Wulfric gave her a brilliant smile. If he had had any doubts left that she was his betrothed, she had just relieved them.
He was very careful in lifting her onto the saddle in front of him. She weighed no more than a child. She smelled of summer roses. Jesu, he was a happy man.
“I am indeed here to see Lord Nigel—and you,” he said once she was settled.
She turned to look back at him, her lovely eyes rounded in surprise. “Me?”
“Mayhap I should have introduced myself sooner.” He grinned. “I am Wulfric de Thorpe, and ’tis my greatest pleasure to meet you—again—my lady.”
The gasp was not hers, came from someone on the ground. He looked to see who was so disturbed by his identity, but saw only the halfwit lad running off toward the castle.
He was frowning after the boy, thinking he would speak with Lord Nigel about lessoning the fellow, when he heard his lady say, “But we have not met ere now.”
Wulfric smiled to himself. Excellent. She did not remember their first unfortunate encounter all those years ago, and since he would as soon forget it as well, he was not going to remind her of it.
So he said, “My mistake, but no matter, the pleasure is still mine, demoiselle. And I am sure you would like to apprise your father of what happened here, as would I, so let us adjourn to the castle.”
It took only a few minutes more to get there at a brisk clip. Where the attack had occurred had been just far enough away from village and castle for the clashing of weapons not to have been heard from either. Intentional? Likely. And Wulfric wished now that he had sent his men after the miscreants. They’d attacked his betrothed, after all, though he hadn’t realized that until they were already long fled. But whether by design or by fluke, no one attacked what belonged to him without serious consequence.
As soon as he reached the compound, the lady was quick to make excuses and scurry into the keep, while he still had to speak with Nigel’s seneschal about the quartering of his men before he joined her there. But several of his men he sent back to see if they could find and follow any tracks left by the attackers. ’Twouldn’t hurt to aid Lord Nigel in their apprehension.
Dunburh was not as he remembered; indeed it was now much larger than it had been when Wulfric had last seen it. It was a grand stronghold for a minor baron such as Nigel Crispin was, but then few men could claim a fortune like Crispin’s, even among the great earls of the land.
A thick curtain wall had been added to Dunburh’s defense, more than doubling the size of the inner ward, but the old single defending wall was still standing as well, and many new buildings had gone up betwixt the two. Verily, there were more than enough buildings here to house a huge army with little crowding—and give them sport in two tilting yards, even an area set aside for the practice of archery.
Wulfric was eager to rejoin his betrothed and get to know her better, so he was not long in entering the towering keep himself. He still could not quite believe his good fortune, that she would have so changed. Someone had indeed taken her in hand to teach her the proper demeanor of a lady. He could not imagine a more ideal wife, softly spoken, shy, and comely!
She was much prettier than Agnes of York, her skin smoother, her piquant face mesmerizing. She had not stirred his lust the way Agnes could, but he had little doubt that she would. He had merely been so surprised and delighted by her that little room had been left for other emotions.
The inner stairs that led up to the Great Hall were well lit with torches. The chapel was up there, too, in the forebuilding, both reached from a rather large antechamber. Another set of stairs continued to the fourth floor of the keep.
Wulfric, in his hurry, still nearly collided with the small form just leaving the chapel. It took him only a second to realize who it was, less time than that to feel his hackles rise again. The servant might be lacking in wits—there was no other excuse for the way he had dared to speak to a knight of the realm—but clearly he had avoided punishment, which did not sit well with Wulfric.
Which was why he said in a sneering tone, “Praying for forgiveness for that wayward tongue?” hoping the lad would recognize his mistake and fear the consequences so it never happened again.
But the lad faced him boldly. “Praying you would go away, but I see my prayers were not answered.”
It was too much. The fellow was a servant. Any servant would get cuffed for such insolence to a noble of the realm. Wulfric was reaching to do just that, but the boy had more or less dismissed him and turned away to enter the hall and move off to the side of it, obviously so used to saying whatever pleased him that he had no fear whatsoever that he might be taken to task.
