Roland seemed about to object, then apparently changed his mind. “See if you can find Brother Walter less odorous garb,” he told Marcus, then roughly ushered the monk out the door.
Marcus’s amusement lit his face.
Eloise wasn’t the least amused. “What possessed you to bring the monk into the hall? Sweet mercy, where did you find him?”
His smile widened. “Running across the bailey toward the stables. We gave chase. Somehow he landed in the dung heap. I think Roland brought him straight in here because he did not know what else to do with him. By your leave, milady, I shall see if our monk owns a spare robe and sandals.”
Eloise had to admit the vision a bit humorous, and considered Brother Walter’s current plight only what he deserved.
The cleansing of Brother Walter took several buckets of water, the first few used to dislodge most of the muck from his robe. He stood stoic through the dousing, and turned red at the order to disrobe. Roland firmly cut short a meek attempt to object.
Eloise averted her gaze when the monk obeyed, catching a mere glimpse of his wet small clothes. Not so for the others in the crowd who gathered around to witness the unusual bath. More than one of the servant girls giggled. Eloise supposed she should have ordered the girls away, but the monk had brought this on himself.
“Have a sniff, Lady Eloise. Does he still offend?”
Roland’s command brought forth more giggles and snickers from the crowd. Thank the Fates Marcus had found the monk’s spare robe.
Eloise took pity on the monk and resisted the urge to actually sniff. “He no longer reeks. He may enter the hall.”
“My lady,” Brother Walter said softly. “I would prefer the solitude of the chapel that I might pray—”
Roland grabbed him by the hood of his robe. “Into the hall with you, good monk. Now that I have you I am loathe to let you out of my sight. Besides, I am eager to hear your reasons for hiding.”
So was Eloise, even though she feared she wasn’t going to like whatever the monk had to say.
With his meal consumed and a fresh ale in hand, Roland plopped down on the bench across the trestle table from Marcus and Simon. He couldn’t think of a more pleasant way to wile away the time before Kenworth returned than in the company of the knights.
Besides, they provided a diversion from the lady who proved far too distracting.
All the while he searched for Brother Walter, he’d mused over his encounter with Eloise last eve.
Tossing the water at her had seemed an efficient way of dousing the flames on both the parchment in her hand and the rush mat beneath her feet. Unfortunately it also wetted her nightrail, turning the thin white linen into a sheer veil over her breasts. That her nipples were a dusky rose was more than he needed to know.
He wasn’t particularly proud of himself for picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. It was a barbaric display of manners for a knight. Still, he’d known of no other way to swiftly separate Eloise from the parchment she sat on.
The memory of her warm, supple weight draped over him in such intimate fashion kept him awake most of the night. The scent of her lingered in his nostrils. Worse, neither would the memory fade of Eloise sprawled on the bed, expectant of a kiss, or more.
He’d come far too close to fulfilling her expectation.
She’d been as aware of him as he of her. She’d gone very still, perhaps also confused by the inexplicable attraction between a man and woman who couldn’t abide each other.
Eloise fascinated him.
As she did now. She was vexed, and the blame lay clearly at Brother Walter’s sandalless feet. The monk wasn’t talking. He’d told her he couldn’t tell anyone anything until after speaking with Sir John.
Roland didn’t much care. He’d completed his assigned task by finding the monk for Kenworth, who seemed to think the cleric could provide information regarding Sir John’s treason. The monk’s refusal to answer any of Eloise’s questions, however, irritated the lady to within a gnat’s breath of a fit of pique.
Eloise on the verge of eruption was a glorious sight to behold. She moved about the hall seeing to the cleaning up after the noon meal with the efficiency of a commander of troops. No commander of troops, however, moved with such a beguiling sway of hips.
And every time she passed the stool near the hearth where the hapless monk sulked, she shot him a glare that consigned him to Hades.
Marcus leaned forward, the gleam in his eyes hinting of mischief. “How long do you think the good monk will remain silent when Kenworth gets hold of him?”
Simon huffed. “Not long at all. The earl will not hesitate to use harsher measures than Lady Eloise to pry him open.”
