Kim Iverson Headlee Page 6

  Forgive her? Despite his staunch Christian upbringing, he wasn’t sure he knew how.

  Thane Waldron laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please excuse my daughter, squire. I’m sure she meant no offense. She—” He glanced in the direction she had gone, withdrew his hand, and sighed. “Kendra has much on her mind.”

  “She has no wish to marry Sir Robert,” Ulfric said with a smirk.

  Alain had guessed as much. What he didn’t anticipate was the disappointment lancing his heart.

  “She has no choice. She will not bring the king’s wrath upon us.” Waldron glared at the Saxon warrior. “Neither will you.”

  Ulfric bowed stiffly. “If you will excuse me.” He jerked a nod toward Ruaud and Alain. “My men and I have a long ride on the morrow.” He stalked toward the manor house’s lower entrance.

  “A long ride—to where, if I may ask, my lord?” Alain said to Waldron after he was certain Ulfric was beyond earshot.

  “Thane Ulfric owns a holding a tenth the size of Edgarburh abutting Church lands near Glastonbury, a two-day ride west.” Waldron glanced at the setting sun, a move for which Alain felt thankful else the thane would have seen his eyebrows shoot up. “Good Sir Ruaud, I believe there is ample time to unload your gear before vespers. Of course, you and your squire are welcome to join me in the chapel. Do you require assistance?”

  After Alain translated, Ruaud shook his head. “My thanks, Thane Waldron, mais non. Alain and me, we carry—” He windmilled with both arms. “We carry all things.”

  Close enough, Alain thought with a private grin, resolving to help Ruaud improve his English. Much more of this, and he’d be forced to reveal himself just to save everyone the torture—although if Ulfric suffered, Alain wouldn’t mind.

  He rebuked himself. Ulfric might be arrogant to a fault, but he had not proven himself an enemy.

  Yet.

  As Alain stowed the brooch and began removing bundles from the packhorse, his thoughts strayed from Thane Ulfric to Lady Kendra. The forced marriage might explain much, but her actions and her father’s words implied more. He hefted his rolled-up hauberk to his shoulder, looped the saddle pack over the other arm, grabbed his shield by its straps, and turned to face a quizzical Waldron.

  “Two sets of arms, Sir Ruaud?” the thane asked.

  Alain noticed his friend was likewise laden and said, “Sir Robert sent his gear with us so he can travel more quickly.” He brandished the shield, emblazoned with the de Bellencombre rose.

  The lie burned his tongue, but it seemed to satisfy Waldron. He beckoned them to follow him up the stairs to the upper rooms. The first door on the left stood open, where a pretty, auburn-haired maidservant was emerging with an armload of linens. She uttered a squeak of greeting, dipped an awkward curtsey, and tottered down the corridor. Ruaud watched her, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Waldron took a few steps into the room, stopped, and shrugged. “Again I must apologize for my daughter.” He gestured around the chamber. “Everything seems to be in order, but she would better know how to see to your needs, Sir Ruaud. Please do not hesitate to request her assistance.” He gazed toward the narrow bed, scratching his chin. “Shall I have a pallet sent up for your squire, or will he be sleeping in the feast hall?”

  Alain relayed the question in French for Ruaud’s benefit, as well as his preference. “You snore worse than any ten men,” he concluded with a grin. Ruaud chortled. Alain executed his courtliest bow to the thane and reverted to English. “The feast hall, if it pleases my lord Waldron.” Having Ulfric’s men for company might also afford the opportunity to learn something about the outlaws.

  Waldron nodded and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Stretching on his back across the bed, dirt-caked boots and all, Ruaud clasped his hands behind his head and uttered a low whistle. “Lady Kendra is one fine filly.”

  “Indeed.” Alain paused in the task of unrolling his hauberk to give Ruaud a pointed look. “Do not think of riding her.”

  Ruaud let out a throaty laugh, slapping his midsection. “I’ve no wish to sheathe your sword in my gut.” His expression sobered, and he sat up. “So, when does Sir Robert arrive?”

  Excellent question.

