasted was the fire blazing before him.

A man of few words, Sir Everard sat in silence while Warin questioned,
“Is it true my liege that you fought in battle with the king?”

“Aye lad, that was some years ago.”

 
“I would have given much to have
been there with you.”

Seeing a glimpse of himself in Warin, Fulke replied, “The church frowns
upon those who covet battle, lad.
 
I have
lost many a friend in pointless skirmishes with France.”

Sir Everard shifted his cold gaze to Fulke.
 
“You count them as pointless? Has not the
king rewarded you richly for your service to the crown?”

Recalling the battlefields littered with the bloodied gore of broken,
dead or dying men, Fulke frowned.
 
“Only
a just cause would warrant the death of a loyal man’s life, Sir Everard.
 
I have yet to take part in such a battle.”

“It is a well known fact that in one of those pointless skirmishes you
saved the king’s life,” he persisted.

“Leave us a moment, Warin.”

“Aye, my liege.” Sneaking a glance at his father, Warin joined the men.

“Might I speak plainly, Sir?”

“I expect nothing less,” Everard replied curtly.
 

“With an abundance of houses that would willingly foster the lad, I
well know why you sought me out in Rochester.”
 

“I sought the best house to foster my only son, your lordship.
 
You would hold that against me?”

“If that were all, no. However, it is true the king rewarded me richly
with possessions coveted by most men.”

Sir Everard looked incredulous. “You do not count yourself as one of
those men?”

“Accoutrements of battle are all that I find necessary.”
 
He shrugged. “I have no need for more.”
   

Everard looked as if he would disagree, yet remained tight-lipped.
 
They sat in an uncomfortable silence until a
door on the second level closed, drawing Everard’s attention.

Following his host’s lead, Fulke stood impassive as two plump, dark
haired women made their way down the stone steps.
 
He assumed the one wearing a white linen veil
to be the Lady Baldith, the other the lady’s younger sister; so much alike were
they in appearance.
 

With distaste, he noted the vulgar display of gold the two women
boasted on their fingers as they approached.
 

Spotting the women, his men grew silent.

Dropping into curtseys, Everard gestured towards the younger
woman.
 
“Your lordship, may I present the
daughter I spoke to you about, Mistress Sibilla.”

Fulke choked on his surprise, before managing, “Your daughter?”

“Aye. The one I spoke to you about,” Sir Everard reminded him.

I was left with the impression you had only one daughter, sir.”

Before Sir Everard could reply, Sibilla rudely spoke up, “My father has
a daughter from his dead wife, your lordship. She is beneath your noble
regard.”

Rejoining the group, Warin opened his mouth to speak when a look from
his father had him snapping his mouth shut to bristle in angry silence.

Unable to make sense of Sibilla’s words, Fulke fully intended to find
out what she meant by them.

About to question her, Sir Everard snapped, “See to his lordship’s
chamber, Sibilla.”

“Aye father.” She smiled coyly at Fulke before taking her leave.

 
“We shall see you at supper,
your lordship.”
 
Pushing Warin ahead of
him, Sir Everard escorted his wife up the steps.

Stunned at the latest turn of events, Fulke stood staring at their
backs.

* * * *

Frustrated, Fulke stubbornly remained in the Great Hall. Staring
blindly into the fire’s flickering light, his thoughts were held by a pair of
brilliant blue eyes.
 

Replaying the evening’s events, he was no closer to finding out about
the beauty than when he started.
 

Seated between Lady Baldith and Sibilla, he found himself held captive
by their ceaseless chatter.

Feigning interest, he could not stop thinking about Warin’s older
sister.
 
Egad, he thought, I do not even
know her name.

Throughout the meal, he kept an eye on Warin as the lad’s anxious gaze
kept returning to the door.
 
He alone
noticed when Warin slipped away from the table to speak to an elder serf woman
standing in the shadows by the door.

Whenever Fulke broke away from the cloying women to speak to Warin, Sir
Everard would materialize by his side with an excuse to lead him away.
 

Frustrated, at one point he came close to following the lad into the
garderobe to demand answers.

Left with no choice, he reluctantly returned to the table. Curtly
responding when one of the women questioned him.
 

He believed his chance had come at last when the family prepared to
retire for the night.
 
Bidding him a curt
good eve, Sir Everard motioned for Warin to ascend the steps before him,
leaving him to grind his teeth in frustration.

Warin’s duties would not officially start until after they left
Kenwick, yet he had no intention of waiting that long.
 
Pondering the many possibilities that would
explain Sibilla’s comments, he deemed the elder sister to be a fallen
woman.
 
If that were the case, he could
not very well hold it against her.
 
It
would make him no better than a lowly charlatan.
     

The fact that his men were privy to the latest turn of events worsened his
already dark mood. Well into their cups from the free-flowing ale, Gervase and
Guy spoke in animated tones, no doubt making plans to pursue Warin’s older
sister.
 
Barely perceiving Albin’s low
disheartened sigh had him fighting the urge to stalk from the hall in
disappointment.

As Sibilla leaned into him, plying him with endless questions about the
latest court fashions, something he knew absolutely nothing about, he recalled
the fiery spirit displayed by her sister.
 
When she grew bold enough to place a pudgy hand on his sleeve, he
remembered the slender grace of another’s, even as they waved in anger.

A cold breeze swept the hall as the heavy ironbound oak door swung
open, drawing him from his recollections.
   

The elder woman Warin spoke to earlier rushed across the hall. Lost to
her own musings, she failed to notice him.

Gripping the front of her coarse, brown woolen kirtle, she hastened up
the steps.

Standing, he followed her flight along the upper arched passage until
he lost her to view. After a light rapping sound, he detected low
conversation.