Startled, Sir Vincent realized that FitzHugh might not be quite the stupid oaf he appeared. Testing the waters, he said, "You need not wait years to improve your lot."
The atmosphere changed as the real subject of this meeting came out in the open. FitzHugh's eyes narrowed. "Have you a suggestion for what I might do to better my circumstances?"
Sir Vincent frowned, disapproving of such bluntness. 'Twould be more elegant to circle around the subject longer. But Normans were not known for subtlety. "Guy of Burgoigne is a generous lord, and he would suitably reward a man willing to... rethink his allegiance to Adrian of Warfield."
After a charged silence, FitzHugh said, "You interest me, but it would take more than vague promises before I would do something so drastic. What would Guy expect of me, and what would he offer in turn?"
"Lord Guy would expect you to bring him Montford Castle and all of the lands you now control. In return, you would continue to hold them for him."
"How would my situation be better than it is now?" FitzHugh asked, his left hand absently fondling the happy greyhound.
"First, he will enfeoff you so that you will hold the castle in your own right rather than as your brother's warden. Second, joining Lord Guy will place you in the king's camp." Sir Vincent waved his hand dismissively. "Granted, the empress's husband has made himself master of Normandy, but she has lost England and her son Henry will have to content himself with being Duke of Normandy. It is Stephen's son Eustace who will be King of England. Since you have no Norman holdings, which ruler's favor will serve you better?"
Sir Vincent paused to let the force of his words sink in, then advanced to the last major point. "Also, Lord Guy would be happy to use his influence with Stephen to promote a match between you and a suitable heiress. I have never heard that your brother has done as much, in spite of your loyal service."
He sipped his wine lazily, drawing out the moment like the serpent making its offer in Eden. "If Warfield will not reward your courage and loyalty, then take them to a man who will."
FitzHugh leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. "What makes you think I wish to take a wife?"
"Because real power is in the hands of married men. For as long as you remain unwed, you are 'a young knight,' no matter what your age. A man of little consequence or influence." Sir Vincent leaned forward persuasively. "If you join Lord Guy, you can begin to build power of your own, not spend the rest of your life waiting on Warfield's caprice."
FitzHugh's face showed no sign of what he thought, "Fine words, but the fact remains that of the two earls, Adrian is in the stronger position, controlling more of Shropshire and its revenues. He is also master of an impregnable castle. I am still not convinced that going over to Guy will improve my lot."
Sir Vincent thought a moment. FitzHugh surely held some resentment for his brother, and the seeds of that could be nourished into a healthy growth.
Making his voice low and confidential, he said, "You and I are in much the same position, landless knights forced to use our wits to survive, not fortunate like Adrian, who had the luck to be born to wealth. Because I sympathize with you, I will tell you a secret. Before the summer is over, the balance of power will change. Lord Guy has engaged one of the finest mercenary troops in Europe. After it arrives in Shropshire, Warfield will be broken. It may be impossible to take his castle, but everything else will fall to Guy."
Sir Vincent leaned back in his chair again, sure that his arguments would prevail. "If you change allegiance now, Guy will have reason to be grateful to you. But if you wait to see which way the wind blows, it will be too late, for you will have nothing left to bargain with." He made a graceful gesture at the walls around them. "Montford is strong, but it is not so strong as Warfield, and it will be one of Lord Guy's first targets."
FitzHugh's gaze was unfocused as he considered. Finally he said, "You have a persuasive tongue, Sir Vincent. But what surety would there be of Guy's good faith?" A trace of irony entered his voice. "Forgive me for mentioning this, but there have been occasions when his good faith has been questioned."
Very true, though Sir Vincent managed to sound indignant when he replied, "The earl pledges his word, of course! As a token of his faith, he sent this small gift."
The Frenchman reached into his pouch and produced a tall golden goblet. It was a masterpiece of smithery, the stem a swirl of repoussé vines, the foot and bowl lavish with filigree. Rainbow-hued jewels were set wherever lines of webbed gold intersected. The cup was one of the best pieces of plate from Cecily of Chastain's inheritance, fit to serve an emperor, and Guy had saved it for some special use.
