Joining

  Clydon was easier to find than Milisant had thought it would be, simply because it was much bigger than she had realized. Verily, the huge white castle with its high curtain walls spread out over many acres. It was a strong deterrence for the area, and that Shefford was its overlord made her realize just how powerful the Earl of Shefford was—and how powerful Wulfric would one day be.

  Strangely, when she should have been thinking only of Roland and what she would say to him on that long ride, it was Wulfric who plagued her thoughts. She expected him to be relieved by what she was going to do. He would be able to marry as he wanted now, mayhap even that woman he was in love with. Despising him as she did, it was ironic that she was doing him this favor.

  They would both benefit, and the king could go find someone else’s life to meddle with. It was almost accomplished. She could be wed to Roland in a matter of days. She knew she could be happy with him. Well, she was sure. They were good friends, after all. So why wasn’t she ecstatic? Why did she feel as if she had left something unfinished?

  She was able to find a secluded spot in the woods to change clothes before she approached Clydon, and did so quickly. The sea green and gold bliaut went well with her light green eyes, which was likely why Jhone had picked it. Her attire had been the first thing Jhone had remarked on when she’d seen her dressing in her old clothes.

  “You cannot arrive at Clydon and expect them to believe who you are, dressed like that. You may not even get past the gates.”

  Thus she had brought the one change of clothes, to get her inside Clydon—and it did. The guards barely questioned her, though they did look at her strangely. Likely because she still had her bow slung over her shoulder. And her luck was holding true. Roland was in residence. One of the guards even went off to find him, while the other summoned a servant to take her to the keep.

  She was impressed with Clydon Castle. Shefford was bigger, and with more people, always cluttered with activity. Dunburh was cluttered, too, though not just with people who lived there, but with the many travelers it offered hospitality to. But Clydon was clean, orderly. There was activity in the bailey, certainly, but it was more a homey atmosphere, with much friendliness.

  And grass, rather than dirt, covered the large bailey. The mud left behind by the recent snowstorm wasn’t present here as it had been at Shefford, and always was at Dunburh as well. It made for a much different appearance that Milisant, loving nature as she did, appreciated. She was pleased, aware that she would not mind at all living here.

  Roland found her before she reached the keep. She would have known him in any crowd, just because of his height. Had he actually grown even more since she had last seen him? Jesu, he really was a giant, only a half foot short of seven feet. And so handsome—well, how could she forget that?

  He had his father’s light blond hair and violet eyes, a remarkable combination. And he was not slim of build for all that height, far from it. He had one of the more perfectly proportioned bodies she had ever seen on a male, broad and thick where he should be, tightly muscled where he should be. It was why she had always enjoyed watching him at arms practice. He was a perfect example of his gender, what other men only wished they could be.

  In all fairness, she had to admit that Wulfric was another example of a perfect physique, if a few inches shorter. His perfectness ended there, though. Roland had a wonderful disposition to complement his strength: a teasing nature, kindness, gentleness when called for. Wulfric, however, lacked all of that; he was brutish, of sour disposition, argumentative, and… and why was she still thinking of him, when Roland had nigh reached her?

  “Jesu, who rubbed your face in the dirt, Mili?” was the first thing Roland said to her after he lifted her high and bear-hugged her in greeting.

  Milisant’s cheeks burst with hot color. She had remembered to change her clothes so she would present a ladylike facade to enter Clydon, yet she had forgotten about the sooty makeup she had applied for her disguise. No wonder the Clydon guards had looked at her funny. Faugh, as if she cared what she looked like.

  So why was she blushing? But she knew why, if she cared to admit it. It was Wulfric’s fault, for making her aware of her appearance lately. His blasted compliments. The way his eyes took in every detail of her whenever he came near her. She had actually found herself using a looking glass before she left her chamber in Shefford, something she had never thought to do at home.

  “Put me down, oaf,” she grouched to Roland in her embarrassment, and pointed out, “What traveler ever arrives without a good deal of road dust?”