Irate, Wulfric followed immediately after him, would have chased the lad down to the kitchens if needs be, but others in the hall sighted him and Nigel called out to him, forcing him to give his full attention to his host instead.
Seeing his betrothed with her father, however, took the edge off of his annoyance and he made his way eagerly to the Great Hearth to join them. This was another area that had seen improvements due to Nigel’s wealth. There was not one high-backed chair there, usually reserved for the lord of the castle, but four, all thickly draped with furs to add to their comfort. A low carved table sat at the center of them, a tray of refreshments on it. Other stools and benches were set about, showing that this was an area many made use of.
The fire roared softly, giving a welcome warmth for those just coming in from outside, yet the rest of the large hall was not cold. The windows, which were letting in ample light, were every one of them set with expensive glass, keeping the biting weather at bay. Huge tapestries covering the stone walls aided this as well.
It was a hall like any other, designed to accommodate most of the castle folk at one sitting, yet it was much more luxurious and comfortable than others he’d seen. The king himself would be envious of this chamber, Wulfric thought, and wondered if John had ever visited. Likely not, or he would have found some reason to confiscate it.
It did not sit well with Wulfric, that he faithfully served a king he did not like even a little. But his sentiments were not far different from every other noble in the lands. John had endeared himself to few, made enemies with many, yet he was still their king, and men of honor would keep their sworn oaths to him—until they could tolerate him no longer.
Nigel met him halfway to lead him back to the hearth. He seemed delighted that Wulfric was there, exceedingly so, effusive in his welcome.
“It gladdens my heart that you are finally here, Wulfric, for the joining of our families. Your father sent word that you were coming, but we did not expect you quite this soon, or I would have warned my daughter to prepare herself. But I see that you have met her already.”
They had reached the hearth, where the lady mentioned was standing nervously awaiting them. Wulfric made haste to put her at ease, smiling at her warmly, taking her trembling hand to bring it to his lips.
“Aye, we have met, my lord,” he said to Nigel, while he kept his eyes on the lady. “Though we have not been formally introduced.”
“I am not your betrothed, Lord Wulfric.”
She was blushing painfully as she said it, because she had not said it sooner, there in the woods when she should have. Her timidness had kept her silent, and her fear that he would be upset—he was simply too big a man for her to risk upsetting, when angry men terrified her.
Clearly he was confused now, and she was sorry for that, said quickly to explain, “I am her sister, Jhone.”
Nigel was looking confused now as well. “But you did meet Milisant—did you not? You just entered the hall with her.”
Wulfric looked back toward the entrance. He had entered with no one but that … boy. Jesu, no, please, no, that could not be her. ’Twould mean she had changed not one whit in all these years … ’twould mean he was saddled with the she-devil after all, just as he had feared.
Five
“Fetch her down here, Jhone, and see that she is dre
ssed properly for once.”
That was the order Nigel had given his daughter, the daughter Wulfric had mistakenly thought was to be his—several hours ago. ’Twas obvious that Milisant Crispin was not going to come down to the hall, dressed properly or not. For once? Jesu, did that mean the wench never dressed or behaved like the lady she was supposed to be?
Wulfric was holding his tongue so as not to insult his father’s dearest friend, but it was not easy to keep quiet when he was furious that the woman he was being forced to wed was anything but womanly. How could this man have let his oldest daughter, his heir no less, run wild like this—and get away with it?
Nigel had tried to entertain him while they waited, with stories of King Richard, whom he had much admired, and many of the wars he had participated in. He was a much-scarred old knight who had seen many a battle. He was younger than Wulfric’s father by some five years, had been young when they went on Crusade together. Guy had already married off two daughters before he went to the Holy Land, but Nigel had left only a wife behind. He had sired no children until he returned to England.