  Alain worked a pole through one armhole and out the other, and hoisted it onto a tall rack. Should he confess all and be done with this stupid ruse? Go riding out as a squire and return a knight? His limited dealings with Ulfric convinced him this would be the best way to confront the thane regarding the problems occurring in his jurisdiction.

  What would Lady Kendra think? How would she react? Would she reject his mother’s brooch again? Reject him?

  Did he even care?

  Yes!

  The admission’s vehemence surprised him.

  However, he suspected that her apparent reluctance to marry Sir Robert de Bellencombre was but one of her secrets. A flash of insight showed him how to conquer those secrets, not as a knight of the Conqueror, but as himself.

  He balanced his kite-shaped shield in a corner and faced Ruaud. “Sir Robert arrives to claim Lady Kendra’s hand after Squire Alain has claimed her heart.”

  KENDRA SPENT a fitful night and woke with the disturbing realization that the tall Norman squire had dominated her dreams. Why, she had no idea, but she couldn’t stop thinking about his courtly grace and perfect English, his muscular body and handsome face, his expressive eyes and smile…and the pain she had caused, which, in spite of her hatred of Normans, prompted a twinge of guilt. She sat up and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. The images intensified.

  Weary of thrashing beneath the coverlet, she parted the bedcurtains, stood, and approached the window. Beyond the chapel’s roof, the pearly gray of dawn was staining the dark blue sky. The chapel reminded her of a task she’d left undone because her emotions had been rendered undone first by Sir Robert’s gift, then its giver. She had forgotten to change the roses on Del’s sarcophagus.

  An appraisal of the light convinced her there would be enough time to select a rose before prime if she hurried. Del would have to forgive her for being late this once. She’d have remembered had she attended vespers, but she had remained in her chamber, imprisoned by her tumultuous emotions. The tide had receded with the dawn, though an undercurrent of grief and regret remained. She doubted those feelings would ever ebb.

  She strode to the chest containing her clothes, opened it, and pulled out a plain dress and veil. Not a black veil, however. She had no desire to explain mourning attire to strangers, though the squire might understand.

  Where had that thought come from? She doubted he’d wish to speak to her in the wake of her unintentional rudeness.

  As she settled the veil over her forehead and trapped it with the silver circlet, she tried to tell herself that she shouldn’t care one iota for what he might think about her behavior.

  She propped a foot against her bed to tie her shoe. She had no business swooning over one face when she was promised to another—one that might not be half as handsome but wielded fourfold power. She had no business swooning over a Norman, period. She gave the knot a final tug before repeating the process with the opposite foot.

  Then there was her other vow, she mused as she fastened her cloak, the vow to find happiness. Sighing, she rubbed her temple.

  An image of the squire surfaced, kneeling, offering a gift. The gift hadn’t drawn her attention first. His expression had: expectant, kind, hopeful.

  Hopeful? Hopeful of what?

  She grabbed her dagger from the table near her bed, fastened the sheath to her belt, and strode for the door.

  Hopeful that Sir Robert’s gift would please her? She had to admit that it had, for it reminded her of Del. Even though the brooch had evoked painful memories, she was grateful for them.

  She left her quarters, pulled the door shut, and crept past Sir Ruaud’s chamber toward the stairway door. Anything else his squire might have been hopeful of she didn’t dare contemplat
e.

  ALAIN STOOD at a window in the hall, hands clasped behind his back, listening to the ragged chorus of snores emanating from Ulfric’s men and watching the sky lighten around Edgarburh’s chapel. Waldron’s retainers had long since left for their duties. Between the Saxons’ veiled hostility, Alain’s wariness, the hall’s chill, and the straw pallet’s thinness, what little sleep he’d snatched had been fraught with dreams of this place and of its elusive lady, of wooing her and of her reaction to the truth.

  One was a good dream, the other a nightmare.

  He laid a hand to his shoulder to massage the stiffness, hoping, no, praying to bring the former to pass and avert the latter, God willing.

  Movement in the rose garden caught his eye. He felt his lips stretch into a smile as he recognized the lithe figure. Time to start working on the good dream.

  “Up, sluggards! Time to go,” urged a rough voice. Ulfric’s, Alain realized with a start.

