Authors: The Quest
Armed men lounged about amidst the ruins of a burned-out stable, wearing the king’s colors.
Peste!
Rolf thought grimly. Just what he needed at the moment, an envoy from John. He reined to a halt near the guardhouse steps. Echoes from Wulfsige’s hooves had barely faded into the deepening shadows before Vachel rushed down the guardhouse steps to greet his lord. Close behind him came squires and servants, quickly filling the bailey with noise and laughter. Wary knights relaxed at the return of normalcy and began to dismount.
“Milord. You were successful in retrieving your lady, I see.”
Rolf glanced at Vachel and smiled. “Yea. Did you doubt it?”
Already shaking his head, Vachel looked around and motioned for Corbet to assist the lady from her mount while he stood by Rolf’s stirrup. The steward knew better than to attempt to hold the destrier’s head, for the testy stallion would have more than like taken a hefty bite from whatever portion of Vachel he could reach first. Vachel was understandably skittish around the animal, though as long as Rolf was present, he suffered the close proximity quietly.
Dismounting, Rolf held the reins in one hand. He waited for Corbet to assist Annice and come for the stallion. Weariness rode him hard, and he suppressed the urge to relinquish his horse to Vachel without waiting for his squire. Since well before first light, he had been up. Plans had been made far into the night, and he’d snatched a few hours’ rest before rising. A sense of urgency had pricked him into wakefulness, so now that he knew Annice was safe, exhaustion tugged hard.
Vachel kept a wary eye on Rolf’s destrier as he quickly informed his lord of arrangements for castle security. “Sir Guy awaits in the hall, milord. As you must have noted, there are guests,” he added, taking Rolf’s shield. He beckoned to Corbet, who escorted Annice past Wulfsige. Thrusting the shield into the squire’s willing hands, Vachel stepped back to allow the squire to take Rolf’s weapons.
Rolf put a hand upon the hilt of his sword when Corbet reached for it, shaking his head. He did not yet feel comfortable without a weapon, king’s men or no. Nor did most of the knights who had ridden with him feel at ease, for they held to their weapons also. The bailey was astir with squires and knights and weary horses. Stone archways provided shelter for some; for others, closely woven hemp stretched over poles. A metal spit and sizzling meat hung over a fire. The tantalizing smell of roasting duck mingled with the odors of wet horse and burning wood.
With Wulfsige in Corbet’s capable hands, Rolf escorted Annice into the hall. There order had been restored. Tables were being set up for the evening meal, servants bustling about as normal. Torchlight and a fire cast a cheery glow
over the scene. At the far end, sitting with his leg propped upon a low stool, Sir Guy waited. With him were two of the king’s men in full armor, neither of whom Rolf recognized.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he strode forward, leaving Annice with Vachel. Both men turned to face him warily.
Struggling to stand, Sir Guy’s face contorted in pain, and Rolf waved him back down. “Stay seated, Sir Guy. And present these visitors to me, if you will.”
Both of the armored men exchanged quick glances, but it was Guy who said, “They come on the king’s business, milord. Lord Henry of Bartelow, and Sir Francis of Epworth. ’Tis said the king wishes—”
“Lord Dragonwyck,” the taller of the two men interposed, “allow me to explain. I am Lord Henry. The king has asked that we bring word to you of his pleasure with your recent marriage. Also, we are empowered to present to you an invitation to meet him and his royal entourage in Poitou with all due and seemly haste.” Lord Henry smiled, but his eyes were cool and watchful as he regarded Rolf.
Rolf did not return his smile. He recognized a royal ploy when he saw one and knew well what was afoot. “I am honored, but as you can surely see,” he said, waving a hand to indicate the bailey beyond the double doors, “we have had trouble of late. ’Twill be impossible to leave my lands at this time. Tender my regrets to the king.”
“That is not possible, milord.” Lord Henry stiffened. “Even now King John journeys between Niort and La Rochelle. He expects to see you with him again.”
Tired and impatient, Rolf glared at Bartelow until that man dropped his gaze. “I have paid my scutage,” he ground out slowly, “as well as given knights and vassals in service. I have fought in every war but am absolved from fighting Philip in a foreign war. Surely the king does not wish for me to risk my lands to an invader to fulfill a whim.”