Wulfric vaguely recalled now that there was one other daughter. ’Twas not something he had paid much attention to when mentioned, his having no interest in Nigel’s other children. He had also known that Nigel’s wife had died not many years after Milisant was born, but just because the girl had had no mother to teach her the ways of a lady was no excuse for the way she had turned out. Many other ladies died in childbirth, yet their daughters were still reared properly.
They fell into an uncomfortable silence as they continued to wait. Servants came and went. The tressel tables were being set up as the dinner hour approached—and still the two women did not return to the hall.
Nigel at last sighed and said, albeit with an embarrassed smile, “Mayhap I should explain to you about my eldest daughter, Milisant. She is not what you would expect a young woman her age to be.”
That was an understatement, but Wulfric said merely, “This I did notice.”
Yet even that reply had Nigel wincing. “I have never understood why, but she has always wished she were my son, rather than my daughter. It makes no difference, she is still my heir, but she does not see it that way. She would pick up a sword and be a knight, if she could manage to wield one. It infuriates her that she lacks the strength to be as she would like. So she does other manly things instead that she can manage.”
Wulfric was almost afraid to ask, but had to know. “Other things?”
“She hunts, not as a lady might, but as a hunter would. She has mastered the use of the bow. Verily, I know of no man more accurate with one. She had figured out for herself how to defend Dunburh, if it was ever required of her to do so. Though it will never be required, she still prides herself that she could do it. She befriends certain animals that she considers unhuntable—actually, she has an uncanny way with animals, always has been able to easily tame wild things since she was a small child.”
Wulfric felt himself flushing, hearing that last. ’Twas possible, he had to admit now, that the young Milisant had owned the falcon as she had claimed all those years ago, that she’d done the taming of it herself.
“So she prefers manly endeavors. Does this mean she scoffs at womanly pursuits?”
“Not just scoffs, but refuses to have aught to do with,” Nigel said with another sigh. “I am sure you noticed her attire. ’Tis not through lack of trying that I have been unable to get her to wear the clothes she was born to wear. I give her no coin to buy her own clothes, have them made for her instead. She trades them with the villeins for the clothes she prefers. I take those away, she barters fresh meat for more. I take those away as well—Jesu, my villeins ran out of clothes, were all nigh naked that summer I tried to curb her ways.”
It would have been rude to ask why the girl was not simply ordered to do as she was told. And Wulfric was afraid to find out that she had so little respect for her father that she would have disobeyed him. But he had a right to know the worst of it—faugh, how could it be any worse than this?
“She does not realize that she looks—ridiculous, dressed as a man?”
“Think you she cares? Nay, she cares naught about her appearance. She has not the vanity you would expect a woman to have.”
Wulfric sighed now. There was no help for it, he had to ask, “Why was this allowed to happen? Why was her behavior not curbed long ago, ere it got to be so—unwomanly?”
As he had anticipated, the question caused Nigel no small bit of embarrassment. “’Tis my fault, as you may suspect. My only excuse is that I did not know Mili was not behaving as she aught to until it was too late. When my wife died, I—I lost my own reasoning. Even when I was here, I was not—here. I am not sure you can understand, the depths I sunk to in my mourning, but I have very little remembrance of those first years after she died.”
“My father has said you loved her dearly,” Wulfric remarked uneasily, for Nigel looked now as if he were sinking down into that grief again.
“Aye, I loved her, but I was not aware of how much until she was gone. My brother, Albert, God keep him, lived with us at the time. I trusted him to see to my girls, but he was a widower himself, and—and he thought it amusing, Milisant’s boyish ways, so made no effort to curb her.”
“But you said you were here—”
“Aye, but rarely sober, lad,” Nigel admitted. “And my girls would often pretend to be each other—’twas a game they played. So when I would see Jhone, I thought ’twas Milisant, and so was unaware that aught was amiss, until, as I said, it was too late. When I did finally see her as she had become, she was already set in her ways, and refused to be reined in.”