When FitzHugh took the heavy goblet, the Frenchman noticed that there was a faint tremor in his fingers. Very good. Greed was gaining the upper hand.
The Norman rose and carried the cup to the window and turned it thoughtfully, admiring its artistry. Sapphire and ruby fires flared from the gemstones and the rich gold shimmered and coruscated in the sunlight. "A pretty bauble. Much more valuable than thirty pieces of silver."
Before the Frenchman could evaluate that disquieting remark, FitzHugh glanced at his guest. "Tell me, Sir Vincent, how long have you been with Guy? Five or six years?"
The Frenchman nodded.
"Then perhaps you do not know the origins of the bad blood between Burgoigne and Warfield. You do know that they are more than simply rivals for an earldom?"
Puzzled, Sir Vincent admitted, "I have heard that the enmity goes back for some years." He frowned, trying to remember what he had been told. "Didn't Lord Guy burn the old Warfield keep back in his robber days? I recall hearing that Lord Adrian was a novice at Fontevaile Abbey when he inherited."
The Frenchman laughed maliciously. "He should have stayed a monk. He seems not to have the stomach for fighting, and it took him long to find the stomach for marriage. Perhaps, like many monks, he has not the taste for wenches. It would have been better if he had left Warfield to you."
His voice still calm, FitzHugh said, "Perhaps no one ever told you that when Guy burned Warfield, he slaughtered all of the inhabitants, including the old baron and all his descendants save Adrian. And me, of course." He set the goblet on an oak table near his guest.
With explosive suddenness, FitzHugh whipped his sword from his sheath, the sun glittering wickedly on the blade. Sir Vincent gaped, horribly aware that he'd disastrously misjudged the situation. He scrambled to his feet, sure he was about to be spitted like a suckling pig on his host's blade.
As he reached for his own weapon, the other man smashed the hilt of his sword into the gold cup, crushing the delicate workmanship with a shriek of rending metal. As FitzHugh smashed the goblet again and again, gems broke from their settings and rattled to the floor.
Then he sheathed his sword and twisted the crumpled cup into an unrecognizable shape with his bare hands. "Does Guy forget that the family he murdered was not just Adrian's, but mine?" he raged. "My father, my brothers, my friends and kin died that day! And I had to pull their charred bodies from the smoldering ruins."
Viciously he hurled the goblet into Sir Vincent's belly. "That is my answer to your master. I would see him in hell before I would lift a finger to aid him. If Adrian had not already marked Guy for his own, I would kill him myself. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I may still be the one to do the deed."
Sir Vincent struggled for breath, wondering if the ruined goblet had cracked a rib. But since it appeared FitzHugh wasn't going to kill him, he snapped, "If you wait for Warfield to avenge your dead, then you wait in vain! Your brother is a coward, and you are either a coward or a fool to wait upon his vengeance." He grabbed his cloak, then shoved the ruined cup into his pouch.
To Sir Vincent's surprise, his taunt did not anger his host further. Instead, FitzHugh laughed. "If you or Guy think that of Adrian, you are worse than fools. You are dead men. Now, get out before I forget the laws of hospitality and send you prematurely to hell."
Sir Vincent was more than willi
ng to obey. Richard watched him scuttle out with disgust. The only thing that had saved the Frenchman's slimy neck was the fact that he had not been with Burgoigne at the time of the Warfield massacre.
It might have been wiser to pretend to take Burgoigne's bribe, then withdraw support at the most critical moment, but Richard knew that he did not have the temperament to play a double game. Adrian probably could, but Richard had been hard-pressed to hold his tongue long enough to learn about the mercenaries. Still, that was valuable information, and forewarned was forearmed.
* * *
Two months after his sister's disappearance, a grim-faced Alan de Vere arrived back at Avonleigh to resume the hunt. He began his task by ascertaining exactly what areas had been searched when Meriel had disappeared. He learned that his men had gone as far west as the royal forest, and rather farther in the other three directions.