“A whim?” Sir Francis frowned. “I would not deem a command from the king a mere whim, my lord. Nor is this struggle with Philip to be deemed a foreign war. John seeks to regain lands that rightfully belong to England. I do not view it as fighting on foreign land.”
“Nay, p’raps you would not, but in this circumstance I view it in that manner. I have been loyal, and I am holding my lands from those who would be disloyal to the king. Does he wish to risk more men and money in the hands of the rebels?”
Glancing about at the evidence of recent fighting, Lord Henry said, “What say you—that this conflict is the result of barons rebelling against John? I thought it a mere quarrel between neighbors.”
“ ’Tis much more than that.” Rolf drew in a deep breath. “If you wish to learn more, please yourself by asking Robert de Vieuxpont or the sheriff of Lincolnshire. Both were here, and both are men astute enough to see the reason behind the taking of my wife.”
Lord Henry looked uncertain. “I was not told your wife had been taken.”
“Yea, and taken back,” Rolf growled. He half turned and indicated Annice and Vachel at the other end of the hall. He beckoned them to depart with a flick of his hand. “See you that she is with me again. And so shall she stay, whether any man wills it or no. That she was abducted from me is a flagrant defiance of the king’s command. The act smacks of treason, do you not think?”
Without waiting for a reply, Rolf demanded the latest news from France. After a brief hesitation Sir Francis revealed knowledge that was already common, and Rolf smiled slightly. He saw Guy shift uneasily in his chair. ’Twas obvious the king’s men did not trust him. He supposed it was just as obvious that he did not care if they did not. Weariness pressed hard on him, and finally he abruptly took his leave.
“Sir Guy will see to your needs, and I will speak with you further on the morrow,” he added, then quit the hall. He could feel the glares directed toward his back but ignored them. His leaving was a direct insult, but he was too weary to concern himself.
Annice was swift and efficient when he gained their bedchamber, directing servants in a soft voice to see to their lord’s needs. Garbed in clean garments, her hair was still damp from her recent bath, waving down her back in shiny
tendrils. Like a changeling, she’d transformed from untidy hostage to meticulous housewife.
Glancing around, Rolf saw that the chamber had been made orderly again, the mess wrought by Thurston’s men cleaned up and removed. He sank to the hard comfort of a chair, his mind lingering on the summons of the king. ’Twas said that John’s fight against Philip was going badly, and that the king was desperate for men and arms. John had turned his attention to La Marche, Count of Lusignan, after subduing Limousin and Gascony. Defeated nobles had either sworn fealty and given hostages, or been executed. ’Twas a simple enough process for John. But what did he want with Rolf? The scutage had been accepted readily enough. A number of Rolf’s knights were still in France. Did he mean to levy more fines on him? Or did he simply mean to make it impossible for Rolf to refuse to fight?
Holy Mary, but he was weary of war, weary of the strife between king and barons. Would there never be peace in England? Was there always to be conflict? Yea, he answered his own questions, as long as John was king, there would be warfare. The monarch was possessed of a devil that would not rest, but ever made it impossible for men to subsist in peace.
“Husband,” Annice said softly, and he looked up at her. A faint smile curved her lips, and she knelt beside his chair so that her face was level with his. “There is the morrow to deal with the king’s business. This eve you should rest and gather your strength.”
He gazed at her for a moment. Guileless blue eyes gazed back at him, and he felt a moment’s shame for the doubts he’d had. Nay, she did not seek to deceive him. None of the recent events had been at her wish or of her blame.
Reaching out, he curved his palm beneath her chin, fingers gently cradling the smooth skin. “Sweet wife,” he murmured. “ ’Tis possible that I will be forced to join John in France. Will you suffer yourself to be left behind?”
“Am I being offered the choice of going with you?”
Startled, for he had meant only to learn if she would miss him, Rolf asked, “And would you go if that was my offer?”
“Yea, lord. Whither thou go, I will goest also.” She smiled and lifted her hand to place it over his, holding it against her cheek. “I am sworn to be your wife, and would always be near you.”
“Because of your vows?”
“Yea, and because I cannot bear to be apart from you.”
