Knight's Rebellion

“He did? Why was I not told?”

“You were locked in your room finishing your book.”

“Aye, but that is no excuse for ignoring my family.”

Her mother chuckled. “I fear we are alike in that, my love. You lock yourself away with your herbs and potions, I with my metal and files.” She traced the graceful line of the dolphin that formed the base of the candlestick. For all that she was a countess, her lovely face was streaked with dirt, and the linen coif covering her head was askew, leaking strands of blond and silver hair. She’d inherited her talent at metalworking from her goldsmith grandfather. How lucky she was to have wed a man who not only understood her need to pursue her God-given skill, but bit off the head of anyone who decried his wife’s preference for goldsmithing over acting as chatelaine to their castle.

Would that I could be as fortunate, Alys thought. But then, any husband, understanding or otherwise, was denied her by the special gift that was both bane and blessing. “I know you are weary from nursing Papa though his broken leg, and I hate to add to your burdens, but I must go to Newstead. Surely we can find a way,” she added, for her parents had never denied her anything.

“I know you enjoy your visits to the abbey and have gleaned much useful information from the sisters for your books, but…” Her mouth set in a stubborn line Alys saw seldom. Doting as she was, Arianna was fiercely protective. “‘Tis too risky.”

“This is no casual visit,” Alys protested. “I have finally finished the books and would have the sisters copy them as a precaution.” From the velvet bag in her lap, she withdrew ten slender leather-bound ledgers. Lovingly she traced the gilt letters on the topmost one.

The Healing Way by Lady Alys Sommerville. Volume 1.

“Oh, Alys. What an accomplishment.” She wiped her hands on the skirt of her gown with typical disregard for the fine material and reached for Alys’s treasure. “Nay, I am still too dirty,” she remarked, glaring at her stained fingers. “Turn the pages for me, if you will.”

Alys knelt beside her and opened the book. Though the floors of the great hall on the first story were strewn with fresh rushes and those in the bedchambers just below were covered with costly rugs from the East, this garret boasted neither, for fear a spark might catch them on fire. The cold seeped through her heavy velvet gown, but she scarcely felt the chill for her excitement.

The books contained every scrap of knowledge she’d been able to amass on the subject of cures. Penned in her own neat hand, they reflected her need to bring order and logic to a subject fraught with uncertainty and, all too often, failure. “The first three contain drawings of herbs.” She turned the sheets of costly parchment, pointing with pride to the sketches she’d made of each plant, seed and blossom. “And in the second three are recipes for potions. The third group has lists of sage advice on healing, arranged by ailment.” As she spoke, Alys shuffled the books and opened each for her mother.

“This is amazing.” The blue eyes Arianna had bequeathed to her daughter sparkled with joy.

“If only Great-aunt Cici could have lived to see what use I made of the things she took such pains to drum into my head.”

Her mother smiled. “She loved every moment you two spent together. Teaching you all she knew about healing and herb craft gave her a reason to live long past what any of us expected. What of the tenth? You’ve worked on it the longest.”

“It was the hardest to write.” Alys shifted the book to the top of the pile, but didn’t open it. Her gloved hands clenched tight on the slender volume. “It’s about magic. About the healing touch of freaks like me.”

“You are not a freak!” Arianna cried, lifting a hand toward her daughter’s cheek.

Instinctively Alys leaned back. “Is it normal to shy away, even from the caress of a loved one?” she asked angrily.

“Nay, but that doesn’t make you…Oh, Alys.” Arianna bit her lip, tears welling. “I did not know it pained you so.” Her brimming gaze darted to the gloves covering Alys’s hands.

Alys ached with the need to fling herself into the soft haven of her mother’s arms, but that sweet sanctuary had been denied her from her thirteenth year, when the change had come upon her. Though her heavy clothes blocked most of the sensations, a stray touch on her bare face or neck would bring misery.

“I am sorry I said anything, Mama, for truly it does not bother me.” Most of the time. “I am used to being…separate. It helps me with my work.” Yet it cut her off from so much of life. And caused her parents untold anguish. “I am grateful for my skills, especially when I can help someone.”

“As you did your papa. If not for your gift, you never would have been able to set his leg properly.”

