“What is there to worry about?” Leonie hedged.
“Bless you, child, you need not hide your troubles from me. Do you think I am not aware of what happens around me?”
Leonie believed just that. “It is of no great importance, Aunt Beatrix.”
“Then we will have no more rude young knights coming to threaten us with angry words?”
Leonie shrugged. “They are only angry words. Men like to bluster and snarl.”
“Oho, do I not know it.”
They both laughed, for of course Beatrix knew more about men than Leonie did, confined as she had been since the age of thirteen.
Leonie confessed, “I thought we would have visitors today, but no one came. Perhaps they do not blame us for this day’s trouble.”
Beatrix frowned thoughtfully, and her niece asked, “Do you think the Black Wolf might have other plans this time?”
“That is possible. It is a wonder he has not already burned our village.”
“He would not dare!” Leonie cried. “He has no proof my serfs have caused his troubles. He has only the accusations of his own serfs.”
“Yes, but that is enough for most men. Suspicion is enough.” Beatrix sighed.
Leonie’s anger drained away. “I know. Tomorrow I will go to the village and make certain that henceforth no one leaves Pershwick land for any reason. There will be no more trouble. We must see to that.”
Chapter 3
ROLFE d’Ambert threw his helmet hard across the hall the moment he strode in. His squire, newly acquired from King Henry, hurried to catch it. The helmet would need a trip to the armorer before he wore it again, but Rolfe was not thinking of that. Just then, he needed to smash things.
At the hearth across the large hall, Thorpe de la Mare hid his amusement at his young lord’s display of temper. It was so like the boy he had been, not the man he was now. Thorpe had seen many such displays in the years he’d served Rolfe’s father. The father was dead these nine years and Rolfe’s older brother had inherited their father’s title and the bulk of his estates in Gascony. The property left to Rolfe was small, but the greedy brother had wanted even that and had outlawed Rolfe from his home.
Thorpe left with Rolfe, giving up his comfortable position to follow the young knight rather than serve the brother. The years since had been very good, years of fighting as mercenaries, growing rich from the ransoms won at tourneys. Rolfe was now twenty and nine years to Thorpe’s two score and seven, yet Thorpe never regretted letting the younger man lead him. Other men felt the same way, and Rolfe had become a leader to nine knights and nearly two hundred mercenaries, all of whom had chosen to stay with him now that he was settled.
But was Rolfe settled? Thorpe knew how Rolfe felt about Henry’s generosity. The estate gave him more aggravation than he had experienced in years. Much more, and Rolfe would be ready to leave it all and return to France. The estate was something that existed only as an honor, for it gave nothing tangible and drained his purse daily.
“Did you hear, Thorpe?”
“The servants have talked of nothing else since the woodcutter moved into the keep for the night,” Thorpe replied as Rolfe sat down heavily in the chair next to him.
“Damn me!”
Rolfe slammed a fist down on the small table beside him, opening a crack down its middle. Thorpe kept his expression carefully blank.
“I have had enough!” Rolfe bellowed. “The well fouled, the herds scattered into the forest, the serfs’ few animals stolen, and this was the third fire. How long to rebuild this hut?”
“Two days with several men working quickly.”
“And so the fields will be neglected. How can I wage war when my flanks are forever being nipped at? Am I to leave Crewel and come back to find nothing left of it, the serfs run off, the fields barren?”
Thorpe knew better than to answer.
“Do you want men sent to Pershwick again?” Thorpe ventured carefully. “Will you punish the serfs?”
Rolfe shook his head. “A serf would not act alone. No, serfs follow orders, and it is the one who gives orders that I want.”
“Then you will have to look elsewhere than Pershwick, for I met Sir Guibert Fitzalan, and I swear that when he heard why I had come, his surprise was too real to be feigned. He is not a man who would stoop to this knavery.”
“Yet someone there is urging serfs to mischief.”
“I agree. But you cannot take the keep. Pershwick belongs to Montwyn, and Sir William of Montwyn has enough keeps that if you try, he can summon more men than you are prepared to meet.”
