My Lady's Choice

He followed the motion of her hands for a moment and then jerked his attention elsewhere.

“That is all it shall be,” he announced. “An arrangement. The king wants these lands and this keep made safe, so I shall make them so. But if you expect a loving husband to the bargain, you have made an unwise choice in me. When all is done, I shall remove myself to Gloucestershire and leave you to your precious Fernstowe.”

She digested that, losing the smile but holding on to her dignity. “I know I am no prize to covet, sir. My mother warned me well not to expect more than I was due or I would suffer for it. I need nothing from you but your sword once you are mended.” She rose to leave.

“Hold a moment. We are not done with this. Where is this mother of yours? Dead?”

“Nay, she took herself to a convent just after my father was slain.”

“A right good place for a woman who belittles her own child,” he said. “I do hope she acquires a smattering of kindness along with her vows.”

Sara jumped to her dam’s defense. “My mother was not unkind! She did not belittle me! She merely spoke the truth!”

He sat up straight and swung his legs off the side of the bed. “By disparaging your worth?”

Sara shook her head, uncertain what to say next.

“Do you seek sympathy from me with this tale? Or do you expect me to gainsay her and shower you with compliments? Very well then. You are beautiful. Beyond compare.” He tossed his head and scoffed. “As though you do not know it!”

Sara’s mouth dropped open. What did he mean, spouting this nonsense? “You speak of my mother’s unkindness and then you mock me?”

He narrowed his eyes and shook his finger at her then, as though she were a fractious child in need of chastising. “You mark me well, madam, I hold beauty in contempt. It means less than nothing, do you hear? Nothing!”

“You taunt me, sir,” she said, more hurt than angry, but she was that, too. “I accept that you do not want me as wife, but it is a done thing! So let it be!” With that, she whirled around and quit the chamber.

Richard regretted the conversation. Though he believed his ire justifiable under the circumstances, he found no excuse for destruction of the woman’s pride. She thought he objected to the marriage because of her face. He did not want her to believe that, but he could hardly give her his real reasons. He didn’t even like to admit them to himself.

He covered his eyes with one hand and exhaled all the pent-up fury in his lungs. When he had done so, only despair remained, and that so invasive, he almost prevented himself drawing in another breath. Yet, he could not afford to die. Good Lord, he had too many people dependent upon him; aging parents, his young children, the folk on his father’s estate and that of his son. Now, thanks to that king of his, he had acquired a wife and her assorted problems.

Though Richard never shirked responsibility, he did resent shouldering his older brother’s load. Had the errant Alan assumed what was rightfully his as he should have done, Richard would never have had the task of managing an estate that he would never really feel was his own. And he would not have had to wed in order to add the necessary pasturage needed to make Strodesouth turn profitable.

Though if he had not married, Richard recalled, Christopher would not exist, and having his son proved one of the finest joys in his life. The other was Nan, of course. Sweet little Nan.

Since he must remain here and do as the king had ordered, Richard wondered who would see to things at home. He had planned to be there in time to arrange for the shipping of the wool. Now he would not.

Richard forced himself to his feet again. He had to recover his strength as rapidly as possible and lying abed was no way to do that. Each halting step wrung new agony from the wound in his chest. He knew from experience that the grunts he uttered now would lessen in frequency as he became accustomed to the pain. The discomfort would sharpen his wits and banish the lethargy that fostered his current feelings of frustration. He needed to move, get things done. God only knows there were enough of them.

“You will come unstitched and bleed yourself out!” came the dulcet sound he both craved and dreaded. She was back again.

He turned too quickly and nearly fell. “What do you here?”

“What else?” She shrugged, holding out both hands, palms up. “To make amends. You must excuse my temper.”

“Do not tell me what I must do!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Comes from issuing too many orders, I would think. There’s been no one else to do so for some half a year now, since my father died.”

In trying to quell the urge to fall down and faint, Richard held his breath for a moment. He released it on a question. “Why?”

“The Scots who killed my father also wounded his steward. He died later of infection. My mother left for the convent immediately after the funeral. The old priest died of age just recently. Eustiss would help me, but no one pays mind to his words. He is a Scot himself, after all, and most resent his telling them what to do. So, everyone looks to me, and there you have it.”

Here he had it. He nodded. “Sit,” he demanded. She did so, appropriating a stool near the fire hole while he shuffled to the chair she usually claimed.

