A frisson of heat coiled in her belly at so impious a thought. But it made clear what she’d not previously realized. She wanted passion and drama in her life. She wanted a grand love with a man who would make her laugh and make her angry, and make her love him beyond all reason.
As if the man heard those bold thoughts of hers, his stance shifted, and before she could look away, he turned and caught her staring. At once Isolde averted her gaze. But she was shaken by the directness of his bold eyes.
Beside her Magda once again giggled, then caught Isolde by the arm and pulled her down the street. After a moment
Isolde laughed, too, but only to hide her sudden disquiet. Who was that man?
“Ooh, he’s a fierce one,” Magda whispered, glancing back toward the smithy’s shed. “I wonder what he looks like beneath that beard.”
Isolde did not respond, but she too glanced back at the dark-haired stranger. She did not recognize him, and yet there was something about him, as if she knew him—or
should
know him.
He was still staring after her, as well, as if he’d like to get to know her. Again Isolde looked away, and this time she forced herself not to look back. Staring at strange men in the street was not acceptable behavior by anyone’s standards, her father’s, her mother’s, or her own.
But as Isolde ambled away, arm in arm with her maid, Rhys ap Owain kept his stare steady upon her. So that was Fitz-Hugh’s daughter. He’d watched from the woods as the large party departed this morning. Since then he’d heard snippets of gossip about the eldest daughter’s dispute with her father, and his mind had spun with the possibilities that presented to him.
Now as he watched her disappear around a street corner, those possibilities moved closer to reality.
The obnoxious little brat had grown tall and filled out most becomingly, he grudgingly admitted. No doubt, however, she’d also grown more disagreeable if her challenge to her father’s authority was any sign.
He stroked his beard as he considered his plan. Her presence at Rosecliffe Castle changed nothing. In fact, it would probably aid him. Randulf FitzHugh had been a maudlin fool for his children ten years ago. Rhys had not been able to capitalize then on that flaw in his character. But he was ten years wiser now, ten years angrier, and ten years more determined to exact vengeance.
He would begin his conquest with Isolde FitzHugh, move on to the castle itself, then end it with the death of her father and uncle, and anyone else who stood in his way.
He stared up the hill toward Rosecliffe Castle within whose donjon he’d twice been confined. This time he would not be the prisoner. This time he would enter a free man and only depart when he had become its lord.
The next morning Isolde sat cross-legged in her bed brushing her hair in long strokes. She had awakened before dawn, alone in the bed she usually shared with Gwen and Elyssa. She’d often longed for the privacy of her own bedchamber, and this morning she’d stretched, then curled in the center of the bed, luxuriating in all the space. She’d not been able to regain her slumber, though, so she’d reached for her silver-backed hairbrush and begun the routine of the day. But she was aware of the different sounds on this particular morning. No muffled voices from her parents’ chamber above hers. No footsteps on the stairs as the maids descended. With so many retainers accompanying her family to London, Rosecliffe felt strangely empty.
But she would stay busy, she told herself, refusing to let yesterday’s loneliness return. For the next month she must perform the duties as the lady of Rosecliffe Castle, and first of all, she must look the part.
She parted her hair into two lengths, then sprinkled a few precious drops of oil of lavender on her brush and worked them through the heavy locks. She was proud of her hair, perhaps even a little vain, for she’d always thought the thick chestnut waves her best feature. She was of average height, with an average figure, neither too thin nor too buxom. Even her features were regular. But her hair was rather nice and so she always took special care with it, no matter what Gwen said.
By the time dawn crept up the narrow window of her bedchamber, her hair was dressed in two long plaits, woven with green ribbons and colored glass beads. She donned a pale green kirtle over her chemise and cinched it with a darker green girdle. Finally she slipped on short hose and work clogs.
She was ready for her first full day as lady of Rosecliffe, save for one important item: her mother’s keys.
Isolde took the brass ring from where she’d placed it in her trunk, and hefted the linked keys. Simple lengths of iron and brass, adorned with fanciful ends and geometric designs, they yet conferred a considerable power to her who kept possession of them. Keys to the still room and the spice cabinet. Keys to the cloth stores and the granary. To the wine stores.