No one had seen a trace of his sister after she had gone out of view of the Avonleigh fields. Alan suspected that she must have entered the forest for some reason. If she'd ridden in another direction, she would surely have been seen by serfs on the adjoining manors.
The forest's dark width divided eastern and western Shropshire like a broad river. Ordinarily Meriel would never have gone that far west, or entered the forest, or crossed into the territory controlled by the empress's men. But she might have been pursued by robbers, or have met someone needing help. Any number of things could have sent her into the forest and out the other side.
If that had happened, word might never reach Avonleigh, for twenty miles could be almost as great a barrier as the English Channel.
Alan decided that the best place to begin his search was at the market in Shrewsbury. He rode to the town and spent the night before the next market day.
The next morning he found what he was seeking within the first hour.
A morose apothecary had denied any knowledge of lost Norman lasses, but his chatty wife said, " 'Tis an odd coincidence. You say your sister is named Meriel?"
When Alan nodded, she said, "The Earl of Shropshire, our earl, Adrian of Warfield, not that wicked other one, is marrying a girl named Meriel. But she's Welsh, not Norman. I saw her when they came into the town last week."
Instantly alert, Alan asked, "What did the earl's betrothed look like?"
The apothecary's wife shrugged. "Welsh, you know. Black hair, blue eyes." She scanned him thoughtfully. "Rather like yours, but a little bit of a thing. A sweet-natured lass, she is. Looked right at me and smiled."
Clamping down his excitement, Alan asked, "What is known of her family?"
" 'Tis said she is an heiress from Gwynedd. Well, of course she would be an heiress, noblemen like the earl don't marry just anyone. Still..."
The woman leaned forward confidentially. "They say Earl Adrian found her in the forest, like a fairy princess, and was so struck by love that he took her back to his castle and locked her in a tower until she agreed to marry him, but I for one don't believe a word of it. The earl has never been one for ravishing wenches." She giggled. "He don't need to, handsome devil that he is. More likely he has to take care wenches don't abduct him."
The Meriel in question must be Alan's sister, for the story fitted what might have happened. Shorn of the romantic trappings, it was a story of abduction and rape. Meriel would never have abandoned her friends and responsibilities unless she were being held by force.
It wasn't hard to believe that a nobleman would ravish a chance-met girl. Harder to understand was that such a man would marry his victim. Would a villain feel guilt for ruining a gently born maiden? It seemed unlikely.
"You say that they are going to be wed," Alan said, his mouth dry. "Do you know if the marriage has taken place yet?"
"No idea, lad, I wasn't invited." She chuckled at her wit. "But they say it was going to be a hasty ceremony, so maybe a babe is on the way. Even lords are human, though 'tis not everyone as would agree with me."
Blindly Alan left a handful of silver pennies and walked away, fury raging within him. The earl had the reputation of an honest man, but perhaps the reputation was a false one. Honest men did not ruin innocent young women.
Alan's step quickened as he headed to the inn where he had left his horse. He was riding to Warfield Castle as full speed to find his sister. He might be only a knight and Lord Adrian an earl, but if the other man could not provide satisfactory answers, Alan de Vere would tear his castle down with his bare hands.
Chapter 13
"Hold your arms above your head, Lady Meriel," Margery commanded.
Meriel did as she was bidden and the blue silk gown was dropped over her fine linen shift. Knowing that today she would wed Adrian had her in such a state of dreamy anticipation that it was hard to care about clothing. Fortunately Margery and the other women were more than willing to care for her.
Since deciding it was time to marry, Adrian had spent much time introducing his future bride to the Warfield household. Some were wary of her at first, but all had soon warmed. Adrian said it was because Meriel learned quickly, yet did not try to bully any of the folk who would serve her.
"Is that too tight, my lady?" one of the maids asked as she laced up the gown to fit as neatly as an apple's skin.
"Remember that I must breathe all day, and perhaps eat something later," Meriel pointed out.