“First of all,” he said, “we must address the attacks. I would call to arms all who are able to wield a weapon and assess their abilities. Training will take time, but I have no other recourse than to make defenders of those capable of it.”

She nodded and smiled her approval.

“No lord can be everywhere at once and the Scots take advantage of that fact. They attack the most vulnerable, those who would offer the least opposition. We must provide that resistance.”

“True,” she agreed with another succinct nod. “When would you begin?”

“Immediately, of course,” Richard answered, leaning on the armrests and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “The sooner the better.”

“Today?” she asked, unbelieving. “But you are not well enough! How do you expect to train a troop of men to fight when you can hardly stand without assistance?”

“I will do what must be done, my lady, and I, not you, shall decide what that might be!”

She leaped from the stool and paced, kicking her skirts out of her way with each step. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Undo all I have done for you, then. Ride out if you will. Challenge old Alan the True himself if you should happen upon—”

“Who?” Richard barked. “Whose name did you call just now?”

She stopped midstride and turned on him. “Alan the True, scourge of Bannockburn and friend to the old Bruce. Have you not heard of him? I assumed the king knew that he is the one we all dread.”

Richard felt his heart turn to cold lead, weighting down his very soul. Edward’s test of his loyalty was no longer an idle supposition, but a near certainty. “He may, though he has not mentioned him to me. Question is, my lady, what have you heard of this man? You are saying he is the one behind these raids?”

Her eyes took on a hatred so intense he marveled at it. When she spoke, her words contained pure venom. “That one boasted of his name to our men whom he left lying wounded in the wood. After he slew my father, he made certain all would learn of his deed.”

Her voice grew quiet with determination. “If you do nothing else when you are sound and hearty, my good sir, I would you brought me this man’s head. Do this, and I shall grant you anything that is within my power to give.”

Richard clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He dared not speak for fear of what he might say.

The woman could not know what she asked of him. Or perhaps she did. And he had small doubt that the king knew it also.

Richard wondered if Edward had brought him north for the sole purpose of pitting him against Alan. The wounding had not been planned, of that Richard was certain. However, it did seem fortuitous that the incident had left him in this particular place and with the responsibility of handling this border trouble. This, rather than the marriage itself, was to be his supreme ordeal.

Sara of Fernstowe wanted retribution for her father’s death and the king wanted rid of the threat to the Middle March. They could have conspired to accomplish both goals, using him as the instrument. Or all of this could be coincidental.

Not likely. But no matter what the circumstance, Richard could not do what they wished. Leastwise, not the way they wanted it done. Not for his king’s approval, not to satisfy his own resentment, and certainly not for this woman’s revenge, would Richard slay his own brother.

Chapter Three

Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.

His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.

Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.

Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.

He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.

Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.

Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.

“He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”

Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.

Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.

Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.

Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.

“So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself did I possess the skill.”

“Make no mistake, I shall find him,” Richard answered, glancing up at her.

He did not expect this marriage of his to offer anything in the way of happiness. That would be a foolhardy hope, indeed. But if Sara did not already know, he had to wonder what this bloodthirsty wife of his would resort to once she discovered the man who boasted of killing her sire was her husband’s brother.

Sara fought to control the feelings that rose in her breast each time she thought on her father’s death. Lord Simon had been the best of men, undeserving of a horrid death at the hands of the marauding Scots. Had she been a man, they would all be dead now. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, regaining her calm.

Her husband appeared preoccupied, but no longer unduly angry. Now might be as good an opportunity as any to attempt the establishment of a friendship. The task would be hers alone, for he would never initiate such a thing.

There was an excellent basis to build upon, however. They had a common enemy and like goals, even if his had been set for him by the king.

Though she wanted more from Sir Richard than he would give, all willing, Sara knew she would get nothing at all if she did not befriend him first.

She reached inside herself and drew out a smile she did not feel. Over the years she had learned that even a forced display of contentment did much to help dismiss agitation within herself.

“I would caution you again not to move too quickly in taking up your duties as lord, lest you overtire,” she said. “But I can see that you must feel better since you have dressed yourself. Would you take your meals in the hall with our folk come the morrow? We could speak more then of gathering the men and planning our strategy.”

“Um,” he answered, still lost in other thoughts, troubling ones by the look on his face.

