The Norman's Heart. Margaret Moore
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him to get jealous?
“Falkes de Bréauté’s mercenaries continue to behave like untamed beasts,” the baron continued. “I think the king will have to get rid of the man somehow, although—Roger?”
“Baron?”
“Forgive me, Roger,” the baron said indulgently. His eyes, however, blazed with irritation, which got Roger’s undivided attention immediately. “I was forgetting this was the night before your wedding. Perhaps I should stop telling you the news and allow you to retire.”
“My apologies, Baron,” Roger said, instantly and truly contrite. “I was listening.”
The baron nodded, and his vexation seemed to evaporate. “Be that as it may, your wedding is tomorrow, and I have kept you here far too long. This news can keep.” The baron moved conspiratorially closer. “She is quite different from Reginald, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“God’s blood,” the baron said, shifting and leaning comfortably against the back of the chair, “I’m glad of it. Reginald’s a harmless enough fellow, but I couldn’t imagine living with him. She is a shapely wench, isn’t she? I must confess that red hair took me by surprise. I can only surmise she has a temper to match.”
“I believe so, my lord,” Roger acknowledged.
“Well,” the baron said, rising and stretching his muscular arms over his head, “if anyone can handle a tempestuous woman, Roger, it would be you.” He looked shrewdly at the younger man. “If you don’t want her, you have only to tell me. I have discovered that the Chilcotts’ property is not what I had been led to believe.”
It occurred to Roger that the baron’s second wife, who had been some years older than the baron, had recently died. Although Roger admired Baron DeGuerre, he knew the man was a clever schemer who might have some unknown reason for wanting Mina Chilcott for himself.
That idea did not please Roger at all. “I have made an agreement with Reginald,” he said. “I intend to keep it.”
The baron smiled, a truly warm expression of satisfaction he rarely bestowed. “Good. I believed you to be a man of your word, and now I know it is so. A long and happy life to you!”
“Thank you, baron,” Roger said with great politeness. Inside, he was seething with rage. The baron had no need to test his honor, not after the years Roger had spent in his service, and after he had agreed to tie himself to a useless fool like Chilcott with a marriage that the baron had proposed. Baron DeGuerre should know that for Sir Roger de Montmorency, disloyalty was more terrible than any of the mortal sins, and worthy of the most ghastly hell imaginable.
“I did not mean to offend you, Roger,” the baron said sincerely. He looked down at his own powerful hands, which had fought so many times and killed so many men. “I was thinking of your happiness. If you would rather not marry Mina Chilcott, I will not take it amiss.”
“Are you interested...?” Roger let his deliberately tranquil voice trail off suggestively.
“Gracious God, no! I have no wish to marry again,” the baron responded with unquestionable sincerity.
“I have no complaint to make about the arrangements,” Roger said, his suspicions allayed, though he was somewhat unhappy for his overlord. Baron DeGuerre’s two marriages had given him wealth and status, but perhaps, Roger thought, perhaps that was all.
What was wrong with that? What other reasons could a man have for marrying? “I do have one cause for some trepidation,” Roger said in a more jovial tone. “I fear that on my wedding night, my bride may be harder to pierce than my shield.”
The baron chuckled. “I do not doubt your ability to kindle passion in even the coldest maiden.”
Roger raised his goblet in acknowledgement, and the two men shared a companionable laugh.
They did not see Mina, standing on the stairs in the shadows, a deep frown on her face.
Unable to sleep, Mina had waited for the noise in the hall to cease. The cacophony had died down, but she had not heard Reginald and wondered what was happening to keep him below. Then she thought she heard Hilda’s giggle. She had tried to tell herself it didn’t matter what Sir Roger was doing, or with whom. They were not married yet. Even then, many men had dalliances with women other than their wives.
She had looked out the door anyway, to see Hilda supporting an obviously drunk Reginald and helping him into his room. Mina tarried a little longer and soon saw Hilda leave Reginald’s chamber and go below. Perhaps looking for Sir Roger?
Again Mina tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter, and again she didn’t quite succeed. She crept down the steps, listening carefully. When she drew near the hall, she realized that most of the guests had also retired for the night. Hilda was nowhere to be seen, nor the ubiquitous Dudley. Only Sir Roger and the baron were awake and talking together at the high table.
She had turned, prepared to go back to her chamber, when she caught mention of her name. Slipping into the shadows, she stayed and heard them talking about her as if she were no more than any common wench. To Mina, they seemed like grotesquely leering jesters making sport at her expense.
What a silly little fool she had been for even starting to think that Roger de Montmorency might be any different from every man she had ever known. She had been a dolt to feel anything for him. He was like all the others.
She began to walk back to her chamber, recalling what she had overheard. The idea that Sir Roger could make her swoon with ecstasy without even trying was enough to make her grind her teeth in anger. The boastful, vain, pompous creature! No doubt all the women he had made love with so far had been like Hilda, serving wenches or peasants who believed there was something special about a nobleman, or who wanted something in return, like money or advancement.
Well, she knew better. Noblemen were men first, and seldom noble. If her betrothed thought he could just crook his finger and find Mina Chilcott waiting patiently in the nuptial bed, he would soon learn otherwise.
Chapter Four
Sir Roger de Montmorency’s wedding day dawned gray and unseasonably cool, with a heavy drizzle and chill breezes that made it seem as if an October day had somehow found its way to July by mistake.
“What are you going to do?” Albert asked the groom, who stood at the door of the hall staring gloomily out into the inner ward. “You could have the blessing in the chapel rather than outside the doors, I suppose.”
“I suppose,” Roger answered. “But the chapel is too small. All the guests won’t be able to go inside, and those who do not fit will probably feel insulted.” He sighed deeply as Dudley bustled about the hall behind him, admonishing the servants or mumbling to himself. “God’s wounds,” Roger snarled, “this wedding is too much trouble. And it’s costing a fortune, too.”
“Chilcott’s paying for most of it,” Albert reminded him. “And the baron’s pleased.”
“He should be,” Roger muttered.
“She’s not as bad as all that.”
Roger didn’t respond except to close the door and turn around just as Hilda sauntered by. She gave him a tentative smile. “Has Lord Chilcott managed to crawl out of his bed?” he asked the maidservant, mindful of the goblets of wine the young man had ingested, and grateful that he wasn’t the one paying for it.
“Aye, my lord,” Hilda answered with a throaty chuckle. “But the poor fellow looks like a corpse.”
“And his sister?”
“She’s not come out of her chamber, and I don’t think she intends to until the wedding. The door’s locked and she’s not letting anybody in. Says