Alys shuddered as she recalled that awful day when her father’s squire had come racing back from what should have been a routine ride with one of the young warhorses her father had been training. “Lord Gareth’s mount bolted and they both fell into a ravine,” the lad had shouted. A rescue party had been quickly mobilized. They’d arrived to find the beloved lord of Ransford laying at the bottom of the gulch, sprawled like a broken toy.

“Your gift is heaven-sent, I know,” her mother said. “But setting the bone was even more agonizing for you than it was for Gareth.” Again her eyes strayed to Alys’s hands.

“’Tis all right, Mama,” Alys said gently. Inside the thin gloves, her hands ached with remembered torment. “It is hurtful to touch someone who is sore wounded, as Papa was, but if not for my skill, I’d not have been able to align the bones perfectly so he could walk again.” She shook her head. “Better a few hours of pain then to see Papa a…” Cripple. She swallowed the word.

“You are so brave and uncomplaining, it humbles me.”

“I am not brave. If I were, I’d be out using my gift to help others instead of hiding away writing books.”

“But your books are a help, and the healing hurts you,” said her loving mama.

“That is beside the point.”

“Not to your papa and me.”

The pealing of the tower bell intruded before Alys could protest that her gift should be shared, no matter the pain or risk to herself.

“It is time for supper.” Arianna stood and shook the metal filings from her skirts, her expression troubled. “I know going to Newstead is important to you. Let me see if I can find a way.”

Alys leapt up, forcibly reminding herself not to hug her mother. “Perhaps when Papa sees the books he’ll understand. He prides himself on being a man of logic and learning.”

“So I reminded him when his leg kept him confined to bed and he raged like a caged bear. Gareth has yet to forgive me for threatening to tie him to the bed. For his own good. He did that once to your uncle Alex, when he was being stupid.” Their mood lightened as she recounted the incident. By the time they’d descended the two sets of stairs, they were smiling and laughing.

“You two are in a good mood,” her father remarked, limping from the shadows into a circle of torchlight at the foot of the stairs. Despite his sixty years, he was an active, vigorous man, his ruggedly handsome face tanned from hours outdoors working with the warhorses he raised. Pain flickered in his midnight-brown eyes, and he still leaned heavily on a cane, but his steps were surer every day.

Needing to make some kind of a connection with him, Alys risked touching his arm. Through the rich velvet of his tunic, she felt iron-hard muscles and a surge of love so strong it nearly made her weep. Drawing back, she asked, “How are you?”

“Up and about, thanks be to your sacrifice.”

“I was glad to do it, Papa.”

“Still, it was not easy,” he muttered. When they reached the great hall, he added, “I hope you do not mind a guest for dinner. The guard brought word that a Lord Ranulf de Crecy has come, begging entrance. He has a petition for me to hear.”

“Business?” Arianna grimaced. “Oh, Gareth, you are not yet healed and cannot ride off to settle some squabble.”

“The man wants a hearing. Which I am bound to give him.” As a justice of the king’s chancery court, the Earl of Winchester was often called upon to render judgment and mediate disputes between nobles.

Alys trailed unhappily after them as they slowly made their way across the rush-strewn floor to the high table. She’d not be able to propose her own plans to her father until he was done with this Lord Ranulf. Fuming inwardly, she took the seat beside her mother and propped her chin on her hands.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows of the long, stately room, the shimmering rays bent into a dozen colors by the costly leaded glass. Bands of light fell on the brilliant tapestries depicting the triumphs of generations of Sommervilles. There had been many in the years since the first Lord Sommerville helped William of Normandy conquer England. Aye, her family had a proud heritage. The Sommerville men, and women, knew their minds and followed their hearts.

The bustle of activity in the hall caught her attention. A pair of brawny men in Sommerville livery were setting up extra trestle tables, while the maids scurried about placing manchet bread trenchers and cups at each place. Her father’s pages dodged through the throng with pitchers of wine and new ale. Ordinary as these tasks were, an air. of suppressed excitement hung on the air, along with smoke from the hearth and the scent of baking bread.

Oriel rushed up, her face flushed, her brown braids flying. She was the daughter of Ransford’s former housekeeper, Grizel, and had recently taken over her mother’s duties. “Do not fret, Lady Arianna, we’ve food aplenty for your noble guests.”

“I am not the least worried,” the countess replied. Which was probably the truth. Busy with her family and her smithing, Arianna paid little attention to domestic matters.