“You might sit in the pleasuance a while and take the sun, if there is any to be had. What think you?”

“What?” he asked, finally abandoning his distraction, whatever it had been.

Sara laughed a little. “My, but you do turn a woman’s head with all of this attention!”

He attended her than, surveying her head to toe and back again. Only when his gaze held hers once more did he speak. “You seek attention, do you? Of what sort?”

Sara sat down again and smoothed her gown flat over her knees. “Whatever you wish to give, Richard. I demand nothing of you.”

He rested his head against the back of the chair and regarded her through narrowed eyes. His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrests. “Then let us clearly mark what I demand of you.”

Sara bristled, but she thought she hid it well. Was this a test of some kind, or did he mean to order her life as though she were a servant? Many noble women lived as such, she knew. Her own mother would have been one of those had not her father been disposed to kindness.

“Make your list of dictates, then. Are they in such number as I would need to write them down?” she asked, idly twisting the end of her corded belt.

One corner of his mouth rose in a half grin. “You have a sharp tongue, Sara of Fernstowe. Rather cutting when you wish it to be. Unfortunately, that is too often. You might keep it behind your teeth, for a start.”

“I might,” she said, not committing to it.

He raked her clothing once more with a look of disdain. “And I should not like you garbed in rags again now that I see you possess better.”

“As you wish,” she agreed. “However, ’tis not thrift in any measure to ruin good clothing. I only dress so modestly when I am about those tasks as require hard work.”

One eyebrow rose in question. “Tasks? Such as?”

She smiled sweetly. “Tending the wounded, for an instance.”

He did have the grace to show chagrin at that, assuring her he did have a conscience. “Point well-taken. I have not yet thanked you properly for tending me. Be assured, you shall have a gift.”

“The king gave me one,” she replied with a lift of her chin. “You.”

With a quick exhalation of what seemed disgust, he turned his gaze away, blinked hard, and then looked back again. “I repeat, I would you attire yourself appropriately whenever possible.”

“Of course.” Sara had not thought Sir Richard a man of vanity, but she supposed most men would not like to have their wives give cause for embarrassment should they have unexpected company. What would he have thought if he had seen her dressed for their wedding? A grin escaped her at the imagining.

“What amuses you so?” he demanded, his voice brusque with offense, as though she were laughing at him. Sara supposed she was in a way, but also at herself.

“Life becomes unbearable if you overlook the ridiculous,” she advised him with a knowing look. “I would have leaped from the tower years ago had my good humor deserted me. Why so glum?”

Richard scoffed and shook his head. “You need ask?”

“Oh, come now. You say you have property, wealth. Now you have added mine to it. You have children, a great king to serve. Your health improves by the day. A homely wife is not the end of the world, you know,” she admonished, still grinning. “I might not set any hearts athump with passion, but I can converse as well as any man. What say we strike a companionship here instead of suffering over your dented pride?”

He watched her for a time as he sat there all unmoving. “You are sadly misinformed as to your appeal, madam. And a bit mad, I believe,” he finally stated.

She laughed outright and let it die to a chuckle. “Aye, with that dour disposition of yours, you would think me daft. What has made you as you are, I wonder? Tell me, have you never a cause for levity?”

Those dark eyebrows made a V over his eyes. “Now and again, but not since I came here.”

With a long sigh and a shake of her head, Sara rose from the stool and approached him. “Then we must find you one, for I would see you smile.” She reached out and dared to touch his brow, brushing away the lock of dark auburn that had fallen out of place. “Can you not?”

With a move quick as lightning, he grabbed her wrist. “Do not touch me.”

While his grip did not hurt, it was quite firm. “Very well,” she whispered, not missing the unexpected flare of hunger in his eyes. It gave her hope enough to persist. “But how are we to manage a marriage between us if we never touch?”

Carefully he moved the wrist he held so that it rested against her own body, near her hip. Then he released her, his fingers unclenching slowly and closing in upon themselves as his hand retreated.

In a measured tone, his desire now well concealed, he replied, “I shall fulfill the king’s wishes on the matter of the Scots. And I will see to your estates as if they were my own, so long as I remain here.”

“But we are not to cohabit as man and wife, is that what you are saying?”

He nodded once, his hands gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You wish me to be blunt? Very well, I shall be. You made a bad move wedding a man who wants no wife.”