Roland silently agreed, and truly didn’t want to think about what tortures Kenworth might devise for the reticent monk should Sir John remain missing.
Indeed, he wished he could close the gates to keep the earl outside of Lelleford. Kenworth was going to be unbearable whether he succeeded in his search for Sir John or not, either gloating or glowering.
And, damn, as Roland saw his duty, he’d have to protect the monk from Kenworth, just as he’d drawn a sword to stand beside Simon, and just as he’d guarded Eloise’s door to ensure the lady’s safety.
For a man used to being responsible for only himself, he’d certainly taken several others under his wing of late. Timothy. Eloise. The monk. The entire populace of Lelleford.
A daunting thought.
A smile eased across Marcus’s mouth. “Brother Walter will be sorry he left the safety of the dung heap. I still do not understand why he thought he could hide from us in the stable.” His elbow nudged Simon. “Even you would have laughed at the sight of him when we dragged him out of the heap.”
While Roland and Marcus both chuckled, Simon allowed only the corner of his mouth to twitch.
On his first visit to Lelleford, Roland had dubbed these two Marcus the Jester and Simon the Serious. For many years both had loyally served Sir John Hamelin, a lesser baron who held enough land to support several knights in fine style.
This charge of treason affected the knights as much as it did John. If judged guilty, John would hang and the king would grant possession of Lelleford to a favorite. Whether a knight was allowed to remain at Lelleford depended upon the new holder’s whim, and the knight’s personal feeling on swearing fealty to the new lord.
Roland took a sip of ale and tried not to covet what Sir John Hamelin might lose. “What bothers me is why the monk felt compelled to hide to begin with. He is most adamant about speaking to John.”
Simon rubbed his chin. “As he was yesterday. For a usually quiet man, he has done a lot of wailing and thrashing about of late.”
“Perhaps we should try to find out what he knows before Kenworth gets back.”
Simon rose off the bench. “Just what I was thinking,” he muttered, then headed for the hearth, with Roland and Marcus close behind.
Simon crossed his arms and hovered above the seated monk, an intimidating stance the monk could not ignore.
“ ’Tis most probable Kenworth will not find Sir John,” Simon stated, “and will return in a foul mood. For all of our sakes, I believe you should reveal to us what you know.”
The monk looked up at Simon with sad eyes. “Nay. Sir John must decide what he wishes you to know of his affairs. I will not break trust with him for either you or the earl.”
Roland heard the rustle of Eloise’s silk skirts as she came to stand beside him.
“You have already broken my father’s trust.” Eloise’s accusation caused Brother Walter to blink. “ ’Tis my opinion the wound to your head resulted from an argument between you and my father, not an unfortunate mishap.”
The monk quietly answered, “ ’Tis true, milady, that your father and I exchanged harsh words, but you may be assured my wound is not of his doing. Had I not suffered, as you put it, an unfortunate mishap, his lordship might not …” He shook his head. “I can say no more.”
The hall’s doors opened and Kenworth strode in, followed by several of Lelleford’s knights. His mighty scowl revealed the result of his search for Sir John. Roland wasn’t sure the tracker’s failure to locate their prey was good or not.
In some ways ’twould be best for all, except perhaps for Sir John, if Kenworth captured John and left Lelleford with his prisoner in tow. On the other hand, Roland harbored some doubts over Sir John’s guilt, doubts planted by Eloise’s and the knights’ absolute, steadfast surety over his innocence.
Kenworth’s eyes lit up when he spotted Brother Walter.
“Well, well. One of our fugitives is found. Where the hell have you been, Walter?”
Brother Walter rose with a visible effort, steeling himself against the earl’s displeasure. “Praying for guidance, my lord earl.”
A niggling sense of something not quite right pricked at Roland, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps the monk’s suddenly straight spine, or his use of ‘my lord earl’ in a tone of familiarity.
“Why ever would you need guidance?” Kenworth asked. “Your duty is clear enough to me.” He waved a hand at Eloise. “Have food brought up to the accounting room. The monk and I have papers to sort through. By all that is holy, if I cannot find the traitor, I will find the proof of his treason!”
Eloise bristled, but possessed the good sense to nod an acknowledgment of the order.