She tied the ring of keys onto her girdle and smiled at the beam of light slicing across the dim chamber. The others might be on their way to London and the coronation of the new king, but she was mistress of Rosecliffe, queen for now of her own castle, her own kingdom. By the time her parents returned they would hardly recognize the place, she intended to improve it that much.
But idle dreaming would not see it done. So she snatched up her apron and headed for the door. The neglected fresco and crucifix in the chapel first. Then she would tackle the hall.
If the servants thought to rest during their lord and lady’s absence, by midday they were swiftly dispossessed of that notion.
Odo, the steward, retreated to the castle offices; Osborn fled to the stables. But for the others there was no escape. Her mother kept a good household, and Isolde could hardly improve on its cleanliness, its orderliness, or its organization. But its appearance … That was another matter entirely.
She had several bolts of cloth hauled up from the storerooms. Red damask, green kersey. A fine striped linen. The head seamstress, Bewalda, protested. “But your mother thought to make bedhangings for her daughters’ weddings with this.”
“Since there are no weddings presently planned, we will use it instead for new hangings in the hall,” Isolde announced.
The older woman frowned. “What of this gold braid? ’Tis more like to adorn a fine new tunic for Lord Rand, or for your brother, the young lord.”
“’Twill dress new screens behind the high table most handsomely,” Isolde countered.
Bewalda scowled and muttered her disapproval. But Isolde was adamant, and in the end, the seamstress did as she was instructed. By evening Isolde was exhausted, as much by arguing with balky servants as by her actual labors. But she’d made progress. She took heart that the changes were under way.
At supper she presided over a hall made quiet as much by its missing members as by the weariness of those remaining. Odo left the sanctity of his office only when hunger drove him out, and he approached her reluctantly. “You mother will not
like such an extravagance,” he muttered. “Do you know the cost of a full bolt of linen?”
“I do. Would you like oysters?” she asked, signaling a page to offer the platter to him. “Oh, did I tell you? I had cook prepare almond cakes.”
“Almond cakes?” Odo’s sour expression began to ease.
“Almond cakes?” Osborn echoed from his place on her other hand. Even the silent Father Clemson perked up. “Almond cakes. Mmm.”
Isolde waved one hand airily, relishing her role as beneficent lady of the castle. “Everyone has worked so hard. I thought they would welcome the treat—though almonds do come dear,” she added, with a sly glance at Odo.
He cleared his throat. “Aye, they do. But such generosity sweetens everyone and increases the diligence of the servants. Almond cakes are a good investment,” he pronounced. “But not for every night.”
Isolde grinned at him. “Every other night?”
She tempted him sorely; she could see that. But responsibility won out over his sweet tooth. “Every third night. Plus on Sundays,” he conceded.
“Very good,” she agreed. “Oh. I need extra candles for my chamber.”
Osborn laughed at her unsubtle tactics. Odo frowned. “Why?” he asked, his mouth dripping juice from the baked oysters.
“I have decided to paint the crucifix myself. But I would do it in private, after supper.”
“What’s wrong with rush lights?”
“In a small chamber their oily smoke fouls the air. You know that.”
He stared gloomily at his trencher but kept eating. “Your mother will have my head for allowing such extravagances.”
“I have the keys.” She jingled them beneath the table. “’Tis my decision, not yours. Do not fret, Odo. I will report your reluctance to her. And Osborn will bear witness.”
“That I will,” Osborn said. “Is there cream for the almond cakes?”
“Yes.” She smiled, sure of herself now. “And cinnamon, as well.”
“Glory be,” the old knight said. It was a sentiment echoed in various ways by the rest of the two score people that supped in the hall that night.
Afterward, while the tables were put away, several men played at dice, Odo and Osborn began a chess game, and Magda brought a lap harp to Isolde. It was often her habit to play the finely carved instrument in the evenings, and so she did tonight. But its lovely plaintive tones did not satisfy her as they usually did. Despite her weariness she was restless.
Perhaps she should have gone to London. Perhaps there she might have found a comely man, tall and broad shouldered, she thought, remembering the man in the village. She felt that same silly frisson of heat in her belly, then frowned and put the bearded stranger determinedly out of her mind. In a big city like London she would surely have met someone that she and her father could have agreed upon. Only she’d been too stubborn—though no more stubborn than him. Still, between her mother and herself, they might have prevailed upon him. But it was too late now.