Wulfric stiffened slightly. “Refused?”
“She has much fire, my Milisant, not like her sister, Jhone, who is somewhat timid. The fiery spirit and courage she gets from her mother. ’Tis one of the reasons I have been unable to use harsh measures against her. I am afraid she knows she reminds me much of her mother and thus uses it to her advantage.”
’Twas not a father’s duty to mold his daughters as he did his sons, and to be fair, Wulfric pointed out, “No one would expect you to have trained her, yet were there no ladies here to see to it?”
Nigel shook his head. “There have been none here of high enough rank since my wife’s passing, other than those belonging to my household knights, but none of them have had the fortitude to butt heads with my daughter. When I finally came to my senses to realize Milisant was not getting the training she should have, I sent her to Fulbray Castle to be fostered there in the hopes that Lord Hugh’s lady could take her in hand. But ’twas too late by then, she had already gone her own way for too long, and after several years of trying, they sent her back with the missive that ’twas hopeless. They had tried everything they could without seriously hurting her, and mild punishments had done no good.”
Wulfric wondered if the older man realized he had described a woman who was not fit to be a wife, that no man in his right mind would want such an unnatural female … Jesu, that was the very thing that was going to get him out of this marriage. Nigel himself would feel obliged to release him from the betrothal contract. It just needed to be pointed out, and Wulfric did just that.
“I thank you for your honesty, Lord Nigel, but all things considered, think you she would make a good wife?”
To his utter disappointment, Nigel smiled now. “Aye, I have little doubt of it, that children, and a husband she loves, are all that is needful to soften her edges and make her see the error of her ways.”
“How can you be so sure of that?”
“Because that is what happened with her mother, and she is her mother’s daughter. I said my wife had a fiery spirit, yet truth be told, she was a harridan when we did first meet, full of rage and pride, with a vicious tongue that could and did slice deep. Yet love changed her completely.”
It was hard, truly hard, to keep from scoffing, yet Wulfric still remarked, “You assume she will
love me. What if she does not?”
Nigel chuckled at that, further confounding him, until he said, “There is naught that I can see wrong with you—far from it. Or do you tell me that you have difficulty with women?” At Wulfric’s flush, he added, “I thought not. And my daughter will be no different, given time, once you are the center of her life. Verily, I would trust no other than Guy’s son to have the care of my eldest, for if you are at all like your father, I know you will do right by her.”
And that ended Wulfric’s last hope of getting Nigel to void the contract. He was going to be stuck with the she-devil, because he was his father’s son, because he was not a churlish knight as some men were, because he did not beat those weaker than he as many men did, because his father had taught him differently.
He was understandably bitter, not wanting to be the trainer of his own wife, as it seemed he would have to be. Some of that came through in his next remark, if not in the tone, which he kept carefully neutral.
“Yet I must deal with her in the interim, Lord Nigel, before this hopeful change occurs. She ignores your orders. What makes you think she will obey mine?”
“Because she knows how far she can transgress with me and not suffer for it, yet with you she will not have that advantage. She is not foolish, my boy, far from it. She is merely … strange in her attitude, and in what she views as important—at this time. But what she finds important now will change once she settles into marriage.”
The father was optimistic. Wulfric was not.
Six
Jhone had a devil of a time tracking her sister down. Milisant might have gone up the stairs leading to the north tower chamber they shared, but as Jhone had suspected, instead of going there she had traversed the corridor to the west tower stairs, which would bring her back down and out of the keep entirely. And Dunburh was no small place to find her easily when she cared not to be found.
She did find her finally, in the stable, making friends with Wulfric de Thorpe’s black stallion. It was not one of the huge destriers bred and used in battle for their viciousness and willingness to trample anything in their path. Destriers did not make good traveling mounts specifically because of their lethal dispositions, and so any knight with access to a friendlier horse would reserve his destrier just for battle. But it was still a large animal, and being a stallion, had not looked very friendly—until now.