Conquering Knight, Captive Lady. Anne O'Brien
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again to the gatehouse battlements. Looked over. Frowned. Within little more than two hundred yards of the gate, on the flat piece of flood plain between castle, river and village, the well-loaded wagon had come to a halt. Fitz Osbern’s mounted escort dismounted. Quilts were being shaken out, some of the packages unloaded on to the grass. The soldiers, after some conversation with the more eye-catching of the distant figures who waved her arm in obvious dismissal, turned their horses to return to the castle.
‘God’s blood!’
‘I did warn you,’ Hugh remarked. ‘The lady has a war-like look in her eye. She looks as if she intends to stay. She’s pitched her camp, you could say …’
Ignoring the amusement in de Mortimer’s voice, Fitz Osbern watched in startled disbelief as the figures spread the quilts on the ground, wrapped themselves securely in their cloaks, hoods pulled up, and sat down to await events.
‘A whim,’ Fitz Osbern muttered. ‘She’ll soon tire of it. By midmorning they’ll be gone. I’d wager my sword on it.’ He marched off.
‘I wouldn’t!’ Hugh de Mortimer called after him, laughing.
The rain started, at first a light soaking mist. Then a heavier patter.
‘This’ll do it, Hugh.’ The Marcher lords had been unable to resist returning to their vantage point to assess developments. The women were as they had been some hours ago, but now the quilts had been pulled over their heads, the three figures huddled beneath and together for warmth. It was possible to just make out the dark shape through the rain.
‘You have to give her credit, though.’
‘For what?’ Fitz Osbern struck his fist against the stone coping, but a little thread of worry, even shame, had begun to slide along his skin. ‘Obstinacy and hard-headedness? If she thinks she’ll shame me into opening the gates and inviting her back, she’s wrong!’
The intensity of the rain increased.
‘What are we doing, Rosamund?’ Petronilla cringed beneath the quilts, unnaturally but understandably petulant. ‘We shall die here. I can feel an ague coming on. I can feel the damp settling into my bones. I don’t want to die here in the mud.’ Her voice hitched in misery. ‘I would rather be at Lower Broadheath.’
‘And so you shall be.’ Rosamund put her arm round her mother’s shoulders. ‘Of course we will not die. No man of chivalry, not even Fitz Osbern, would allow that to happen. Just wait a little longer.’ She patted the hand of Edith, who had begun to sob.
‘Are you sure he’s a man of honour?’ Petronilla sniffed. ‘I’m not. Lord de Mortimer perhaps, but not Fitz Osbern.’
‘Perhaps he’s not. But de Mortimer will persuade him, will not allow it even if it’s only to save you from discomfort. I would say he’s very taken with you.’
All Lady Petronilla could do was splutter into the damp neck of her cloak.
‘I won’t give in. Not yet. Be courageous, Mother. We have so much to gain. I promise I’ll not allow you to come to any harm.’
Rosamund tucked another quilt around Petronilla, uneasily aware that she might indeed be putting her mother’s health in danger, sitting in the cold grass as the rain swirled around them. And what guarantee that the man would back down? There was none. But now was no time for second thoughts—she could afford to retreat as little as he. He had rejected her once and could readily do so again. He did not even remember her! Pride spurred her on, just as the anger racing through her blood kept her warm.
The rain pattered heavily on the soaked quilts.
‘Is she still out there?’
‘Yes! God’s Blood!’
‘Ger—you must do something. It’s neither seemly nor honourable.’
Gervase Fitz Osbern huffed a breath against the worry that had become a distinct unease. ‘If only the daughter were as biddable as the mother. Very well. I can’t leave them out there. I must try persuasion rather than brute force. I’ll send de Byton out to fetch them in—until better travelling weather. But further than that I will not bend. They can’t stay here.’
On hearing the approach of hooves, Rosamund lifted the quilt and peered out to see de Byton, surly, reining in his horse.
‘Well?’ She scented victory, but kept her face stern.
De Byton wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘My lord says you’re to come within, lady.’
‘No. We will not. Tell your master—for it seems you have betrayed your de Longspey loyalties—’ heavy irony despite water dripping from her hood ‘—tell him I need to hear it from his own lips that I shall be invited back. That I shall be allowed to stay for as long as I wish. That I shall not be bullied into departing against my will.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And that I shall have the solar and the private chamber for my own use. He must come here and tell me himself. Do you understand?’
A short grunt was the only reply. De Byton wheeled his horse and cantered back.
‘She says what?’
De Byton repeated the conversation with relish and a rare disgust for all womenkind, at that moment fully appreciated by Fitz Osbern. ‘She’s intransigent, my lord. She’ll hear it only from yourself, my lord.’
‘Will she, now?’ The icy flash of anger did not bode well. Fitz Osbern leaned on the battlement and fixed his attention on de Mortimer, an idea developing. He faced his friend, expression bland.
‘A simple solution. You could fetch them in, Hugh. Your words would be kinder than mine. You have a gift when appealing to the soft heart of a woman …’
‘No. I won’t. You’re going to have to grasp the dagger’s edge, Ger. It’s you she wants, your assurance. You have no choice.’
Nor did he, Gervase acknowledged, as he wiped the rain from his face. She had won her battle. But what would be the consequences for him? Uncomfortable with his line of thought, he shrugged his shoulders against the weight of his wet jerkin. What would it be like for him to have this woman as effective chatelaine of his castle? When it should have been Matilda, his young wife who had not lived long enough to make the place her own. He frowned at the unwanted memory. A soft, pretty, fair-haired girl, who would have been a good wife to him, carried his children, presented him with an heir to the Fitz Osbern lands; with tuition from him, she would have held the reins of power in his name. But Matilda was dead and in her place, if he weakened, he would have this de Longspey woman on his hands, who needed no lessons from him in exerting her will, and who would surely see his retreat as a victory over him, and take it as a precedent.
He did not want that. He definitely did not want that.
Yet Gervase looked out at the sad little party under their soaked coverings and exhaled loudly. No, he had no choice but to take them back. Even if it meant Rosamund de Longspey stepping on the hem of Matilda’s increasingly shadowy gown.
‘I dislike surrender,’ Gervase snarled.
‘No such thing,’ De Mortimer replied cheerfully. ‘See it as an organised retreat before superior forces.’
‘God’s bones!’
‘Well, lady, I’m here, as you requested.’
‘I did not think you would come.’ Rosamund scrambled from under the covering despite the relentless downpour, face raised to him, noting the heavy scowl, but determined to hold firm. Regardless of the rain, regardless of her heavily thudding heart, she fixed her eyes on his, praying that he would not think the raindrops on her lashes were a sign of female weakness.
‘What do you want from me?’ Fitz Osbern demanded.
‘To return. I’m sure de Byton informed you of my terms, my lord.’
Rosamund had almost given up. She would admit to