She sighed. Where were the travelers spending the night? Probably at Buildwas Abbey, if they had made good time. Again she sighed and rested her chin on the carved crest of the harp.
“Can I fetch anything for you, miss?”
Isolde raised her eyes. “My thanks, Magda, but I am able to tend to my own needs. You may seek your bed now.”
Magda curtsied and left. Near the hearth the fetching young maid was joined by George, one of the men-at-arms, and as Isolde watched, they left the hall together, strolling side by side. Isolde stared openmouthed at the door that closed behind them.
So that was Magda’s sweetheart.
A surge of envy—for it could be nothing else—shot through her. Magda had a sweetheart while she had no one. And so long as she remained isolated at Rosecliffe, she was unlikely ever to find one.
Her mouth turned down in a frown, Isolde set the harp aside, then rose and made a final, restless circuit of the hall. When it was clear there was nothing left for her to do, she
reluctantly turned for the stairs, trudging up to her room, trailing her fingertips dejectedly along the rough stone wall.
Despite her several projects she feared it was going to be a very long month.
THE COLORFUL MINSTREL BAND STOOD AT THE FAR END OF the bridge, awaiting permission to enter the castle. Osborn frowned and stared at the motley crew from high up in the gate tower. In truth, there was no need to refuse them entrance. It was common enough for minstrels and tumblers and mimes to beg a meal and a coin or two in exchange for an evening’s entertainment. Not a week ago a fire eater had awed them all, and before that a pair of twin magicians.
But a week ago Rosecliffe had been fully manned. And a week ago Osborn had not been beset by this prickling sense of unease.
“Send out ale and bread and whatever the cook can easily spare,” he told Eric, the guard at his side. “But turn them away. They may perform in the village, but we’ve no need of entertainments here in the castle.”
“As you say, sir,” the man answered. But his face reflected his disappointment.
From behind them Osborn heard a shout, and when he glanced down into the bailey, he spied Isolde. She had her hair tied up in a cloth—a paint-spattered cloth—and in one hand she still held a paintbrush. He shook his head, though fondly. God bless her, but she was a continuing surprise to him. Pretty as her mother; stubborn as her father; and more energy than the two of them together in their youth.
She waved up at him and he waved back. “Osborn!” she called. “Is it true there are minstrels begging entrance?”
Now how had the news traveled so swiftly to her ear?
“Aye,” he called back. “But I am sending them on their way.”
“Why ever would you do that?”
She disappeared into the gate tower, climbing the curving stairs up to the wall walk. “Why are you sending them away?” she demanded as she burst out of the dark tower into the hazy afternoon light. “I would welcome any entertainment they provide, as would everyone else. Let them in, pray, for there is no reason not to.”
“They are four,” he argued. “And strangers to me.”
She leaned out between the crennels and stared down at the patient band. “I see an old man, and a child—”
“That’s a dwarf.”
“A dwarf?” She stared more eagerly. “A dwarf, and also a giant.” She turned a pleading expression on him. “Oh, please, Osborn, grant them entrance. It will be ever so much fun. Can they do other than sing?”
The guard answered. “The giant, he wrestles all comers. The old man, he does magic, and the dwarf has a dog ’at does all sorts of tricks.”
“What about the other man?” She stared curiously at the fourth member of the minstrel band. It was the bearded fellow from the village.
Avoiding Osborn’s glowering stare, Eric answered her. “I believe he’s a singer and master of the gittern.”
“The gittern?” So that’s what the instrument on his back had been. She turned back to Osborn, her gray eyes sparkling with excitement. “Now you must let them in, for I’ve long wished to learn to play the gittern. Please, Osborn. Everyone has worked so hard these past few days. They all deserve a pleasant evening’s diversion. I see no harm in granting them entrance.”
Osborn frowned and looked away from her and back at the foursome with their little dog and bony old horse. They were but four, and in truth, only two among them were men fully grown. What threat were they when Rosecliffe still had four knights, ten men-at-arms, and various tradesmen and servants, as well? Why was he so wary?
“Please, Uncle Osborn.” She laid a hand on his arm and gazed up at him pleadingly. Osborn could feel himself giving
in. She’d always been a favorite of his with her self-sufficient air and her winsome manner.
