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“You ever have my loyalty, Eleanor,” she replied. “That I vow. ”
ONE
Fourteen months later
June, 1167
“And thus it begins. ”
Malcolm de Monde, Lord of Warwick, drew on the reins and halted his horse. They were on a small rise overlooking the walled castle at Clarendon, where King Henry, Queen Eleanor and the royal court were currently in residence.
From here, he could see countless tendrils of smoke rising into a clear blue sky from the walled cluster of buildings. The castle rose above them, and men at arms watched from the roof. Carts and wagons trundled in and out of the main gate, men-at-arms in groups clattered over the drawbridge, and peasants and tradesmen hurried about their business in the town below.
“I detest court,” Malcolm added as he glanced over at his squire, who’d brought his horse up next to him. But Mal’s grumbling was unnecessary, for Gambert knew precisely how his master felt about the necessity of leaving Warwick in order to immerse himself in the false niceties, manipulations, and stifling closeness of the royal court.
But he had no choice. Sarah had been dead these four summers, and it was past time for him to take another wife and beget an heir. Although he could certainly do the latter without royal permission—and he was considering a particular Lady Beatrice, the heiress of Delbring—a vassal of Mal’s statu
re couldn’t wed without the blessing of the king unless he wished to be taxed and fined up to his eyes for such an impudence. Henry had to fund his continuous warring here in England as well as in France—where he and his wife had massive land holdings. Thus the king took any opportunity to impose fines and taxes and liens upon his vassals.
A shadow overhead caught Mal’s attention and he looked up in time to see a golden-brown merlin hawk shooting down from the sky. Entranced by its grace and speed, he watched as the bird skimmed over a small meadow to the north, grazing the tops of its grasses, and then with the slightest hitch in its long, low arc, jerked and then swooped back up. Now, a small creature—rabbit, most likely—dangled from its beak.
Mal watched as the hawk darted toward the edge of the meadow, likely to settle in a treetop nest to tear its meal into edible pieces. Or mayhap it was a hunter bird, trained by a royal falconer, and would return to settle on a leather cuff worn to protect the falconer’s skin from the talons. Malcolm found himself rising in the stirrups to see where the bird went—out of curiosity as much as to delay the inevitable of riding onward.
His procrastination was rewarded, for the slight addition to his height gave him a better view into the small meadow cupped by stands of pines, oaks, and other thick trees. At the edge was revealed two men, one in a slouching hood and the other bareheaded. As Mal watched, the handsome raptor landed on the ground near his master, catch still firmly in its talons. The hooded hunter knelt to retrieve the kill before the hawk finished it off. Moments later, he stood, and then, with a shimmer of wings, the raptor flew up and settled onto his outstretched hand. Even from here, Mal could see the merlin eating its reward—likely a chunk of rabbit or squirrel—from the fist of its master.
The sight couldn’t help but remind him of a girl he’d known once, when he was a squire hardly older than Gambert. Quick-witted and vivacious, with a beacon of red-gold hair that was as bold as her personality, Judith of Kentworth had nevertheless been mild and patient with the hunting birds her father bred and trained. Mal had fostered along with Gregory of Lundhame, Judith’s betrothed, at Kentworth. He’d felt the quick edge of her tongue more often than he’d landed on his arse during sword practice—and that was saying a lot. Mal was shy, light of weight and much too gangly in those years, and he’d spent more time than he cared to admit on the wrong end of a practice sword. More often than not, it was one held by Gregory.
Though his clumsiness and ineptitude had long ago been replaced by speed and skill, he still remembered the jeers and jests from his peers.
The sounds of the rest of their party approaching—the jingle of harnesses, the dull clopping of hooves—drew Mal’s attention from his memories of the past.
“Why do you stop here, my lord, when we’re so near?” asked Sir Nevril, his master-at-arms, as he joined Mal. He had his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Is aught amiss?”
“Nay,” Mal replied, gathering up his reins reluctantly. The sight of the busy, close town below already had the effect of making him feel as itchy as if he’d just donned wet wool. Infested with lice.
“Naught is indeed amiss, other than Warwick’s great aversion to all pomp and circumstance and having to lay his pallet in a chamber with a dozen other unwashed men,” jested another voice.
Malcolm made a rude gesture to his friend, Dirick, the new Lord of Ludingdon. “I cannot deny my mislike of having every breath of my days and nights managed for me while in attendance to the king. Did you not nearly miss your own father’s funeral because of the king’s demands?”
Dirick had pulled his horse close enough to Mal’s so the two sets of equine ears were nearly aligned. “Aye. The sword of loyalty’s blade can swing both ways when one is favored by the king. But I cannot complain on my latest acquisition,” he added with a cheeky grin.
“Nay, I should say not,” Malcolm replied with a wry smile. For all his time and loyalty given to Henry, Dirick had recently been rewarded with not only a title and fief, but a beautiful, well-landed heiress.
Mal had met Lady Maris and had been astounded by the fact that the lovely woman was not only comely but intelligent as well—and had no qualms about speaking her mind. His Sarah had been sweet-tempered and pretty, but there’d never been an argument betwixt the two of them in which she’d raised her voice above a modulated tone. Mal had been witness to the fact that this was not so with Dirick of Ludingdon and his new bride when Lady Maris, who had been quite heavy with child, decided she meant to ride out some distance from the walls of the keep to tend to an ill farmer. Dirick had taken exception to her intent, and a loud row had ensued, leaving Mal gawking in shock at the lady’s stubbornness.
To his further astonishment, she’d gotten her way, with Dirick insisting on accompanying her to the ill farmer whilst she—an accomplished healer— rode in a small cart, leaving his guests to their own meal. Even now, Mal mentally raised his brows at the very memory.
Still, he’d never known Dirick to be happier, and Malcolm was well aware of the benefits of having a wife to warm his bed and manage his household. This was the only reason he’d forced himself to leave the lush green meadows and velvety rolling hillocks of Warwick and his other holdings in northern England to travel to the chaos of the king’s court.
The season was early summer, and Malcolm had every intention of being back in Warwick with a wedded, bedded and—God willing—breeding woman before the first snowfall.
“Who is that man?”
Judith winced at the unexpected jab in her side and turned to Lady Ursula. The younger woman’s pretty round face was alit with curiosity. “Which man?” she asked, looking around the room.
This was not as simple a task as it would seem, for they were gathering at supper in the great hall at Clarendon. The ceiling rose high above their heads, and the vast chamber was filled with people squeezing into their seats at row after row of trestle tables. Lords and ladies, maidens, knights, monks, men-at-arms, jongleurs, bards, and acrobats, serfs, pages, and stewards—and even a small pack of hunting dogs, a trio of kestrels, and a pride of fat mousers—filled the chamber. Not to mention the noise.
It was fair deafening.