  Shadows still swathed the hall, but he slipped away from the window lest it betray his silhouette. He had no fear of a handful of Saxons, but neither had he the wish to provoke a confrontation. He’d endured a bellyful of that, without their leader, last night.

  With curses, groans, coughs, and cruder noises, Ulfric’s men rose and prepared to leave. Ulfric ordered them to stop by the kitchens for provisions before meeting him in the stables, and then strode from the hall. Alain waited until the last Saxon had departed before returning to the pallet for his cloak, which he draped about his shoulders and pinned with a plain iron brooch. As he passed through the doorway and crossed in front of the manor house, he prayed he’d find Kendra in the rose garden.

  She was there. So was Ulfric. The mere sight of them standing together was enough to make Alain’s blood pound. He darted behind a massive bush and parted the leafy canes to improve his view.

  “I cannot, Ulfric.” Frowning, she turned her back on the warrior, arms folded. “But I do appreciate your offer.”

  Offer? Of marriage? Alain glared at Ulfric. Hadn’t Thane Waldron made the situation plain enough to him? If not, then Alain—no, Sir Robert Alain de Bellencombre would.

  “It shall always stand, Kendra.” Ulfric turned her to face him and cupped her chin. She didn’t resist. Ulfric closed his eyes as if savoring the touch of her skin. “Remember that.”

  Ulfric lowered his hand, and Kendra nodded once. Alain relaxed fists he hadn’t realized he had clenched. Ulfric bowed and took his leave, angling toward the stables, never once glancing in Alain’s direction.

  Too bad.

  Eyes closed, he took several slow breaths. Woo the lady, he reminded himself; don’t lock horns with the competition. He suspected that she would not be won with courtly manners, a disarming smile, and flattering words, although until he could learn more about her, those paltry tools would have to suffice.

  The breeze freshened, bearing the scent of roses. Alain opened his eyes. In the strengthening light, he noticed the closest blossoms were red. Dewdrops glistened upon the bloom he selected, like tears on her cheek.

  Kendra had moved to a bench toward the back of the garden and was sitting hunched over, forearms resting on her thighs, her hair a golden curtain obscuring her face, her hands stretched before her as though cradling something. Whether she was weeping or praying, the distance made it impossible to ascertain. He approached her slowly, as if she were a skittish mare, concealing the rose behind his back.

  When he had come within a few paces, she raised her head, straightened, and slipped a silver pendant into the neck of her gown. Her eyes were dry, but their secrets had returned.

  He bowed. “My humblest apologies for disturbing you, my lady.”

  “Not at all.” The brief smile illuminating her face encouraged him to draw closer. Clasping her hands, she averted her gaze. “It is I who should apologize to you, Squire—” She looked at him, brow furrowed, and spread her hands. “Please forgive me. Sir Ruaud mentioned your name, but I’ve forgotten it.”

  Forgive her? Her innocent, winsome expression made it easy to forgive everything she’d done…or ever would do. He grinned. “Alain Bellefleur. My friends call me Alain.” He shortened the vowels and stressed the second syllable in the Norman manner, “Ah-len.”

  “Alain.” She repeated it several times as though sampling a new delicacy, making him yearn to sample her delicate lips. “A fine name.” She captured his gaze with hers and sighed. “I apologize for my rudeness, Squire Alain. The outburst was an accident. Sir Robert’s brooch reminded me of…something. I meant no offense to him.” Her eyes darkened with the intensity of some emotion he couldn’t fathom. “Or to you.”

  More secrets. So be it. As a scout he was accustomed to ferreting out secrets. “None taken, my lady. And to prove it”—he withdrew the rose from behind his back—“here is my gift to you.”

  She stared at the rose so long he feared she wasn’t going to accept it. Finally, she did. Their fingers briefly touched. Blushing, she smiled shyly, inhaling the blossom’s scent. “Thank you, Squire Alain. It’s perfect.”

  Before he could respond, the chapel’s bell tolled prime. Just as well. It delivered him from the temptation of resorting to insipid flattery. This woman didn’t need his words; she needed action. He offered his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting my lady Kendra to church?”

  She stood, sorrow again invading her gaze. “You are very kind, but—” Her chin began to quiver. She turned to retrieve something from the granite bench. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot.”