“All right. All right,” he muttered. But try as he might, he could not suppress a faint smile. “I’ll agree this time. But mind you, one night only. That big fellow looks like he could eat us out of house and home.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you!” On tiptoe she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then she was off, flying down the stairs, trailing orders as she went. “Eric, guide our visitors to the kitchen. Louis, take their horse to the stable. Merydydd, tell the seamstresses the embroidery thread will be finished in the dye bath shortly. It should be dry enough to use tomorrow …”
Osborn watched her stride across the bailey gesturing with her hands as she went. Bemused, he shook his head, then turned back to watch the minstrels. The iron gate between the stone gate towers screeched open and the little band started forward. The giant led the horse with the dwarf and the old man astride. The fourth fellow followed with a pack tied across his back, a gittern hanging upside down upon it, and a spotted dog in his arms.
Osborn scratched the top of his head where his hair was thinning. The years were turning him into an old woman, he told himself. Wary. Jumping at shadows. He turned away and resumed his slow circuit of the wall walk that completely enclosed Rosecliffe Castle.
He did not see the minstrel with the gittern look up, his eyes dark and discerning as he scanned the wall walk, counting the number of guards. He did not see the man’s shadowed expression as he passed through the enclosed gates. If he had, he would have slammed the gates closed and lifted the bridge against the man.
For beneath his cowl and frayed straw hat, Rhys ap Owain took careful stock of all he saw: soldiers, fortifications, everything. It had been ten years since he’d been at Rosecliffe. Ten years since the day he’d consented to let Rhonwen be nursed back to health in this English stronghold.
He’d lost her to the FitzHughs because of that one fateful decision. Then he’d been imprisoned and sent far from his homeland to the northernmost reaches of England, where he’d been forced to learn English ways. He clenched his jaw. Well,
he’d learned their ways, and now he would use that knowledge to defeat them. And the first FitzHugh to taste his vengeance would be the spoiled Isolde.
So he walked and stared, though he kept his posture carefully nonchalant. But inside every muscle in his body remained tensed and ready. He had at last gained entrance to Rosecliffe, lair of his bitterest enemies, and it had been so easy as to be laughable.
He’d gained entrance to Rosecliffe, and now he would face death before he would give it up again.
The bells rang vespers, and Isolde grimaced. She should halt her labors now, for the next bell would be for supper. But work on the crucifix was going so well.
With shaved charcoal she’d marked the traditional Welsh designs at the ends of the cross, each one signifying the gifts God had given his people. The heavens. Earth. Fire. Water. She’d applied the blue and red paints; she had only the yellow and green and accents of black to add.
She sighed and stepped back to view her work. Her neck was stiff; her wrist ached from long hours gripping the brush too tightly. Though she would rather paint than eat, mayhap she should put her brushes and paint away until the morrow and prepare instead for supper. She’d been very careful to appear every day at both the dinner and supper meals, well groomed as any good chatelaine ought to be, though it was sometimes inconvenient.
At that moment Magda stuck her head in the door. “Will you be wanting a bath before supper, milady?” Then she ran her eyes over Isolde and answered the question herself. “Aye, you will. Hurry up, then. Remember, we’ve special entertainments tonight.”
“Yes, the minstrels.” Isolde plunked the goose quill paintbrush into a small jar of mud-colored water, eager now for the coming evening for she was undeniably curious about the well-built master of the gittern. “Yes, I’ll bathe as soon as I clean my brushes. Lay out my blue kirtle, will you?”
By suppertime she was clean, with her hair freed of its wrappings and brushed to a sheen. She visited the kitchens
briefly and glanced over the hall as she entered. Everything in order; everything prepared.
Her mother had trained her staff well, for they needed little guidance in the daily routine of the castle. It was in matters outside their normal duties that they required constant supervision, matters such as the various projects she’d undertaken.
Isolde stopped to inspect the new curtains in the pantler’s cabinet. They looked very fine. She gazed up at the high wall where the new tapestry would soon hang displaying Rosecliffe’s emblem—her father’s wolf in a circle of roses. That would give a truly grand feel to the hall. Perhaps she should paint vining roses above the tall double doors.
She paused, staring at the empty space. She could paint wolf tracks among the blooms. Now that would be exceptional. Except Father Clemson would want saints, and her mother would probably agree with him.
Of course, if it was already completed before she returned …
She was preoccupied with her thoughts when she spied a boy scuttling across the hall with a dog trailing him. “Light two of the torchères now, would you please?” she called to him. “The ones on the far wall. And the rest later, as it grows darker.”
