Authors: The Quest
Rolf looked up to see Vachel in the open door of his bedchamber. A harried expression carved the young man’s
face. It was an expression Rolf was growing increasingly accustomed to seeing on his servants.
Buckling his belt, he said, “I take it that you’re having difficulty finding room for all the guests and their attendants.”
Vachel nodded. “I did not wish to burden you, seigneur, but Lord Henry de Sauvain is here, and I have no chamber for him or room for his attendants.”
“Lord Henry can sleep on a cot in someone else’s chamber, and the servants can stay in the hall or the stables.”
Looking distressed, Vachel protested, “But all the chambers are filled, and Lord Henry says he will not stay in the same room as Lord Georges de Beaufont, and—”
“Then put Sauvain in my room, and I’ll sleep with Beaufont,” Rolf snapped. He raked a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I care not, Vachel. Shift them about any way you please. If any man should have complaints, he may bring them to me to settle. For all I care, they can all sleep in the stables. Or the sties. I’m weary of this chaos and bickering barons.”
“Aye, milord.” Vachel hesitated. “I admit that the barons seem to be a testy lot. And there are few wives in attendance.”
Rolf shrugged. “Are you surprised? With such short notice I’m amazed John was able to get this many barons to do his bidding. He thinks to deplete my purse with all these mouths to feed, but I am not unprepared. I feel no compunction to be overgenerous with my food or my hospitality when I know the reason behind their presence in my hall.”
“The reason, milord?”
Rolf stamped his foot down into his boot and looked up. “Aye. The only reason for all these barons’ presence is to ensure that I am properly wed as John wishes. Did you think his suggestion less than a command, Vachel? ’Twas not. A honey-coated command, certes, but no less of one. He will be most satisfied to hear that the wedding is just as he wished. ’Tis a grand way to begin the new year, do you not think?”
Looking confused, Vachel muttered, “Does he think you a traitor, milord?”
“Aye. That’s just what he thinks.” Rolf smiled grimly at Vachel’s shocked expression. “John thinks every man a traitor if given the opportunity. ’Tis probably wise of him in most instances. Hand me my poniard, if you please.”
Vachel lifted the jeweled dagger from a table and brought it to Rolf, still frowning. “But, milord, surely the king should know by now that you are one of his most loyal barons. Haven’t you proved it time and again?”
“What is that to John? Have not Eustace de Vesci and Robert FitzWalter proved their loyalty on occasion? And then gone posthaste to the other side when it grew more profitable … aye, Vachel. ’Tis wise of the king to be chary of those who profess loyalty. My refusal to stay with him in France for this latest war against King Philip did not set well with John. He will continue to test me for some time, I fear.”
Vachel sighed. “ ’Tis most disagreeable and vexing.”
Smiling, Rolf nodded. “Aye, for certain. But at least we know where we stand in John’s estimation at the moment. There are those unfortunate barons who must bide and wonder.”
Vachel’s answering smile was a bit weak. “ ’Tis true, lord, but I cannot be as blithe as you about the king. The winds of fate oft blow evil, and I truly pray that you pass the king’s test.”
“I will.” Rolf frowned down at the jeweled poniard in his hand. “My marriage to the lady Annice will seal his approval quick enough.”
This time Vachel’s smile was broad. “She is lovely, indeed. And with a sweet nature.”
“Sweet?” Rolf gazed at him with mocking disbelief. “I’ve not seen this sweet nature I’ve heard spoken of, in truth. The nature I’ve most often witnessed is as prickly as nettles.”
“Aye, lord, you do seem to bring out the fight in her,” Vachel observed with a faint sigh. “ ’Tis not an easy thing, being a hostage. ’Twill be good to have this wedding over, so that the two of you can be easy with each other.”
“I doubt a few words spoken by a priest will do that,” Rolf muttered as he sheathed the poniard in a scabbard. “ ’Twill take a full miracle to accomplish amity between us, I fear.”
“P’raps not. I’ve seen you charm more formidable court ladies in scant time. If you would but attempt the same cajolery with the lady Annice, I believe she would soon cease all thoughts of enmity toward you, milord.”
