A Warrior's Lady. Margaret Moore
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his cheek, to feel that roughness beneath her open palm. She wanted to explain that she had no idea Damon was going to make such a serious charge against him and that she had no part in it. She wanted to slip her hand behind his head and pull him down for a kiss.
Somebody else was rubbing her hand vigorously. The king called for a servant to fetch water, and a voice with a Welsh accent ordered people to “stop your crowding and make room.”
After an appropriate length of time and when the worst of the ensuing cacophony had ceased, she fluttered her eyelids as if returning to consciousness.
“Take deep breaths, my lady,” Sir Reece brusquely ordered. “No need to rub so hard, Gervais.”
She glanced down to see one of the young men who must be Sir Reece’s brother clutching her hand. He stopped rubbing and let it fall.
“What happened?” she murmured, looking back up at Sir Reece.
“You swooned.”
Now he didn’t look or sound concerned for her health. If anything, his unusual eyes studied her as if he were a judge and she had been caught with stolen goods in her hands.
“I am…better…now,” she whispered, telling herself that was not quite a lie. She did feel better—much better—when he held her in his arms. “It is the crowd, the questions.”
She realized the king was hovering on the other side of Reece’s brother. Damon stood behind the king, his face settling into a familiar scowl.
“Forgive me, sire,” she whispered.
“I should have considered that it might be difficult for you and asked my questions without such an audience,” Henry said with an encouraging smile. “If you are up to it, my dear, we could retire to my solar to finish this conversation.”
“I believe I can manage that, sire,” she murmured, pleased that her plan had worked.
“Sir Gervais, Sir Blaidd, help her,” the king commanded.
“Gladly, sire,” two deep voices said in unison. One pair of strong hands with dark hairs on the back of the fingers took hold of her right arm; another pair of hands took hold of her left, and suddenly she was hoisted to her feet. Meanwhile, Sir Reece rose and straightened his plain dark tunic, wincing slightly.
She had momentarily forgotten the wound in his side. How it must have hurt him to catch her, and yet his face had betrayed nothing of that pain, until this small sign.
Damon and Benedict would have been whining and complaining for weeks, demanding to be waited on hand and foot, if such an injury had been done to them.
“You two stay here with the others,” the king ordered. “I will escort Lady Anne, and you may lend your arm to your queen, Sir Reece. We need no one else.”
Anne dearly wished she could see the look on her half brother’s face as the king himself led her from the hall.
Well, she could imagine it, at any rate, and she had to fight hard to subdue a smug smirk that would have done credit to Damon himself.
With Eleanor and Sir Reece following, Henry led her to a thick door behind a tapestry that opened into a smaller chamber much more comfortable than the hall. The room even sported a hearth in the wall, a very modern innovation, where a cheery fire crackled and blazed. Chairs covered with bright silk cushions stood near it, and on a finely carved table rested a silver carafe and goblets. Two servants waited there, standing as straight as sentries. Ornate tapestries of unicorns and other fantastical beasts hung on the walls.
With a sigh, the king sat near the hearth. Eleanor did likewise, in the thronelike chair beside the one her husband had taken.
“Sit down, my dear,” Henry said to Anne, gesturing at a chair opposite, “before you swoon again. Thomson, some wine for the lady.”
Anne perched on the edge of the chair and accepted the wine, noting that Sir Reece remained standing, his feet planted and his hands behind his back, as if he were on sentry duty, too.
After a delicate sip, she handed the goblet back to the servant and made a tentative smile at the king. “I feel much better, sire. Thank you.”
Henry nodded, then folded his arms across his chest. “Now then, Lady Anne, what happened the night Sir Reece was beaten?”
The queen laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm.
“Or punished,” Henry amended after a swift glance at Eleanor, “as we shall determine before there is any more acrimony in my court.”
Anne licked her lips before replying. “Sire, exactly what charge has Damon made against Sir Reece?”
The king’s eyes widened a bit. Her question obviously startled him. Or perhaps the king was not used to questions at all. “Sir Damon has accused Sir Reece of trying to rape you.”
She bit back a curse that would have done Damon proud, even as she wanted to scream with frustration. How could he have said such a thing? This charge would not only taint the innocent Sir Reece, but her, too. Even if the details were lost to the memory of those in the hall, her name would forever be linked with a rape, as would Sir Reece’s.
Therefore, she must and would clear Sir Reece of that terrible crime—but delicately, for her own sake, so that she would not be separated from Piers.
She glanced at Sir Reece. His stoic face revealed nothing, yet he must be feeling something, and probably anger most of all.
“Sire,” she said, deciding to address herself solely to the king because she was treading on treacherous ground here. If she paid too much attention to Sir Reece, the king and queen might think their meeting had not been innocent. They might well conclude that there had indeed been no rape, but for the wrong reason, and her honor would suffer a different slander. “My half brothers leapt to the wrong conclusions when they saw Sir Reece talking to me in the castle corridor. He was not attacking me. We were merely exchanging pleasantries. He did not even touch me. Unfortunately, in their righteous zeal, they didn’t give either of us a chance to explain.”
“Sir Reece did not try to force his attentions upon you in any way?”
“No, sire. He followed me from your hall and spoke to me when I was alone in the corridor, which was inappropriate, but there was nothing forceful about it.”
Once more the queen laid a delicate hand upon her husband’s arm. “But they did have some cause to be angry?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted.
Henry leaned close to Eleanor and whispered. She frowned, then whispered back. They glanced at Sir Reece, then her.
Anne marshaled her patience and tried to be calm. She had told the truth, and spoken as carefully as she could. There was nothing more to be done except wait to hear what the king decided.
That did not stop her from wondering what Sir Reece was thinking. Did he appreciate her defense? Did he have any notion of the risk she was taking telling the truth, for when Damon learned she had not agreed with his tale com-pletely, he would surely be enraged. Being locked away in her chamber for a day or two would be the least punishment she could expect.
When her patience was beginning to wear as thin as one of her silk scarves, the royal couple finally stopped whispering and looked at them.
“We are inclined to believe you, Lady Anne,” Henry announced.
Anne let out a sigh, and she realized Sir Reece had done the same. She glanced at him then, but he was still staring stoically ahead, apparently as intently ignoring her as she had been ignoring him.
“However,” the king continued, “it is clear that there was some just cause for anger on the part of the Delasaines.”
Sir Reece stiffened, but he did not speak. That silence seemed worse than if he had started shouting. It was like being in the presence of a great force of water held back by a decrepit wooden dam.