He stopped and looked up. “Do you address me, miss?” Isolde’s eyes widened. “Oh. I beg your pardon.” No boy at all, but a man. A very small man. “I mistook you for … well … for someone else,” she finished lamely, feeling her cheeks heat with color.
He stared at her without blinking. “You mistook me for a child,” he stated. “’Tis no great thing. You are hardly the first to do so, nor are you likely to be the last.”
She smiled at him, grateful for his understanding. “You are one of the minstrels. I am Isolde, eldest daughter of Lord Rand and Lady Josselyn.”
“Ah, so you are the mistress of Rosecliffe, to whom we owe our welcome here.” He swept low in an extravagant bow, complete with a flourish of his blue and white striped cap. “I am Gandy, at your service, milady. It will be my enormous pleasure to entertain you this e’en. To delight your ear and amuse your eye.”
Isolde smiled at his grandiose manner. “I look forward to the performance most eagerly. I am especially interested in learning more of the gittern. I play the harp, but I would welcome the chance to learn something of other musical instruments. Do you play?”
“I regret to say the gittern is not my specialty. Rh—Reevius is a most talented musician, though.” He watched her with small, clear eyes. “I will relay to Reevius your interest.”
“How very good of you.” Her eyes strayed to the dog that sat scratching one of his ears. “If you will remind me after supper, I will provide you with oil of pennyroyal to rid your pet of vermin.”
“I thank you,” he said with another grand sweep of a bow. “And Cidu thanks you.” Another bow.
Cidu? She wondered about the animal’s name. In Welsh
ci du
meant black dog. But the dwarf spoke Norman French, mixed with the occasional English word or phrase. Where were they from, these traveling musicians? And where had they most recently been?
By the time the hall began to fill and the pages to circulate with platters of roasted eel, pike in galantyne, and stewed boar, she’d half convinced herself that she could be happy traveling about as a minstrel. Were any women known to do such?
Father Clemson said grace and everyone set to the meal with a vengeance. Only Odo voiced any complaint. “Fish
and
meat, and enough to serve twice in one day,” he scolded. “Lady Josselyn is sure to be displeased when she sees the state of the storerooms.”
“I’m sure she and Father and the others are eating very well in London. They cannot complain when those of us left behind enjoy our meals.”
“But it’s not even a feast day,” he muttered.
Isolde waved one hand in dismissal of his complaints. “You needn’t fear you’ll be held responsible, Odo. I’ll freely admit that it was my doing.”
On her other side Osborn had filled his trencher and was attacking his meal with gusto. “If it upsets you so,” he said to Odo, “confine yourself only to bread and gravy at night.”
Odo gave him a disgruntled look. “When you do that, then
so shall I. Until then, I see no reason not to dine as well as every one else at Rosecliffe.”
Isolde did not listen as their bickering continued. Her eyes scanned the hall, searching for the minstrel band, eager for the evening entertainments and any news they might bring from distant lands. They sat at a table far removed from the high table, in a spot not well lit by the torchères.
She signaled the nearest page. “Light the rest of the torchères,” she instructed him with a smile.
He bobbed his head and hied himself off to do her bidding. But Odo looked up. “So soon?” he said through a mouthful of roasted eel and bread sopped in gravy. “The sun yet lingers in the sky.”
“Sweet Mary!” Isolde exclaimed. “Rushes and tallow can be replenished easily enough. Would you have our visitors eat in darkness?”
“’Tis not dark,” Osborn put in. “Besides, they are not visitors. They must earn their supper with the amusements they provide.”
“Well, I, for one, am glad of their presence. And I will be glad,” she added more tartly, “when the two of you cease this constant criticism of my decisions. Pretend I am my mother. You would never treat her so.”
“Huh. Never had a reason to,” Odo muttered. Osborn just shrugged and kept on eating.
Isolde turned her mind away from her two older mentors, and by the smoky light of the torchères she studied the foursome in question. The dwarf was a nervous, quick-witted little fellow, she saw. He sat beside the giant, emphasizing the difference in their sizes. They both had light brown hair cut straight across the brow and just below the ears, and both wore blue tunics with white sleeves showing through. One was a tiny echo of the other, she thought—or a huge echo, depending on your point of view.