“You dream, Vachel. There is much more to the lady’s anger than minor irritation.” He put up a hand to forestall any well-meaning advice from the beardless young man. “But once we are wed, she will curb her sharp tongue whether she wills it or no. I do not intend to endure insults.”
Lapsing into silence, Vachel nodded and turned to leave. At the door he paused and looked back. A faint frown puckered his brow as he said, “The lady is not sharp-tongued with others, milord. P’raps she fears you too well to be otherwise.”
“And so she should.”
There didn’t seem to be anything Vachel wished to say to that, and he closed the door gently behind him. Rolf stared at the dragon carved into the heavy oak for a long moment. Did all in his keep feel the need to come to the lady’s defense? Even Guy had done so, despite long years of loyalty to his lord. That meek little Belle flashed him a glance of defiance upon occasion was an astounding fact, considering that almost everyone made her squeak with alarm. Except Lady Annice.
Irritated, Rolf raked a hand through his hair. She had been at Dragonwyck less than a month, yet had managed to earn the respect of his own servants and companions. He felt a grudging admiration that she had done it so easily. She would make a fine lady for his keep. Yea, Lady Annice was well suited to be some lord’s wife. If he had chosen a wife himself, he might well have considered her as a bride.
The thought faintly shocked him. It had been so long since he had thought of a woman in that way, he’d not dwelled upon the virtues he would seek should he wish for a wife. And he’d not realized that he’d noticed her virtues.
A faint grin tugged at his mouth. Nay, that was not true. He had dwelled at length upon her physical virtues despite earnest attempts to think of other things. Always her winsome face and pleasing curves came to mind, even inhabiting
his dreams at night so that he woke thinking of her.…
Peste!
What was he doing standing in the midst of his chamber thinking of her when he should be in the hall entertaining his illustrious guests? Madness, indeed, that had infected him. Once they were wed, he would soon be cured of it. On that score he was confident. The passion he’d felt for Margerie had faded quickly enough after they’d been wed. The marriage bed had soon lost its allure for him when faced with her whims and malaise. It would be the same with Annice.
Smoke rose from the central fire and wended upward to the smoke hole in the roof, curling in drifts. Revelers crowded trestle tables and meandered over rushes that had been fresh that morning but now held the remains of food and other refuse that did not bear thinking about. Serving wenches bearing heavy platters deftly dodged groping hands.
Annice paused at the foot of the steps, as yet unnoticed by any save Tostig, a constant guard at her heels. Blinking, she surveyed the crowded hall with a feeling of trepidation. Some of the knights and barons she recognized, but others were complete strangers to her. They were to witness her vows to Rolf of Dragonwyck and report to the king, she knew. It would be done and her fate sealed, will she nill she.
But—and this was the oddest to her—she found herself thinking of their marriage with a thrum of anticipation. Rolf was a man such as she had never known before, and though she might not agree with him on many things, she felt a growing respect for his sense of justice, as well as for his loyalty and courage. Few men in these troublesome days dared say nay to the king, yet Guy FitzHugh had told her how Rolf had refused to stay with John in France. Once he’d received the document from the Church giving permission to retrieve Justin, he had left his troops with an able lieutenant of John’s service. John had viewed this defection of one of his most able barons with disfavor. Hence, she supposed,
his determination to bind Rolf closer to him with this marriage to his ward.
It would certainly do that. She was as much a pawn as ever. Only the masters had changed, and that was the basis of her resentment. If not for that—aye, if not for that, she would have viewed this marriage more favorably. Long had she yearned for a strong man in her life, a man she could respect and love. Luc had never been that man. Her father had been such a man, and she had despaired of ever finding another of his ilk.
Until Rolf.
A flutter of movement at her right distracted Annice, and she felt a moments gratitude when she saw the smiling countenance of Sir Guy FitzHugh at her side. The knight was clad in courtly garb that made him look quite handsome. His pleasure in seeing her was obvious. They had enjoyed many an hour conversing in the hall lately, and she appreciated his company. He was ever willing to allow her to talk of impartial subjects and even encouraged her to reminisce about her childhood and her parents. Few men would relish that, yet Guy did.
“My lady,” Guy said, admiration lighting his hazel eyes, “you are more radiant than ever. I had not thought it possible.”
Annice laughed. “Do you wish a boon, Sir Knight? Fie on you for being such a base flatterer, when I thought you a man of truth.”