  “What road dust?” he countered, laughing. “The recent snows washed it all away.”

  He set her down and immediately started thumbing the dirt off her cheeks, an action very familiar to her—Jhone always did the same. And as was usually the case, she swatted the hands away automatically. It did give her pause, though, to realize that he was treating her as her sister did, and she had just done the same to him.

  “The dirt was applied for a reason, to get me here without much bother,” she decided to tell him. “I traveled not dressed as you see me, but in my leggings.”

  “Why leggings? And who wouldst dare bother a lady under escort, which is the only way you… would…?” His words trailed off because she was looking decidedly uncomfortable, and refusing to meet his gaze now. So it wasn’t really surprising to hear him add, “Do you tell me you traveled here alone, I will beat you.”

  He would do no such thing, and they both knew it. He did know her well, though, which was why he had guessed accurately. And she did plan to tell him everything, so there was no reason for her to be embarrassed about it, other than the fact that she had never done anything so wildly dangerous before as travel so far from home—alone.

  So she began, “’Twas necessary for me to leave Shefford without permission.”

  That she had obviously arrived safely, in whatever manner, allowed him to set aside his concern long enough to tease her with a grin, “I know you think I need protection, Mili, but you did not need to come here to escort me personally to your wedding. My father always takes a large force along when my mother travels with him, and I will be with them… Forgive me. That expression you now wear says this is no matter to jest about.”

  She shook her head. “Nay, I love your teasing, so do not apologize. ’Tis just that much has happened, and none of it good. I do mean to explain fully, I just do not know where, exactly, to begin—nay, I do. The reason I had to leave Shefford in secret is I had an altercation with King John, who arrived early for the wedding.”

  Roland frowned. “What sort of altercation?”

  “A serious one. ’Twould seem he is not pleased by the matter of my betrothal, and bethought himself a way to have it set aside—by bedding me. I objected—forcefully, for which he is like to want revenge, especially if I still join with Wulfric of Shefford. The only way I can think to appease John is to marry someone else.”

  “Jesu, Mili, you need not make such a sacrifice because of John’s predilection for wenching. I can see why he would want to add you to his tally, but Shefford is too powerful for him to make an issue of this. He tried and failed. He is sure to leave it at that.”

  She shook her head once more. “’Tis not what you are thinking. He did not just want to ‘add me to his tally.’ He wanted to give Wulfric a reason to repudiate me. He bespoke benefits for us both.”

  “Do you tell me he thinks so highly of himself that he accounts bedding him as a benefit for you?” Roland scoffed, then corrected himself with a measure of disgust. “On second thought, if anyone would esteem himself that highly, ’twould be John Lackland.”

  “But not in this case,” she clarified. “I had let the king know I did not want to join with Wulfric in marriage. That was the benefit for me.”

  “Are you daft?” Roland asked, incredulous over her words. “How could you not want Wulfric de Thorpe? He will one day be my father’s overlord, and mine after that. If his power is not
enough to humble you with thanksgiving, the look of him should make you—”

  “Not another word or I will clout you. Humble me with thanksgiving?” She snorted. “When did I give you the impression that I aspired to be a countess?”

  “You did not have to. From birth you were destined to be Lord Wulfric’s countess.”

  She sighed. “Not by my choice, Roland. We never spoke much of it at Fulbray, but I have despised Wulfric since we were children. He hurt me badly when we did first meet, caused me months of fear and agony when I thought I would be crippled for life. I can never forget or forgive that.”

  He gathered her close again, and his tone was soothingly sympathetic as he said, “I can see it causes you pain even to speak of it, so say no more. Come, let us find a warm hearth and a cup of mead, and you can tell me why you have told no one else of John’s perfidy.”

  “What makes you think I told no one else?”

  “Because you are here—alone—rather than letting your father or Lord Guy deal with this.”

  She blushed once again. He was too perceptive by half. And at least he had said no more about Wulfric, nor tried to excuse him by saying the doings of a child could not relate to the doings of a man. She knew better. But trying to convince anyone else of it was nigh impossible.