The earl spun on his heel, the monk reluctantly trailed in his wake. Duty bound, Roland did, too.
Near the stairway, the earl turned his head, and spotting Roland, came to a halt. “Your presence is not required, St. Marten.”
“I believe it is, my lord. Should anything untoward happen to Brother Walter, the king will hold me responsible.”
“Not so,” Kenworth said, a sly smile appearing. “Walter does not serve Lelleford, but me, and so is no concern of yours.”
Stunned, Roland looked to the monk, whose expression remained stoic. And who didn’t dispute the earl’s claim.
Now Roland knew why Kenworth had been so sure of Sir John Hamelin’s presence at Lelleford and the lack of concern over his capture. The monk was Kenworth’s spy, must have informed the earl beforehand of Sir John’s plans. Had the monk also supplied the earl with evidence of treason?
Roland did the only thing he could under the circumstances. With a slight bow to the earl, he backed away. “I shall leave the two of you to your task, then.”
Without further comment, the earl and monk disappeared up the stairway. Roland didn’t have to decide whether or not to tell the others. They’d heard.
Eloise sank down on the stool the monk had vacated, her disbelief warring for dominance with her outrage.
“The fiend!” she spat out. “How dare he spout nonsense about not breaking faith with my father when all the while he was in league with the earl?”
The urge to comfort Eloise nearly overcame Roland’s good sense. He couldn’t take her in his arms and … what? Tell her everything would be well? A falsehood. Besides, she neither appeared close to tears nor in need of anyone’s comfort, least of all his.
So he turned his attention to Sir Peter, one of Lelleford’s household knights. “The trackers failed?”
“Not entirely. If Sir John is still in the area, he is well hidden.”
“Are the patrols yet out?”
“Aye, they are instructed to remain out until nightfall if need be.”
“Why did Kenworth return?”
Peter gave a small smile. “Kenworth is not a patient man.”
“And the rest of you?”
The big knight shrugged. “Either Kenworth did not wish us to witness his trackers’ final failure, or he feared we might break away from the patrol and somehow aid Sir John. All I know is that when yet another promising trail proved fruitless, he told his men to continue and ordered us to return with him.”
Eloise elegantly rose from the short stool. “So what do we do now?”
“We wait,” Roland answered, aware the knights were likely wondering the same thing and probably chafing to take some kind of action. “Much depends upon the success of the patrols, and on whatever Kenworth finds in your father’s accounting room.”
Eloise glanced at the stairs, then gave each knight a pointed look. “I hate doing nothing,” she stated, then flounced off in the direction of the kitchen.
R
OLAND LEFT the keep, his thoughts in turmoil.
Like Eloise, he hated doing nothing, allowing events to happen as they would without having much influence or control.
Not that he’d exerted any influence over the good things that happened to him recently. A twist of fate had brought him to King Edward’s attention. A mere happenstance led to an opportunity to better his lot in life.
But all could be lost in the blink of an earl’s eyelash.
Hands clasped behind his back, he wandered toward the inner gate. The guards, Kenworth’s men-at-arms, nodded a greeting as he passed through the arch and under the iron gate.
Both the inner and outer baileys were too quiet. Where one might expect to find castle folk attending their daily errands, or tenant farmers visiting the various tradesmen’s shops lining the outer curtain wall, today few souls wandered about.
The blacksmith’s hammer was quiet; the cobbler’s door was closed. Women visited the common well but didn’t linger to gossip. No children played with sticks and hoops. The only activity was near the stables, where squires and stable boys worked to put away the recently arrived horses.
Disquieting. As if everyone held their breath in anticipation of their lord’s capture, or the earl’s wrath if their lord escaped.
Kenworth and the monk would likely be occupied in the accounting room for some time, searching for evidence of Hamelin’s guilt. ’Twas stunning to think the earl had placed a spy in Hamelin’s service, that Sir John hadn’t realized he harbored an informant.
That sword swung both ways, however. Just as the monk had informed on John, he must also have been the one to give warning, perhaps unintentionally, of the earl’s imminent arrival, allowing John to escape Lelleford before he could be arrested. Roland shuddered to think of what the earl was going to do to his informant for letting that information slip.