“What of children?” she offered hopefully.

“Another excellent reason to abstain. I already have some.”

She lowered her eyes. “And I do not.”

“So be it. You’ll have no cause to bemoan the state of your ruined body or your lost hours of idleness.”

Sara placed her hand over his, the one that had gripped hers only moments ago. “That wife of yours must have wronged you foully, Richard. I would not.”

“Leave me,” he ordered, and jerked his hand away. “And do not broach this matter again, for I would not speak of it further.”

Sara shrugged. “As you will. But, be that as it may, we could be friends, could we not?”

He did laugh then, bitterly. “Good God in heaven, you are the strangest woman I have ever met! And the most determined. Have you no pride at all? Here I have said that I will not bed you! I have denied you children! And still you want to be my friend?”

“I do,” she admitted. “It makes more sense than not.”

He blew out a huff of frustration, or perhaps disbelief. “You ask for a man’s death in one breath and laugh in jest the next. You leap from slayings to beddings without pause to breathe. What am I to think of you?”

“So long as you do think of me,” Sara declared. “Your anger will fade eventually. I would be a wife in truth, Richard. One who will love you if you let me. Your children, those you have and those we might make, would provide great joy for me, not cause for complaint. Think me mad for that, if you will,” she said reasonably, “but do think of me.”

She watched his face as he took in all that she had said. When his expression offered her no hope of succeeding in her mission today, she quietly turned and left him alone.

He would come around to her way of thinking, she decided. It would take time and great effort on her part, considering how wronged he felt, but she would not give it up.

He spoke of her having no pride, and she supposed it must seem so to him at the moment. If he only knew that pride of hers. It would be the thing that kept her at him until he admitted to himself that he needed her. He might never love her as he had loved that first wife of his, but Richard did need her. She had seen it in his eyes.

Think of her? That request certainly unleashed all the dormant humor within him. He felt like laughing uproariously at the moment. At himself. Here he sat, hardly able to rise from the damned chair unassisted, and yet his traitorous body was raging with lust.

Did she know what she had done to him with her uninvited touches? Could she see the turmoil she aroused in him with her passion for justice, that she compounded it with merry laughter, even though at his own expense? And that offer of love, so sweetly made, her crowning touch. Witch.

Richard allowed himself a groan of agony as he pushed out of the chair. The pain in his chest ought to take his mind from his other ache, but it did not. He made it to the bed and lay down. The fullness of his body still mocked him. Richard cradled his head on his hands and stared at the canopy above.

Of course Sara knew her effect on him. Women learned such things early on. They were female weapons, those enticing tricks. Evaline surely had used hers well enough when it suited her. A man could excuse his gullibility when he was but eighteen or twenty. However, Richard had believed himself immune to those devices at the age of twenty-seven.

Again he studied the length of his body, willing himself back to a normal state. Control the mind, control the action, he thought to himself.

The long year of celibacy had no doubt prompted the reaction to this new wife of his. After that one unplanned coupling with a willing chambermaid last Michaelmas at a Dover inn, he had sworn off altogether. Unlike a noblewoman, a common wench might be pleasurable and pleasured, but Richard always regretted such occurrences afterward.

He worried that such women would feel that he took advantage of his station as a noble. He had done that once, prior to his first marriage. The resulting child, labeled a bastard, had suffered for his mistake, even if the mother had gained by it.

His own mother had been a commoner, a former servant of his father’s first wife. Richard knew well that the indomitable Janet never let any man use her ill, noble or otherwise. She had wed his father to look after the man, fulfilling a deathbed promise to her lady, Alan’s mother.

Though the marriage had proved long and successful, Richard had not failed to note the barbs his mother suffered because of her former status. He had decided never to wed a woman not of his station and cause her that kind of hurt.

Neither had he intended to wed another of his own kind. Without exception, they were either power mad and conniving like the ones he had met at court and in his travels with the king, or else they were like the angelic Evaline.

She had been perfect, of course. Chaste, above reproach, serene and so lovely it hurt to look at her. Evaline had possessed a cool, passionless nature, which everyone knew was a most admirable trait in a noble wife. By all rights, he should have loved her beyond all reason. Instead of appreciating her natural reserve and dignity, Richard had thought her aloof and cold. He had been at fault, not Evaline. He only realized that after she had died.