“I would not lose,” Rolfe said darkly.
“But you would lose your advantage here. Look you how long it has taken just to win two of the other seven keeps belonging to Kempston.”
“Three.”
Thorpe raised his brow. “Three? How?”
“I suppose I can thank Pershwick, for when I reached Kenil Keep today I was so furious over what happened here that I ordered the walls destroyed. The siege is finished there.”
“And Kenil useless until the walls are rebuilt?” It was the only conclusion.
“I…well, yes.”
Thorpe said no more. He knew that Rolfe had meant to use catapults only as a last measure in taking the seven keeps. It was part of a bold plan, conceived when the tourney failed in bringing the rebellious vassals to heel. The tourney had been for the benefit of those vassals, giving them a chance to meet their new lord and judge his skills. But instead of merely testing his skills with theirs, they had tried to kill him. Rolfe was therefore left in the unenviable position of owning eight keeps of which seven would not open to him.
Waging war against one’s own property was never profitable, and least profitable was to destroy that property. So Rolfe recruited five hundred soldiers from King Henry’s forces. Harwick and Axeford keeps made terms to surrender without any damage sustained once the bulk of Rolfe’s army appeared outside their gates. The army then moved to Kenil, and now, after a month and a half, Kenil was taken.
Rolfe sat there brooding and Thorpe took a moment to wonder why Lady Amelia had not come down. She had probably heard Rolfe’s voice raised in anger and decided to hide. Rolfe’s mistress would not know him well enough yet to know he would not take his anger out on her.
Hesitantly, Thorpe asked, “You do see that now is not the time to attack the east? You must clean your own house before you go looking at another’s.”
“I see it,” Rolfe said testily. “But tell me what I am to do. I offered to purchase Pershwick, but Sir William wrote that he could not sell it because Pershwick is part of his daughter’s dower lands, left her by her mother. Blast that nicety. The daughter is under his rule, is she not? He could force her to sell it and give her another property.”
“Perhaps the mother’s will is written just so, and he cannot.”
Rolfe scowled. “I tell you, Thorpe, I will not stand for another offense.”
“You could always marry the daughter. Then you would have the keep without having to pay for it.”
Rolfe’s eyes, black since he’d entered the hall, began returning to their normal dark brown. Thorpe nearly choked. “I was but jesting!”
“I know.” Rolfe mused thoughtfully, too thoughtfully for Thorpe’s liking.
“Rolfe, for the love of God, do not take this idea to heart. No one weds merely to get a few serfs under control. Go over there and knock some heads together, if you must. Put fear into them.”
“That is not my way. The innocent would suffer with the guilty. If I could catch one of the culprits, I would make an example of him, but always by the time I get there, they are long gone.”
“There are many reasons for marriage, but to quell the serfs of a neighbor is not a good reason.”
“No, but to gain peace where peace is wanted is,” Rolfe countered.
“Rolfe!”
“Do you know anything about this daughter of Sir William’s?”
Thorpe
sighed with exasperation. “How could I know? I am as new in England as you.”
Rolfe turned toward his men, gathered at the opposite end of the hall. Three of his knights had returned with him from Kenil, as well as a small troop of men-at-arms. Two were from Brittany, but Sir Evarard was from the south of England.
“Know you my neighbor, Sir William of Montwyn, Evarard?”
Evarard approached. “Aye, my lord. At one time he was often at court, as I was before I came of age.”
“Has he many children?”
“I cannot say how many he might have now, but he had only one, a daughter, when he was last at court. That was five or six years ago, before his wife died. I understand he has a young wife now, but of children from this union I do not know.”
“Know you this daughter?”
“I saw her once with her mother, the lady Elisabeth. I remember wondering at the time how such a beautiful lady could have such an uncomely child.”
“There!” Thorpe interjected. “Now will you let the fool idea rest, Rolfe?”
Rolfe ignored his old friend. “Uncomely, Evarard? How so?”
“She had great red splotches covering every part of her skin that could be seen. It was a shame, for the shape of her face might have foretold beauty like her mother’s.”