  Her head bowed, she slipped past him and hastened toward the church. He was too startled to follow her. In her fist, beside the blossom he had given her, she clutched a white rose.

  A gift from Ulfric, or had she picked it herself? If so, why?

  More to the point, why had she rejected his harmless offer of escort as though he’d suggested something improper?

  And why, he hurled at the brightening heavens, gritting his teeth and knotting his fists, did it hurt so damned much?

  AS THE chapel’s reassuring walls closed about her, Kendra felt the thundering of her heart subside. Even if the squire did choose to follow her into this house of God, she would be safe under the watchful eyes of those who had loved and protected her for as long as she could remember.

  But no place on earth could offer her sanctuary from the raging confusion of her thoughts.

  Needles of pain prompted her to look down. One by one, she unfolded the fingers clenching the roses’ stems. Blood dotted her palm, blood the same hue as the rose Squire Alain had given her. Recollection of his captivating smile warmed her cheeks.

  No doubt he believed she had rejected him again. She tried to make herself believe it too.

  Sighing, she approached Del’s sarcophagus. When she picked up the older flowers, their blossoms burst apart, releasing their perfume and scattering red and white petals across the tomb’s lid and onto the floor with a soft rustling. Too emotionally drained to do otherwise, she left the mingled petals where they lay.

  With the priest’s prayers but an echo in the back of her mind, she gazed at the white rose she had chosen this morning. Guilt had dictated the color: for failing to save Del’s life, for blaming her mother for her failure and her father for her marital predicament, for her ineffectual prayers, for her reaction to the brooch’s de Bellencombre device, and for how her reaction had affected the man who had presented the gift to her.

  She twined the stems together, feeling a fresh surge of guilt for—nay. The squire was a Norman. She could not permit herself to become attracted to him.

  The more she tried to shove him from her mind, the more persistently he invaded it.

  Perhaps Ulfric had been correct in suggesting that she accompany him back to Thornhill to enjoy a respite from the pressures of awaiting her Norman bridegroom. As Ulfric had noted, it would be a fitting turnabout for Sir Robert to be obliged to wait for her.

  The suggestion had appealed to her for that very reason, but instinct h
ad warned her against acting upon it. To sort through her emotional turmoil, she needed to spend time away from all the men in her life: her father, her cousin, her bridegroom…

  She kissed both blooms and laid them on Del’s effigy.

  Above all, she needed to distance herself from the two men exerting the most influence upon her, Del and Squire Alain.

  Kendra practiced the routine of worship while pondering her goal. She couldn’t stay away too long or folks would start to worry, especially her father. Perhaps even—nay! She must forget the squire, but a short excursion would have to suffice. But to where? For what purpose? Disappearing for too long a period without adequate reason would raise questions she had no wish to address.

  Stymied, she returned her attention to Father Æthelward, who was preaching on charity. Charity…alms, of course, presented the perfect solution. The outlying farms would benefit from the receipt of medicines, and the people always appreciated a visit from their thane’s daughter. She owned a full array of treatments for wounds and burns, sprains and breaks, fevers and chills, disorders of the stomach and bowels, and many other ailments. Anything she didn’t possess she could procure from the Edgarburh apothecary, and if she ran short, she’d make arrangements to return with more.

  For the first time in almost a year, her smile felt deep and genuine. A few days spent solving others’ problems promised the best way to make her forget her own.

  She could scarcely wait to get started.

  Her sole regret, she grumbled to herself much later, while stopped for a meal in the shade of a birch copse after leaving the third farm, was her decision to bring Rowena. The woman’s assistance had proven valuable for brewing tisanes and binding wounds, but Kendra wished she had selected a companion less prone to babble about every man within a fortnight’s ride of Edgarburh.

  Concentrating on her light meal of dried beef, bread, and ale, given by a grateful mother who claimed her son had been cured of a fever by the touch of Kendra’s hand, helped her ignore Rowena’s prattle. The mother’s claims had disturbed Kendra more profoundly than she had first realized. For if she had healed the boy, either by touch or by the herbs’ natural powers, then why couldn’t she have healed her own mother or brother?