Alys looked over and caught her father smiling fondly at his wife. Ah, if only I might find someone like Papa. Someone who accepted me for what I am, she thought.

A commotion in the hall intruded. Ransford’s portly steward advanced down the aisle between the tables. In Edgar’s wake trailed a nobleman and a trio of roughlooking soldiers.

“Edgar’s joints must be paining him again, for his steps are halting. I shall give him some of that bryony salve to apply to his knees,” Alys whispered. “It may ease the stiffness.”

Her mother nodded. “That tall man must be Lord Ranulf. Is he not a most handsome man?”

That he was, tall and blond, with the regal bearing of one of her Papa’s warhorses. His close-fitting sapphire-blue cote-hardie emphasized the width of his shoulders and the fairness of his skin. If the quantity of jewels embroidering his tunic seemed a bit ostentatious, Alys was willing to overlook it, for he so resembled a statue come to life. The image of male perfection was marred somewhat by the stranger’s dark scowl and haughty glare.

When they reached the foot of the dais, the man waited an instant, then turned his frown on Edgar. “Will you announce me to the earl, or must I do that myself?”

Pompous, as well as pretty, Alys thought, and the newcomer fell a mark in her estimation. Her cousin Jamie was even more handsome, yet he did not pose and swagger so.

Edgar drew himself up to his full height of five feet and five inches, pounded his staff on the floor in the manner of a court herald and bawled, “Lord Ranulf de Crecy, Baron of Eastham, lord of Malpas, Donnerford and numerous lesser holdings, does beg an audience with your grace.”

“I’ll wager this Lord Ranulf never begged for a thing in his life,” Alys muttered.

“I’ll wager he never had to…leastwise not from a woman,” her mother replied with a saucy grin.

“Mother!” Alys exclaimed.

“Well, he is most wondrous to look on. With a sizable estate. Let him be your dining companion and see what comes—”

“Naught will come of it.”

“You will not know till you try.”

“How? If I cannot bear the touch of my own dear family, how could I stomach the touch of a strange man?” Alys shook her head. “It would be cruel to lead him on when I cannot wed him.”

“But if you left your gown and gloves on—”

“Even at night, in bed?” Alys sighed. “What man would want a wife he could not kiss or touch or couple with? No bed sport? No heirs?” She looked over at the handsome Lord Ranulf and then at her equally handsome sire. “Men, even those as wonderful as my papa, have not the patience or self-denial for that.” Still it was hard not to hope, to wish for what could never be.

“Excuse me for not rising, Lord Ranulf,” Gareth said. “But I am just recovering from a broken leg.”

“My condolences. Does it mend well?”

“Very. My daughter is a skilled healer.” Gareth beamed in Alys’s direction, but Lord Ranulf continued to stare at him. “What brings you to Ransford, sir?” her father asked.

“Treason,” Lord Ranulf growled.

“Treason!” The word riffled through the room, stilling the hum of pleasant conversation.

“Against King Richard?” her father asked slowly.

“Nay. This strikes far closer to home. My half brother has taken arms against me and is ravaging the land about Eastham.”

“Ah.” Her father settled back. “How comes it that you bring the matter to me instead of your overlord? Whoever that—”

“James Hartley of Hardwicke.”

“A good man,” Gareth said slowly.

“I took the matter to him some months ago, when Gowain first turned rebel, but Lord James is too busy with his southern estates to heed my troubles,” Ranulf replied, his tone flat.

“What has this Gowain done?”

“Killed the captain of my guard, attacked and burned two farms, pillaged the villages about my castle and raided every convoy bringing goods to me.”

“These are strong charges.”

“And true. Clive,” Ranulf called over his shoulder. One of the soldiers who had been standing behind him, came forward. “Tell my lord earl what transpired the day Gowain returned.”

Clive, a big, beefy man in scarlet livery, bowed to Gareth. “He killed Donald.” The soldier went on to tell how Gowain FitzWarren had struck down the captain, who was attempting to protect Lord Ranulf from harm.

“What provoked this quarrel?” Gareth asked.

“My refusal to turn Malpas Keep over to Gowain.” Ranulf held up a hand before the questions could fly. “Let me go back and explain that Gowain left home some six years ago, after a bitter argument over property with my father. Nearly a year went by before he wrote to his mother to say he’d taken a post with Sir Falsgraff and was part of the garrison defending Bordeaux.”