“What more can you tell me of her?”
“I only saw her once, and she hid behind her mother’s skirts.”
“Her name?”
Sir Evarard frowned thoughtfully. “I am sorry, my lord. I cannot remember.”
“It is Lady Leonie, my lord.”
All three men turned toward the maid who had spoken. Rolfe did not like the servants to be so attuned to his conversations. He frowned.
“And what is your name, girl?”
“Mildred,” she replied with proper meekness. Now that the lord’s eyes were upon her, she could have torn her tongue out for speaking up. Sir Rolfe’s temper was a terrible thing to behold.
“How do you know the lady Leonie?”
Mildred took heart at the quiet inquiry. “She—she came here often from Pershwick when—”
“Pershwick!” Rolfe bellowed. “She lives there? Not at Montwyn?”
Mildred blanched. She was beholden to Lady Leonie and would have died rather than hurt her. She knew her lord blamed Pershwick for the damage Crewel had suffered since his taking it over.
“My lord, please,” Mildred said quickly. “The lady is all that is kind. When the Crewel leech left my mother to die of a disease he could not cure, Lady Leonie saved her. She knows much of the healing arts, my lord. She would never cause a hurt, I swear it.”
“She does live at Pershwick?” At Mildred’s reluctant nod, Rolfe demanded, “Why there and not with her father?”
Mildred stepped back, eyes wide with fear. She could not say anything bad of another lord, even one her new lord might not like. She would surely be beaten for criticizing her betters.
Rolfe understood her fear and softened his tone. “Come, Mildred, tell me what you know. You need not fear me.”
“It—it is only that my former master, Sir Edmond, claimed Sir William liked—drink too well since his first wife died. Sir Edmond would not let his son wed Lady Leonie because Sir William swears he has no daughter. He said an alliance with her would gain them naught. She was sent to Pershwick when her mother died and has been separated from her father since, or so I have heard.”
“So Lady Leonie and Sir Edmond’s son were…close?”
“She and Sir Alain were only a year apart in age, my lord. Yes, they were very close.”
“Damn me!” Rolfe stormed. “So she has set her serfs to plague me! She does it out of love of the Montignys!”
“No, my lord.” Mildred risked herself again. “She would not.”
Rolfe paid no attention to this declaration for he had already dismissed the maid from his mind. “It is no wonder our complaints were ignored if the lady herself is set against me. But if I make war on Pershwick, I make war on a woman. What do you think now of your jest, Thorpe?”
“I think you will do what you will do.” Thorpe sighed. “But do consider whether you want a deformed creature as wife before you rush ahead.”
Rolfe waved that aside. “What law says I must live with the lady?”
“Then why take her to wife? Be reasonable, Rolfe. All these years you avoided marriage when many great beauties were willing.”
“I was landless then, Thorpe, and I could not wed without a home to offer my wife.”
Thorpe began to say more, but Rolfe said flatly, “What I want most now is peace.”
“Peace? Or revenge?”
Rolfe shrugged. “I will not hurt the lady, but she will regret causing me any ill if that is what she intends. See how she likes being confined in Pershwick the rest of her days and her people hanged—for the slightest wrongdoing. I will have an end to these troubles.”
“What of Lady Amelia?” Thorpe murmured.
Rolfe frowned. “She came here by her own choice. If she wishes to leave, so be it. But if she wishes to stay, she is welcome. My taking a wife will not change my affections in other regards. At least my taking of this wife will not. I have no duty to please her, not after all she has done. The lady Leonie will have no say in what I do.”
Thorpe shook his head and said no more. He could only hope a good night’s sleep would bring Rolfe to his senses.
Chapter 4
ROLFE paced in the anteroom outside the king’s chamber. It was good of Henry to see him so soon, but Rolfe hated asking favors, even if this favor would cost Henry no more than words, words on parchment. Henry, on the other hand, loved doing favors. Rolfe’s new position as one of Henry’s barons had been such a favor, given without warning during a friendly talk the last time Rolfe was in London. The Kempston lands had come unexpectedly into their conversation, and Henry asked Rolfe if he wanted Kempston.
