The Rogue. Ana Seymour
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quiet evening times with her little nephew, though she knew that he would soon be beyond such attentions. Over three years old now, he seemed to grow bigger daily.
The door to her bedchamber creaked open. “Do you think to sit here the rest of the night, daughter?” Phillip Thibault asked softly, taking one step into the room.
“Flora was right, Father,” she answered, still rocking, and rubbing her hand lightly over the child’s dark curls. “Handsome as the devil himself, she used to say. Dancing black eyes that can melt the innards of whatever woman they light upon.”
“You should come down to sup, lass. You’ve taken nothing since this morning, and that was before dawn.”
Beatrice’s glance slid to her father. Her blue eyes were icy without a hint of tears. “As handsome as the devil and twice as wicked, I trow.”
Phillip shook his head sadly. “Put little Owen in his bed and come downstairs with me. Gertie left a leg of mutton that’s fair charred on the spit while I’ve waited for you.”
“You should have supped, Father. I’ve no taste for food this night.”
Phillip walked across the room. His daughter’s bedchamber was large, encompassing half the upper floor of the Gilded Boar. It had once been the master’s quarters, but when Beatrice had come from York to care for her sister, Phillip had insisted on moving to the small room at the rear of the inn. He’d stayed there now that the big upstairs chamber served as both sleeping quarters and nursery. The big bed Phillip had shared years ago for too short a span with Beatrice and Flora’s mother was pushed up against one slanting wall. The rest of the room was devoted to the child’s needs.
“You’ll be a fine nursemaid to the lad on the morrow after a day of fasting,” Phillip said sternly, reaching for the child. “He’ll be awake with the cock’s crow, running every which way and begging to be off to the meadow while you slump over your porridge.”
Owen murmured as his grandfather lifted him, but remained asleep. Beatrice watched nervously as her father carried the child across the room. Phillip was not strong these days, and at times the shaking made it difficult to keep his balance. She let out a little sigh of relief as her father placed the boy successfully on his pallet.
“I cannot stomach the thought of food while that blackguard’s face still dances before my eyes,” she said.
“Then banish him from your mind, Beatrice. You need not have any contact with Master Hendry.”
“With Sir Nicholas Hendry, you mean,” she corrected bitterly. “You forget he’s a hero now, returning from the Holy Crusade.”
Phillip took her hand and pulled her out of the chair. “Ah, you see. He couldn’t be such a devil after all if he’s spent the past four years on the Lord’s work.”
Beatrice let her father lead her out of the room. “’Tis more likely that he’s spent the past four years seducing every maid between here and Jerusalem.”
Phillip shook his head again slowly and pushed gently on his daughter’s shoulders to start her moving down the narrow stairs to the tavern room. “Put him out of your head, lass. With any luck he’ll be so busy over at Hendry Hall that we won’t soon see his face again.”
Nicholas bit his lip as he gave Gervase a full forearm grip. The younger knight’s free hand went to Nicholas’s shoulder. “We’ll meet again, my friend,” he said, his voice thick.
Nicholas nodded without speaking.
“I’ll stay on a few days if you need me, Nick. If you need help with…you know…settling your father’s affairs.”
“It appears they’ve been well settled without me,” Nicholas answered with a shake of his head. “Though I can still scarcely credit it. I’d thought my father too tough to ever let death catch up with him.”
“’Twas not the homecoming you’d planned.”
“Nay.”
The two knights let their hands drop and Gervase moved toward his horse, saying, “You’ll give my thanks to your lady mother for the night’s lodging?”
“Aye.”
Gervase mounted his big stallion. “We’ve a brotherhood, you know, Nick, the six of us. Knights of the Black Rose. We’re the only ones left to tell the stories.”
Nicholas ventured a wan smile. “I know. Forgive this melancholy farewell, Gervase. I count you as a brother and always shall.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Nick. You’ve come back to find a house of mourning. It will take you some time to get used to the idea that you’re the new master of Hendry Hall.”
Nicholas shook his head once again. He’d not told Gervase the true extent of the bad news he’d learned from his mother last night after the rejoicing at his safe return had subsided. “Aye, it will take time,” he said simply. He gave the horse a gentle slap. “Now off with you, my friend, to put your own affairs to rights. You, too, return to a house much altered.”
Gervase gave a sad smile. “You know me like a brother as well, Nicholas. I’ll send word when I’m settled.”
Nicholas nodded and forced a smile to his lips as his friend rode off. Saying goodbye to the last of his comrade knights put an end to the adventure that had at times seemed part of a four-year-long dream. Now it was time to awaken. Past time. Gervase’s horse disappeared around the bend. His shoulders set, Nicholas turned back toward the house where his newly widowed mother waited.
“That’s the third time you’ve invoked the name of Baron Hawse in the past five minutes, Mother,” Nicholas said wearily. “I care nothing for the baron’s thoughts on the matter. I want to know yours.”
The mistress of Hendry Hall was a tiny woman, totally dwarfed by her strapping son, but her gaze did not waver. “Baron Hawse has been my savior, Nicholas. I’d likely have perished without him, thinking both you and your father dead.”
“I grant you it must have been difficult, Mother, but now I’m back and Hendry Hall can be restored to its rightful master. I mislike the idea that the ghost of my father has been chased away by the presence of our neighbor to the south. If I recall, Father thought little of the man.”
Constance turned away from her son’s gaze and walked a few steps to sit on the low stoop by the small fireplace that had been a recent improvement to the spacious master’s chambers of Hendry Hall. When alive, Nicholas’s father, Arthur, had been constantly rebuilding the stone house that had started as a much more humble abode shortly after the days of the Conquest.
Nicholas looked down at his mother. At twoscore years, she was an old woman, yet in the flickering firelight her face was devoid of lines, her eyes clear. After a long moment she turned her head back to him and said, “As I recall it, you and your father were too often at odds for you to know much about what he thought.”
Nicholas hesitated a moment, then crossed the room to drop down beside her directly in front of the fire. “Aye. ’Twas the principal thing that I was determined to change. I’ve thought of little else this year past as we struggled to make our way home.”
Constance reached out to her son and gently brushed an unruly lock of hair from his forehead. “I know. ’Tis a bitter pill that you two were never reconciled. But, Nicholas, in my heart I know that your father truly did love you.”
Nicholas looked away from her as he said, “Aye. He loved me so much that he signed away my birthright to a man he didn’t even like.”
“He thought you dead, Nicholas. And he respected the baron’s position. To him that was the most important thing. He was trying to protect me.”
Nicholas leaned toward the flames and felt the welcome heat on his face. The house had not entirely given up the chill of the long winter months. “I still can’t believe it—Baron Hawse as master of Hendry lands and