The Troubadour's Romance Read online

  Three

  The bells to early-morning mass could be heard in the courtyard of the castle, and from the window of her chamber Felise could see Eleanor venture there, with her ladies following at a fair distance. Beyond, subtly but nevertheless apparent, were guards and knights that roamed freely and with watchful eyes. Their purpose was unquestionable. Eleanor was not trusted by her husband for a moment.

  Richard, duke of Aquitaine, had long been known for his religious zeal and was likewise enroute to mass, accompanied by clergy wearing ornate and rich robes. From her high perch Felise marveled at his majesty. He was a tall and handsome man, his clothing rich and impeccable. One could see him at the head of a grand army, for he carried himself as if he would be at ease commanding.

  Felise turned from the window to make her own way to chapel, her head covered and her beads and crucifix in her hand. By the time she reached the courtyard, most of those attending mass had already gone inside, and she was relieved that she would be kneeling at the rear of the chapel with the backs of these high-powered nobles to her and not their eyes. It had taken no time at all to notice that people stared at her.

  It was the beginning of only her second day at Windsor; this eve she would be joined by her parents. The place did not hold the magic and intrigue she thought to find, and, in truth, her thoughts roved in confusion in her mind. With all those friends of her brothers and sons of her father’s acquaintances, she had never been properly courted or asked for her hand. If a case had been brought to Lord Scelfton, he hadn’t mentioned it. She found herself ill prepared for her mother’s oath that marriage for her was urgent.

  She judged the backs of the ladies, lords, and knights. Some older gentlemen were thin or slumped; some knights were broad-shouldered, some paunchy and thick. She knew naught of their holdings, possessions, skills, or habits. In truth, she could be given to some Welsh lord or a knight from the northern clans if her father judged his lot to be worthy and the king and queen found it favorable. And how could that be determined? Surely not by the same standards by which Felise would choose. Harlan would not consider the handsomeness of the man or the gentleness of his nature. Eleanor might be moved by his artful verse and not his honorable nature. Would Henry care more for a man strong of arms than for a man youthful enough to be a good father to sons?

  My lady mother is more wise than I allowed, she thought forlornly. The droning Latin of the bishop faded from her ears. She recited the mass out of habit, not thinking about her prayers but occupied with other thoughts: I have watched my friends marry and given no thought to my own wedding. They have delivered their children while I have dallied with my stitchery or my mare, and in all this time, I have never considered the men who might ask for me. I play maiden’s games with knights as if I were kept safe in some tower, far from being touched, yet before this week is out, some man will own me. Why have I slept through these years in which I might have at least looked and offered my parents some hint of my preference?

  It was no fault of her family, for they had often mentioned her dowry, her prospects, and made some introductions. For herself, although she had taken pains with pleasing her mother as she was taught the management of a household, she had played at womanhood and measured herself by the rod that a child uses. She had ignored the fact that she would one day marry and bear a child, and now that day was upon her.

  The hour passed slowly, Felise rising and falling to her knees, praying over her beads and keeping her head bowed. It was easier, somehow, to steal this time from mass for brooding than to find solace in her rooms, where Daria would question her. When the bishop was finished, she fled the chapel quickly. Her place near the rear made her flight easier, and she managed the whole mass without being spoken to by anyone.

  The lady Vespera had been accurate when describing the gardens. They were well pruned, and the promise of beauty come spring was evident, despite the barren and brown landscape that Felise found. There were paths and benches, all leading to a central courtyard where people would gather for community. Felise walked lazily about the area, hardly looking at the planters, trees, or statues, but concentrating on her foolhardy dismissal of adult concerns. Finally, unresolved, she began her way back to her rooms.

  The halls were cold and dank, giving promise to the thought of a blazing hearth. There was no merriment for her now, and she wished to be in the inn with her parents and brothers, or better still, home in the Twyford keep where the servants were her friends and the villeins her playmates. She swept her hood off her head and let it fall around her shoulders. As she walked down the long, dark corridor toward the back stairs to her rooms, she considered her good fortune in knowing the way, for this great palace was a maze of halls and galleries and rooms. She paused suddenly, listening.