In truth, Henry had long wanted to reward Rolfe for saving his natural son Geoffrey’s life. Until then, Rolfe had refused all offers, staunchly maintaining that keeping the son safe was only his duty. To be sure, that was not the first time Rolfe had helped Henry. But Henry was surprised when Rolfe accepted the offer of Kempston, for in truth Kempston was no prize and would have to be won at great cost. He immediately offered Rolfe something better, now that Rolfe was finally showing an interest in settling down. “Something closer to home? I can arrange—”
Rolfe put up a hand to interrupt before the king could tempt him further. “It is the challenge I want from Kempston, my lord. I could buy estates aplenty in Gascony, but I do not call Gascony home any longer, nor do I want land I cannot earn. I will take Kempston and thank you for it.”
“Thank me?” Henry seemed embarrassed. “It is I who must thank you, for in truth I was loath to pay an army to secure it. Now it will cost me nothing and I will have a man I know I can trust to curb the lawlessness in that area. You do me a service, Rolfe, and this is not how I meant to reward you for all your other service. What else can I give you? A wife who will bring you a large estate?”
“No, my lord.” Rolfe laughed. “Let me secure Kempston before I think of a wife.”
Ironically, a wife was the very reason Rolfe was there, pacing the anteroom. His offer for Leonie of Montwyn had been flatly refused.
There were ways other than marriage to end the troubles, he knew that. He could always hire more men to patrol the borders of his land and keep her serfs out until Kempston was secured. But then, the cost of hiring enough men to patrol the whole area would be huge, he told himself.
“Damn me, she will not dent my purse more than she has already!” Rolfe exploded aloud, then saw to his embarrassment that Henry had entered the room.
“Who will not dent your purse?” Henry asked, chuckling as he came forward. “The lady Amelia? Have you brought her with you?”
“No, my lord. She is in the country,” Rolfe replied, uncomfortable with the line of questioning.
Rolfe was never at ease in the king’s presence. Rolfe was the bigger man by far, but Henry was the king of England and unlikely to encourage anyone to disregard the fact. He was also heavily built, with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and the powerful arms of a fighter. Henry had red hair which he kept cut short in the current shaggy fashion, and which emphasized his florid face. He was not lavish in his dress, unlike Queen Eleanor, though no one saw her often since Henry had confined her to Winchester for instigating the battles between him and his sons.
Henry was in superb shape for a man forty years old. He could outwalk and outride his courtiers and usually exhausted anyone who tried to keep up with him. He was a man of such energy that he seldom even sat down. His meals were usually taken standing up, walking about his hall. Court etiquette prevented everyone else from sitting as well, a bother much complained about, though never in the king’s hearing.
After the amenities had been dispensed with and they were seated, each with a silver goblet of wine, Henry asked with a twinkle in his gray eyes, “I did not expect to see you for some time. Have you come so soon to curse me for Kempston?”
“All goes well there, my lord,” Rolfe quickly assured him. “Four of the eight keeps are mine, and the other four are closed tightly, waiting to be secured.”
“So the Black Wolf has lived up to his reputation!” Henry cried, delighted.
Rolfe flushed. He hated the name, certain it was inspired by his dark looks rather than by any wolflike prowess. It embarrassed him.
“My coming has less to do with Kempston as a whole than with Crewel particularly, your majesty. I have a neighbor there who has set her people against mine. I am not a man to deal with domestics.”
“What fighter is?” Henry chuckled. “But you say ‘her people’? Your neighbor is a woman? I can think of no widow in that area.”
“She is no widow, nor wife to an absent lord. She is daughter to Sir William of Montwyn and residing on her dower property which lies next to Crewel.”
“Sir William.” Henry considered, thoughtful. “Ah, now I have him. A baron who wed one of my earl’s daughters, the lady Elisabeth I believe, yes, daughter of Shefford. But he closed himself up in his estates some six years ago when Elisabeth died. A tragic affair. They were a love match, and he suffered terribly at her death.”