  Thirty-five

  It wasn’t going to work, it wasn’t. If it were not so important, if Milisant’s future did not depend on it, then Jhone would likely have no problem with the pretense of taking her place. But that it was so important made her too nervous. Which was why she devised a new pretense. She herself became ill—no pretense, actually, since this whole situation was making her very ill to her stomach—and Milisant was staying with her to nurse her.

  She would have pretended it in the reverse if she wasn’t worried that Wulfric would demand to see Milisant if he thought her ill. He had done that when Mili had been hurt. He might also suspect any illness by her, as a means to avoid him. But with Jhone being the one “bedridden,” there was no one who would insist upon seeing her, and as Milisant, she could turn others away at the door, without letting them into the room to see that there was no Jhone sick in the bed.

  She had great hopes that this would work, and it did work for most of that first day, until late that afternoon. Then the very one she dreaded seeing came pounding on her door. She suspected it was he even before she opened the door, simply because of the loudness of the pounding.

  So she had a moment to prepare herself to deal with him as she knew Milisant would, which was to snap as soon as she opened the door, “Did no one tell you my sister is ill? That I am tending to her? She was finally resting a bit peacefully—until you just made a racket.”

  “Aye, I was informed,” he snapped back, not surprising, given her reception—not unexpected either, given his pounding. “But you do not need to attend her constantly. There are others here who can do that well enough.”

  “I trust no one else to see to my sister, any more than she does for me.”

  To which he scowled. “What is wrong with her?”

  “She has been vomiting, profusely. Can you not smell the stench?”

  Since Jhone had vomited at least once that afternoon in her anxiety, she was not lying. And she was beginning to feel like it again. She felt his anger strongly, and anger like that terrified her. She was only surprised that she had not dissolved into a puddle at his first scowl. If he did not leave soon…

  With the intent of seeing him gone, she demanded, “Why do you come here? Just to disturb us?”

  “To tell you to make an appearance at supper this eventide. Missing one meal when the king is in attendance, he might understand, but missing two formal gatherings in a row wouldst nigh be an insult. So whether your sister has improved or not, present yourself in the hall tonight.”

  “’Tis not necessary for me to entertain the king.”

  “Is it not?” he countered. “When he is here expressly for your wedding?”

  Jhone had to mentally keep her hands apart or they would be wringing. “Then of course I will appear, to pay my respects to him. But I will not stay long—unless Jhone is feeling better.”

  She had conceded, and most reasonably. How could he argue with that? He did.

  “Methinks you are using your sister’s malady as an excuse to avoid me. For how long do you intend to hold your voice from me?”

  So that was what his visit was really about? He was feeling neglected? She considered saying, “Forever,” which was likely what Milisant would have said. But that answer wouldn’t get him to leave, would more like enrage him further. Yet she didn’t want to say anything that Mili wouldn’t say either, since that might cause him to give her a closer look and discover their ruse.

  So she kept her lips pursed as Milisant had warned her to, and said as calmly as her nerves would allow, “I am speaking to you now, much to my regret. This could have waited until Jhone is well.”

  He took the hint, fortunately, yet with another scowl, ordered her on parting, “Be at supper tonight, and at both meals on the morrow as well, wench. Do not make me come and fetch you.”

  As soon as she closed the door on him, she collapsed back against it, her heart pounding with her fear. She had done it. Fooled him completely. But she couldn’t do it again. She just didn’t have Milisant’s courage, to stand up to that man, not when she felt his anger so strongly. Yet his order rang in her mind. If he did not see Milisant in the hall tomorrow, he would come drag her down there.

  She had to appear in the hall at least tonight. She could see no way around that now. Tomorrow, though, the first meal wouldn’t be until midday, and that would have given Milisant the time she had asked for. Jhone could be herself again, and Milisant “missing.” It would be another day again ere Milisant was looked for outside the castle walls. Plenty enough time for her to have gotten to Clydon, and then returned home from there as she’d planned to do.