The maid giggled and loosened the laces a bit while Meriel drifted back into her thoughts. Learning to be a countess was all well and good, but while Adrian was always there for company and guidance, he'd kept a decorous distance from her. Not so much as a good-night kiss! Fortunate that the wedding had arrived, or she might have started creeping into his chamber at night to see if she could change his mind.
Meriel sighed. She knew it was important to Adrian that he act according to his notion of honor. Perhaps if she remembered more, her own morality would be stronger. She couldn't really understand his desire to wait until they were wed. But persuading Adrian to do something he'd regret later would be a poor way to show how much she loved him.
Her lips curved into a smile as she thought of the night she had shared his bed. Tonight there would be that and more, for there would be no barriers of honor between them.
The world once more interrupted her reverie as Kestrel galloped over and batted at one of the gold-embroidered sleeves, which trailed almost to the floor. Meriel would have liked to pick up the cat for a quick cuddle, but knew that Margery would not approve of what claws could do to fragile silk.
Kestrel's fate was sealed when she pounced on one end of Meriel's new girdle, a gold-threaded cord with good-luck gemstones woven into it. The youngest maid hastily scooped up the cat. "I'll put her somewhere where she can't cause mischief and won't be stepped on, my lady."
Meriel smiled wryly as the cat was borne off. She and Kestrel would be equally glad when the wedding was over! As bride, Meriel's task was much like Kestrel's: to hold still and behave herself.
Margery lifted Meriel's hair out of the way, laid her mistress's crimson mantle over her shoulders, and fastened it across her breast with a golden chain. Then the maid began combing the heavy black tresses that rippled past her mistress's slim hips.
Stalwart under the tugging comb, Meriel absently stroked the mantle's luxurious velvet folds and miniver trim, thinking thoughts that would have shocked her attendants. Or perhaps not. They were an earthy lot, and there had been a number of frank, enthusiastic comments about what the new countess would have to look forward to in Lord Adrian's embrace.
Finished with combing, Margery lifted the delicate sendal veil, so gauzy as to be nearly transparent. The maid set it over Meriel's cascading hair, adjusting it to frame the bride's face, then fixed the veil in place with a chaplet of tiny interwoven blue and white blossoms. The chaplet was the only item that Meriel had insisted on. She preferred real flowers to a cold metal circlet.
Margery circled her mistress for a final inspection, tweaking a fold here, smoothing fabric there before giving a final nod o
f satisfaction. ''There, my lady. You look as pretty as a summer dawn."
Meriel could not resist saying, "As soon as I step outside in the breeze, all this perfection will disappear."
Margery laughed while wiping an incipient tear from her eye. "But I'll have done my job right, my lady."
"You all have." Meriel stepped forward and gave Margery a light kiss on the cheek, then did the same for the other three maids. "Thank you for being my family today."
Her words broke the composure of all four attendants and Meriel left the room accompanied by a storm of weeping. She knew it was traditional for women to cry at weddings, but could not imagine why. She herself was floating on happiness.
Other people were below in the great hall, but Meriel saw only Adrian, who waited for her at the foot of the stairs. Today he had set aside his preference for simplicity and wore the silk-and-velvet grandeur of his rank. His tunic and mantle were in shades of deep blue and banded lavishly with silver embroidery that dimmed beside his silver-gilt fairness. He glowed like an archangel, so beautiful that he took her breath away.
Meriel stopped on the next-to-last step, suddenly shy, not quite believing that this superior being truly wished to marry her. Perhaps Adrian read her thoughts, because he caught her hands in his, speaking softly so no one else could hear. "They say that all brides are beautiful, but there has never been a bride so beautiful as you, ma petite. There never will be."
Then he kissed her hands, first one, then the other. A shiver ran through Meriel and her fingers tightened around his. "And there has never been a woman more blessed than I," she whispered, "for you have chosen me for your wife."
Together they walked from the hall to their horses. Adrian's brother Richard waited, as splendidly garbed as the earl. Since Meriel had no family, Richard helped her mount, taking the role usually performed by the bride's father.