  “Aye, demoiselle, you are followed.”

  She turned abruptly and saw Sir Royce poised just a few paces behind her, leaning casually against the wall. He was free of his warring accoutrements now, wearing chausses and tunic in his colors of red and gold. On his left breast he wore his family blazon and on his finger a rich ruby in the crest.

  Her eyes flashed in anger, though perhaps fear would have been more appropriate. “Why do you follow me, sir?”

  He moved toward her at a leisurely pace and seemed unperturbed by her discomfort. “More out of curiosity than anything, maid Felise. I wondered at your roamings through the grounds and halls. Do you court danger, or has some lover failed to keep his appointment?”

  “I would bid no man keep an appointment alone with me,” she quickly replied, aghast at his blatant accusation.

  “Ah, the danger, then,” he replied with a smile. He reached a finger toward her collar where her hair, shimmering golden in the torch-lit hall, had collected and bunched, the bulk of it buried beneath her mantle. A deft finger pulled a long lock of it forward, and he tested its smoothness between his thumb and forefinger. Felise stood numbed by his familiarity, experiencing his action as if she were an observer rather than a participant. Finally realizing he did this freely without her protest, she snatched her hair away from him.

  “I was told I was safe in Henry’s house,” she flung at him. “I trust I would not have been bidden to walk these halls freely had anyone known you were about.”

  His laughter, deep and low, sent a chill up her back, and the hairs at the base of her neck stood up. “Demoiselle, you have been crudely misinformed. Did Sir Wharton perhaps bid you roam?”

  “Nay,” she answered, growing more uncomfortable with his presence every moment.

  “Good,” Royce replied. “He would likely hide himself in some dark corner and pounce upon you. His treatment of women is not gentle, it is said.”

  Felise tried to summon courage and stood as erect as possible, but in her hands her beads trembled. “Tis you, sir knight, lurking in the dark hall ... and Sir Wharton warned me of your treatment of women.”

  Again the tall knight laughed, a soft and rather seductive rumbling. His teeth were bright in this dim space, and his hair seemed to be threaded with gold. The cool and distant brown eyes had warmed and darkened. He studied her face, his smile fading even as his eyes smouldered, and Felise could not decide whether it was fear she felt or a surge of desire.

  Wharton was handsome, a thing she could not lay to Royce. His roughened looks were further marred by a scar across one brow and a nose bent twice in its arch. She wondered at his strange appeal, for his face suggested something rugged and dangerous. He seemed more barbarous than the average English knight, resembling her idea of a Viking or German warrior. His build was generous, the strength in his shoulders and upper arms frightening, and in his smile there was a hint of devilish glee, and her knees began to weaken.

  “Wharton knows nothing of my treatment of women,” he said softly. “I treat very few.”

  Felise’s eyes widened at the crude remark, yet in her only experience with the man, this was typical. He played no courtly games, did not give her compliments where they might
find a willing target, and his only verbal expressions were tinged with vulgarity. Her mouth moved well ahead of her mind. “You are not chivalrous, but roguish when you speak.”

  “And you would have charm, my lady?” he asked, his eyes swiftly sweeping her well-covered form, amusement marking his features. “Wharton does cosset the maids well. I admit, I am not skilled in this, yet I know my mind. I know what I want. And I know how to give back full score what I am given.”

  “Charm would yield more than rude remarks,” she returned easily. “Why are you curious of me? Do you feel anger, still, from my foolery with your knights?”

  “Nay.” He shrugged. “The men enjoy the harlot’s game from time to time.”

  “Jesu, you spare no dignity with your insults, sir, I but entered the chase from safe distance.”

  “‘Tis your great inheritance and the bait you set for suitors that draw my interest, Lady Felise. How many have spoken without benefit of an introduction?”