  Nay, tonight’s gathering would be plenty. But to entertain the king? After what he’d done? Jesu, they hadn’t even thought about Milisant having to face the king again. She had left so she wouldn’t have to.

  What if he was just waiting for that, to denounce her? But no, obviously he had said nothing of what had occurred between them to anyone, or Wulfric would have mentioned it. And with her absence today, he must have been thinking she was afraid to face him as well.

  It might appease John if he thought she was afraid. It might appease him even more if she seemed afraid when they did meet this eventide. It would not be contrived. She was going to be terrified to get near him, after what he had tried to do to Milisant. And if he wanted to speak of it? Jesu, how had she let Mili talk her into this?

  Thirty-six

  She had delayed too long, the telling. Milisant fretted as the hour grew late and still she had found no opportunity to present her proposal of marriage to Roland. She could not let this day end without getting her future settled here. Yet one thing after another had occurred since her arrival, to keep her from being alone with Roland again.

  He had taken her into the keep and presented her to his mother, who had promptly taken her off to a tower chamber for a bath and refreshments. She had not seen Roland again until the evening meal.

  The Lady Reina was a surprise. Milisant knew Roland’s father to be a giant just as he was, yet Lady Reina was a small, petite woman. She was not quite two score in years, her black hair as lustrous as it had been in her youth, her cerulean blue eyes just as clear and sharp. And she was outspoken, brutally frank actually.

  She had felt no qualms about telling Milisant, “You stink, get in that tub,” when Milisant had protested she had no time for bathing.

  But she found she liked Reina Fitz Hugh. It was rare to meet a woman as outspoken as Milisant was herself. And there was a bawdy earthiness about her that either put one at ease or caused embarrassment. Milisant felt a little of both, which was amusing, after she thought about it.

  She learned much more abou
t Roland’s family, during those hours she spent with Reina, than he had ever told her. There was an older brother, named after the Earl of Shefford, who was his godparent. There were two sisters, much younger than Roland. The youngest, Reina confessed, was the bane of her life. She could do naught with the child, who idolized her father and tried to emulate him in every way.

  That had thoroughly embarrassed Milisant, when she realized that this youngest child was much like herself, wishing she had been born the opposite gender—and Reina found this to be a “bane.” It made her feel more strange than ever, made her realize, also, that her own father likely thought the same of her.

  She had not known, either, that Roland’s family was related to the de Arcourts, another powerful family in the realm. Hugh de Arcourt, the head of that family, was in fact Roland’s paternal grandfather, albeit from the wrong side of the blanket—another frankness of Reina’s, to mention that as if it were naught out of the ordinary.

  What she had found most interesting, though, was that Reina’s father had been Roger de Champeney. ’Twas a name Milisant knew well, since Lord Roger had been with Nigel and Lord Guy when they had gone on Crusade with King Richard all those years ago. Roger had oft been mentioned by Nigel in his tales of those exciting campaigns that had occurred long before Milisant had been born.

  It made her wonder if Nigel even knew that Roland was Roger’s grandson, when he had discounted him out of hand as a choice for her husband, mentioning only that Roland’s father was Guy’s vassal. Roger had been Guy’s vassal as well, yet a power to be reckoned with in his own right, Castle Clydon evidence of that, as well as the many other holdings in his possession. And Milisant was certain that her father knew nothing about Hugh de Arcourt.

  Roland’s family was suddenly a much better choice for an alliance than even she had realized. With wealth and power behind him, he lacked only being the heir to an earldom, as Wulfric was.

  She felt better. Her father had to like this match. Of course, she was forgetting that she had not been betrothed for an alliance, but for the sake of friendship and life-saving debts of honor. Still, it would soften the blow when Nigel learned that John was against the joining of their two families, that to stay in his good graces—or at least get back in them, in her case—she would have to marry elsewhere. And who better now than Roland?