Her simple words took his breath. He stared at her intently. Their silent communion was broken only by the entrance of a servant. Regretfully, he let his hand fall away from her face, and Annice rose to direct Belle and Corbet in the placement of a wooden tub.
Hot water was brought, along with scented soap and thick towels. Belle scattered spices in the bathwater, while Corbet struggled with the huge bucket of hot water. After filling the tub more than halfway, the young squire set down the bucket and turned to his lord.
“Shall I ready you for your bath, milord?” he asked as was his wont, but Annice intervened.
“I shall tend him,” she said, and from the tone of her voice it was plain she desired no assistance.
Corbet withdrew gracefully, taking the bucket and exchanging a quick glance of amusement with Belle as he did so. The young maid opened the pot of soap and set it on a table near the tub, then stood uncertainly for a moment.
“That is all I require for now, Belle,” Annice said pleasantly, and the girl dropped a slight courtesy with an expression of relief before retreating. Annice stood still a moment, then turned to Rolf.
Sprawled in his chair with legs thrust out in front of him, he cocked a questioning brow at her. “Am I to await your pleasure also,
milady
?”
Annice moved to the door and, with an effort, lowered the bar. Then she turned around and leaned against the closed door. Her heart was beating furiously. She was risking rebuke for acting without his knowledge, but she wanted him to herself. She did not want to sit and watch his squire bathe him, nor even wait impatiently until he was done. Nay, she wanted to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her fingertips and reassure herself that he was, indeed, there with her.
“Yea, lord,” she only said demurely, and pushed away from the door. “Does it displease you that I wish to act as your squire this eve?”
Rolf grinned. Despite his obvious weariness, there was a gleam in his eyes. “Nay, lady fair. I believe I prefer it. Though you have not Corbet’s dexterity, neither do you have his annoying habit of bouncing about like a loose hare in a wine barrel.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“ ’Tis but one of a dozen.” He shifted in his chair, eying her with the grin still on his face.
Annice moved to him, eyes downcast as she knelt and began to unbuckle his belt. He held out his arms to allow her easy access. The sword clinked softly against the chair as she laid it down, arms straining from its great weight. It amazed her that Rolf wielded the weapon so easily, as if it were a feather. She was forced to use both hands to keep from dropping the heavy weapon.
When she turned back to him, he was gazing up at her with a speculative lift of his brow as if to ask what she wished next. First she pulled the coil of mail from over his head. It caught in a tangle of his hair, and she worked the tiny links free, then lay the mail hood aside.
“Please rise, milord,” she murmured, and when he did, she tackled the buckle of his belt. It took her only a few moments to recall how difficult it could be to remove a man’s armor. After removing the wide leather belt and surcoat, the close-knit links of chain mail resisted her efforts to unfasten the small buckles at the back. Rolf did not speak or help but stood quietly while she fumbled with them. At last she had them undone and helped him out of the hauberk. The thick aketon that formed his padding and kept the mail from chafing was much more easily removed. That left only his chausses, the mail leggings that were held up by straps to a waist belt.
Annice laid them aside also, then turned to eye him for a moment as he stood in his linen shirt, hose, and breeches.
“And ’tis said that women wear too many layers of clothing,” she muttered, earning a laugh from him.
“Ah, wife,” he said, reaching for her, “men only say that
because it takes us so long to attain the reward beneath infinite layers of silk and linen. A man must wear armor only to protect himself.”
Allowing him to pull her close, Annice murmured, “And did you not think that a woman wears so many garments for the same reason? Ever are men eager to seek that elusive reward.”
Rolf buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, his words muffled in her damp hair. “Must it always be elusive?”
“Only to the wrong man,
beau
sire,” she retorted, and pushed him away. She dared not let him see how easily he affected her, how he could make her yearn for him with the slightest touch, glance, or word. Shaking a finger at him in mock reproach, she said, “Thou stink of horse. Come, thy bath awaits, ere thou grow too amorous.”
An amused smile touched his lips and eyes, and he said as she began to remove the rest of his garments, “I can wait a short time,
chérie
.”
His husky words made her heart lurch, and she kept her gaze stubbornly lowered when he was naked. He laughed softly and stepped into the tub, sinking down with a grunt of pleasure.