  “I know nothing of what--”

  “The trap of your land in France, your dower purse in England ... the price of your great wealth has spread amongst the circles of men with debts to pay. How will you choose? More important, who will approve your choice? Is it the king?”

  “Sir Royce, I fear you are mistaken,” she attempted, shaken by his remarks.

  “How can I be? This I have heard from many sources, that you are here by royal command and your purpose is to achieve a marriage to make the king a good political alliance.”

  “Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “Lest you fall victim to wagging tongues, ‘tis a simple misunderstanding. My mother, close to the queen before Eleanor’s removal to Old Sarum Castle, leaves a modest dowry of lands that have been managed by a castellan in France. The dowry my father provides is likewise modest. It comes to not more than is adequate, neither plot being large enough to make much matter or yield much revenue. I am here only for a brace of days to enjoy the court because of this old friendship.” Felise knew that he would not discern the difference between the natural mother she could not remember and Lady Edrea. They could be one and the same, from her telling.

  “This is a hoax?” he asked, frowning.

  “I think that the story, while truthful enough, has grown large in the minds of ambitious men. As to choice, I trust my father will judge my betrothed, not the king.”

  She turned sharply then, intending to flee from his presence, but he snatched her arm and drew her back to him.

  “Don’t fly, cherie, “he said, holding her much too closely. She looked up into his eyes, first frightened by his strength and nearness and also confused by his strange pursuit. He seemed to scorn her, as if she were the last woman on earth he would be bothered with, yet he had followed her and now held her so that she could not move.

  “You hurt me,” she attempted softly, but in his eyes she could see he did not hear. He looked at her in a strange, besotted way, perhaps not seeing her at all. She was frozen by the hypnotic stare, her legs growing weak and her heart beginning to beat frantically. Above their heads a torch flickered in a draft common to the dark passageways, but neither noticed. Nor did any sudden breeze lessen the unusual heat that Felise felt flood through her. His head slowly bent as his eyes gradually closed and she felt his breath trespass warmly upon her startled mouth, and then the touch of his flesh, soft and delicate, brushed her lips.

  The hold on her arms slackened and all sense of time and space was gone. Her beads dropped from her hand, and she found herself held firmly against his hard, muscular chest, with no memory of how or when she had moved. And as though entranced, her own arms rose to embrace his shoulders. His mouth demanded more than a mere caress and moved over her lips in search of a greater passion. She felt the power of his kiss part her lips, and a surging warmth roamed deep in the softness of her mouth.

  Felise was lost. She searched her memory for some experience of a lover’s kiss and found none. She tried in vain to recall a dream in which she could summon no will to resist. There was nothing in all her life to prepare her for this man’s touch or the feelings that possessed her when his lips commanded hers. A river of emotion--weakness, fear, elation, response--assailed her from every facet of her being. She was warm to flushing, then chilled through her bones. She began to tremble and a small whimper of despair left her, for she was in no measure in control of her own mind or body.

  He released her mouth and a hungry feeling enveloped her, though she could in no way say what she craved. While he looked into her eyes with glowing desire, she had only a startled expression for him, failing to understand any of what had just passed between them.

  He suddenly stiffened, and though he held her possessively, he turned and looked behind him, around the dark gallery. His eyes narrowed and he frowned. As she looked up at him she was reminded of a cat that, sensing trouble, sharpens all its senses. “What is it?” she whispered.

  He looked back at her. “I felt someone watch, but there is no one.” The spell was broken. His embrace slackened and his voice was low and mocking when he spoke, his expression changed and completely unreadable. “No matter what you were told, maiden, you would be safer alone in the wood than in these halls. Bolt your door and venture beyond with only the greatest of care.”

  He took her arm and, turning her, led her through the hall toward the back stairs and her rooms. He required no direction to lead her, making it clear he had known where she was housed. When she was before her bower door, he turned abruptly, presenting his back almost angrily, and left her to stare at his departure in confusion. She had the vaguest feeling she had been violated quite beyond all propriety, yet the hunger persisted and she fought herself from calling him back.