“And ’tis the truth I speak.” He caught up her hand and bent over it with a graceful flourish, pressing his lips to her skin in a brief gesture. When he straightened, he still held her hand in a light clasp. “You are the most beautiful woman in all of England—nay, in all of Christendom, I vow. My liege lord is the most fortunate of men.”
Gently withdrawing her hand, Annice murmured, “He would argue that point with you most vigorously, I think.”
“Nay, not even a stubborn man such as le Draca could argue with that.” Guy’s smile was warming, and as if he sensed her discomfort at his teasing flattery, he took her hand and tucked it over his forearm, saying, “ ’Tis my fortune to be your escort to the high table, my lady. I beg your
pardon for not greeting you when you first entered the hall, but I was unavoidably detained by a baron whose eye outpaces his stomach when it comes to wine.”
“There seem to be quite a few of those in attendance,” she said, as she had already observed more than one or two men stumbling in the awkward steps of the inebriated.
“Yea.” Guy’s smile was a bit rueful. “I earnestly pray that there will be no hot tempers flashing steel this eve, for ’twill put a damper upon the morrow’s festivities should tempers fray and blood be shed.”
“At the very least.” Annice’s gaze had already swept the hall and not discovered Rolf, but she hesitated to ask his whereabouts. For the past sennight she had made her usual appearance in the hall after evensong. Nervous as the wedding day drew closer, she had delayed as long as possible this night, and now the visiting barons had imbibed much too freely. There had been few of them in the chapel for evensong, she’d noted, and the Lord of Dragonwyck had been absent as well. Nor was the earl now in his hall.
Forcing her attention back to Sir Guy, she saw him watching her keenly and flushed. There was a knowing light in his eyes, as if he had guessed the reason behind her distraction. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks.
“Please come with me, my lady,” Guy said, guiding her through the crowded hall toward the high table. “The seigneur has been detained by a small problem and wished for me to attend you until his arrival.”
Rolf’s chair was empty, and to her surprise there was a matching high-backed chair placed beside it. Plush bolsters cushioned the carved wooden seat, and the back and sidearms were hung with not only the sable and or of Dragonwyck, but the gules and argent of her father’s colors. Black and gold, red and silver—her throat tightened. He had honored the house of Beauchamp, and her, by displaying those colors.
Saying nothing, she allowed Sir Guy to seat her, though her hands trembled slightly with emotion. Ever was the Lord of Dragonwyck taking her by surprise, even with so grand a gesture when none would remark it but her. Few
would recall her fathers colors, or think it exceptional that they were displayed thusly.
Moreover, any who thought upon it would have expected her to wear Luc d’Arcy’s standards. With a still faintly trembling hand, she lifted up one corner of the argent silk upon her chair and saw tiny emblems embroidered along the hem. The Beauchamp device. She brushed a fingertip lovingly over the threads. Yea, Rolf of Dragonwyck had somehow discovered what lay dearest to her heart.
It softened her toward him, so that when she saw him wending his way through jongleurs and tumblers and drunken knights, she was glad instead of apprehensive. There was an odd tightening in her chest as she watched his approach. Lord Rolf stood a full head taller than any other man in the hall, but he would have been imposing in any company. His broad shoulders filled out the sable velvet of his surcoat with strong assurance, and the gilt dragon on his chest glittered as brightly as his gold hair. Yea, he was comely, indeed, and had shown her a rare kindness in remembering her father’s house.
“Good eventide, milady,” he said courteously when he drew near, and she murmured a reply. She put her hands in her lap so that he would not see the way her fingers trembled. She felt his presence as keenly as if he had reached out to touch her, though he did not so much as greet her with a kiss upon her hand. For a moment he stood behind her chair, conversing softly with Tostig.
When he took his seat beside her, she did not speak but waited for him to indicate his readiness for conversation. Around them the noisy merriment of the hall was a steady, familiar hum. ’Twas all so familiar to her, the broken chords of music from lute and harp and flute, the laughter of knights and maids, and the occasional outburst from a hound, yet she felt as if she existed in a strange dream. The solid presence of the man beside her was real, though she could scarce credit it. Nothing in the past month seemed truly real, save for her fear and apprehension.