A Warrior's Lady. Margaret Moore
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Torches burned in sconces in the walls, and the flickering flames of beeswax candles added to the illumination. Bright banners hung suspended overhead, and musicians in the gallery played softly, the music nearly drowned out by the conversation and laughter of Henry’s guests.
She surveyed the well-dressed ladies in their fine gowns and headdresses, the smartly attired men in their satins and velvets and furs, and the richly colored tapestries. She set herself to enjoying the music of the minstrels and the exceptional food prepared in a variety of new and startling ways.
Across the hall, a boisterous group of young knights, merry and probably more than half in their cups, were clearly having a marvelous time eating the king’s food, drinking the king’s wine and enjoying the attention of young ladies who seemed utterly captivated by them.
That wasn’t so surprising, for they were a good-looking bunch, well built and attractive. The two with curling black hair were the best looking. They were probably brothers, judging by their coloring and their similar noses and mouths. The other three, who shared brown hair in shades varying from light brown to a rich chestnut, strong jaws and lean features, were also probably related. They were as broad shouldered and muscular as the other two, but not so conventionally handsome. The tallest of these looked to be the oldest, for there was something aloof and imposing in his manner that the others lacked. The youngest of the group appeared little older than her younger brother, Piers, and he was fourteen.
They all seemed very well pleased with themselves. No doubt that went hand in hand with being the spoiled sons of rich men.
A surge of bitterness welled up inside her breast. What would they know of deprivation or harsh punishments? Of being forced to fast, or beaten with a strip of willow for some minor infraction? Probably nothing, and neither would those silly, giggling girls so obviously trying to win their masculine attention.
The envy and bitterness slowly slipped away as she fed the hound again. Those giggling girls would surely be sold off in marriage just as she would be. Could she fault them, then, for having a little harmless flirtation when they had the chance? Wouldn’t she, if she wasn’t constantly watched over by her half brothers?
If she thought she could get away with it, she would probably be the most high-spirited one of all, knowing that she had but a short time to indulge in such levity.
“Have you gone deaf, Anne?” Damon demanded, his voice a harsh snarl in her ear.
She looked up to find him glaring at her, as he so often did.
She had long ago learned the best way to deal with her aggressive half siblings was to be as placid as possible—and pummel her pillow later. “What is it, Damon?”
“There is Lord Renfrew.” Damon nodded at a stout, middle-aged man dressed in a long tunic of brilliant scarlet velvet that made him look like a fat red worm. “He’s very rich, and his third wife died last Michaelmas. If he looks at you, smile. If he asks you to join him in the dancing, you will dance. Understand?”
“Yes, Damon, I understand.”
His eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not.
In truth, she had no intention of disobeying. If Lord Renfrew looked at her, she would make a very cold, very unpleasant smile that would imply she would sooner eat dung than talk to him. If he asked her to dance, she would accept, and then she would step on his toes and ignore whatever he said. On the other hand, it might be better to avoid that situation entirely, in case the nobleman complained of her to Damon.
She rose and put her hand to her brow. “Unfortunately, Damon, I have a pain in my head. I think I had best retire.”
Benedict joined Damon in his glowering.
“You do want me at my best, do you not?” she asked. “I will not be if I remain. Besides, don’t you think a little air of mystery a good idea? I have appeared, potential suitors have seen me, so let me leave them wondering about me. You should stay here, of course. You may have another chance to remind Queen Eleanor that we are related to her.”
She held back a relieved sigh as, after a moment’s reflection, Damon nodded his permission. “Go straight to your chamber,” he commanded with a scowl. “Don’t talk to anyone.”
“Not even Lord Renfrew?”
Damon gave her a disgruntled look. “If he addresses you, you may speak to him. Nobody else.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to query him about the king, but she decided she would be wiser to get away before Damon and Benedict decided to accompany her, a prospect about as delightful as having a guard of sly and surly wolves.
After swiftly leaving the hall, she slowed her pace to stroll along the corridor lit by torches. Their smoke drifted out through long, narrow windows open to the air. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, in spite of the heavy velvet brocade gown she wore, for the October night was chill. She would be glad to get to her chamber, which would be warmed by a brazier full of glowing coals. There she could get into bed and let herself remember all that she had seen before she drifted off to sleep.
She would think of the beautiful gowns and rich fabrics. She would imagine that she was one of that giggly gaggle of girls, except that in her waking dream she would bandy such clever words with the young men, they would be agog.
She wondered who that particular group of young men were and where they came from. Were they English or French or some other nationality? Were they sons of great lords or minor nobility? Were any of them married? What of the one who seemed more mature than the others?
She heard a sound behind her and halted, turning to see what it was. A mouse, perhaps, or the wind.
A man stood in the shadows.
She stiffened, then reminded herself she was in the king’s castle, and there were many soldiers on guard. She had but to scream, and she would be heard. As her half brothers knew, she could scream very loudly.
The man stepped out of the shadows into the flickering light of the torches. It was the eldest of that merry group in the hall, the one with chestnut-brown hair. The aloof, impressive one.
Standing up, he seemed even more splendid than when he had been sitting down, with long, lean legs she had no business staring at. His plain black tunic reached to mid-thigh and stretched across broad shoulders. The pristine white shirt beneath made his tanned face seem even more masculine.
Most intriguing and unusual, though, were his eyes. They were light-gray and rimmed with black, so startling a contrast to his dark complexion, they seemed to glow in the torchlight. His nose was particularly fine, and his lips were full and made her wonder what they would be like to kiss.
Bold, wanton thought!
Still, those others in the hall could not really compare, not now. The curly-haired young men could be cherubs, while this man was an archangel—Saint Michael, perhaps. God’s warrior.
He ambled closer and her heart began to pound, the throbbing loud in her ears. This was a situation entirely new to her, and entirely exciting. But this meeting was really most improper.
Yet her half brothers were back there in the hall, no doubt quarreling about something. Piers was in his room, sulking because Damon had made him stay behind as punishment for not polishing his armor well enough. She was, in the only sense she ever was, free, if only for a little while.
An unfamiliar excitement, potent and dangerous, skittered through her body as she envisioned a clandestine rendezvous with this man. Her mind reeled as pictures of what might happen in a secluded corridor flashed unbidden into her imagination.
An embrace. A passionate kiss. Moans. Sighs. Her leg bared as his strong, lean hand lifted her skirt…
She flushed, hot with shame at her own vivid imaginings, while he continued to regard her steadily, not with arrogance or lust, but as if he could not look away.
No one had ever looked at her like that, and no gaze had ever made her feel so warm and yet so