  Within moments he had vanished, and she simply sought the solace of her chamber, entering and throwing the bolt behind her. Daria rose from her chair beside the fire where she sat mending and stopped short when she saw the expression on Felise’s face.

  Sir Royce had left no mark and she was not in any way disheveled. But for a stray lock of hair that fell over her breast and curled beneath her waist, she looked as she had when she left her rooms for mass. Yet in her moist eyes there was a startled knowledge, and on her parted lips, brightened from the power of his kiss, there was the shock of awareness of something wonderfully fearful. She was as speechless as she was breathless and could barely recognize Daria, though she looked fully at her.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Felise whispered, her voice inaudible as her lips moved over the words that were both exclamation and prayer. Daria took two steps toward her and her world suddenly seemed to come crashing down around her. Her breath caught in her throat in a jagged sob. Tears wet her eyes and flowed down her cheeks, and her hands began to tremble. “Daria,” she sobbed, alarmingly overrun by emotion. “I... I... lost my prayer beads ...”

  ***

  A squire delivered Felise again to the dining hall, but this time she was greeted affectionately by Lady Edrea. Lord Scelfton likewise kissed his daughter’s cheeks, but his mood was no lighter than it had been the evening before she left his care.

  “I’m so very glad you’re with me,” she told her mother more than once, clinging possessively to Lady Edrea’s hand. She was still aware of the looks that were cast her way, but during her meal she conversed only with her parents and those who shared their table. The others were thankfully either women well beyond her in years or already married. No potential suitors shared their table.

  Lord Scelfton greeted one dinner companion with special fondness. An aging baron, a man of perhaps sixty years and deformed from some old warring injury, approached them and bowed, giving his name as Aswin, Lord Orrick. Harlan came forward of his wife and daughter and took his hand in friendship, startling the man with recognition. They then embraced each other in reunion.

  Aswin dragged one leg when he walked, and when seated it remained straight and stiff. In addition, one of his arms was held tightly at his side, the fingers bent and gnarled and
appearing useless. It seemed his entire left side was crippled.

  Edrea made his acquaintance warmly, for she was never a woman to be put off by an affliction. Felise was somewhat withdrawn at first, but as the evening progressed and she listened to her father and Aswin laughingly exchange tales of old knights long since retired from battle, she found Aswin amusing, warm, and delightful company.

  “Aye, Harlan, so long ago we rode upon the Welsh. I fail to remember it as clearly as you do. In my memory, we were sadly overtaken by barbarous lords and fled spears and arrows lest we have our faces shaved without our request.” Aswin laughed good-naturedly. “In your recollection, ‘twas quite the other way--we were heroes of the day. Forsooth, I drink to your memory.”

  Through the laughter, Harlan exclaimed, “‘Twas your head that took a rock hurled by one of those bastards, and you could not count your fingers for a fortnight.”

  They drank and toasted each remembered tale, laughing at both victory and folly. It was a long time before their attentions included the ladies. “Edrea,” Aswin confided, “I would have you know he spoke of you when we were on the campaign together, for long before your wedding he labored poorly when you were apart. I wearied with this besotted groom’s musings, but now that we’ve finally met, I see the reason for his trials.”

  “He said you had a smooth tongue, my lord,” Edrea laughed lightly. “And it is a practiced verse you sing.”

  “Ah, you do me wrong. I have long since given up singing of love and the verse is gone from my heart. I am widowed,” he said, slamming his fist on the table. “Would Harlan approve me as a husband for your young goddess?”

  Felise knew they spoke in jest, and she found herself laughing, enjoying her father’s outrageous behavior. It was not often that Harlan acted in so frivolous and jolly a manner.

  “You old bull,” Harlan scoffed at Aswin. “I know your surly ways and wouldn’t let you near any woman of my household.”