“You speak of your father and Gowain’s mother.”

“Gowain is my father’s bastard, gotten on the Welshwoman he brought home the year after my mother died,” Ranulf said stiffly. “There was some talk he was not even my father’s get, but old Warren was a soft man and raised Gowain as his own.”

“Your sire is dead, then?”

“Alas, eighteen months ago.”

“And his…er, Gowain’s mother?”

“Disappeared, along with a chest of my mother’s jewelry. I assumed she’d gone back to Wales. Lacking the funds to mount a war over a few baubles, I let the matter rest. Gowain returned in April. From the meanness of his clothes and armor,” Ranulf added, flicking a speck from his fine tunic, “I judged he’d fallen on hard times and come to beg a handout. When I apprised him of our father’s death, he did not grieve, but demanded Malpas Keep, which he claimed was his mother’s dower property.”

“Was it?”

“Though Elen sometimes portrayed herself as Warren’s wife and chatelaine of Eastham, there was no marriage. Thus, no part of my property was hers…or her bastard’s. Had it been otherwise, do you think she’d have run off to live in some hovel in Wales?”

“I suppose not.” Gareth stroked his chin. “I am sorry for your misfortune at his hands, but why have you come to me?”

“I’ve come to you for a ruling in your capacity as magistrate of His Majesty’s court. I want Gowain and those who ride with him declared outlaws.”

“That is a serious step. And this seems a personal matter. Can you not capture him and bring him to trial yourself?”

Ranulf’s jaw flexed. “’Tis not just a personal matter. He has aligned himself with a band of brigands who were hiding in the hills, runaway serfs and soldiers without a lord. They know every acre of land and every hiding hole in the district, and have managed to elude capture. Gowain has turned the experience he gained fighting the French all these years and now preys on his own countrymen. Is that not so, Clive?”

“Aye.” Clive’s hamlike fists clenched at his sides. “He’s a black one, is Sir Gowain, wild and bloodthirsty as any Scots riever, but canny, ye understand. He favors swooping down on unsuspecting merchants, kills the leader right quick, then forces the rest to surrender. We laid a trap for him, with my men posing as merchants. Gowain sent the leader back to us in pieces.”

A shocked silence fell over the hall.

“These are grievous charges,” Gareth said slowly.

“Aye. If you declare him an outlaw and put a writ about, those who have been helping him will cease, lest they be outlawed, too,” Ranulf said quickly.

“He can also be hanged without a trial,” Gareth muttered.

“’Tis no more than he deserves for killing innocent men, women and even children.”

“Children,” Alys whispered, appalled by the story.

“What proof do you have of his deeds?” Gareth asked.

“Proof?” Ranulf scowled. “My storage sheds lay empty, for he’s stolen my supplies. My captain is dead and others with him. Several farms have been burned to the ground.”

“Was Gowain seen perpetrating these crimes?”

“I know he is guilty,” Ranulf growled.

“Hmm.” Gareth stroked his chin. “Still, I’d not act hastily in this matter. Will you sup with us ere I think it over?”

“Of course,” Ranulf said smoothly, but his clenched fists and narrowed eyes betrayed his anger over the delay.

Nor could Alys blame him. “Papa, surely you will grant his request,” she blurted out. “This Gowain must be stopped.”

Ranulf turned and stared at her so intently her cheeks flamed. “Who is this charming lady who pleads my cause?”

“My daughter, Lady Alys,” Gareth said with pride. “May I also present to you my wife, Lady Arianna?”

Ranulf bowed deep, first to her mother, then to Alys. “You seem in need of a dining companion,” he said to Alys. Mounting the dais, he took the seat to her left.

Within minutes, Ranulfs plans changed. Oh, he still wanted Gowain outlawed and eliminated. But he also intended to wed the wealthy, well-connected Lady Alys.

Ranulf’s gaze narrowed as it wandered over the great hall’s costly furnishings, carved chairs, lavish wall hangings, pristine white tableclothes set with silver plates. The candlesticks gracing the head table were wrought of pure gold, the intricate designs matching the goblets from which they drank. He was calculating their worth when the Lady Alys spoke.

“What your brother has done is monstrous. How horrible to be turned upon by your own kin.”

“It is.” Ranulf gave her his most charming smile. She was a pretty enough thing, if your taste ran to tiny blondes got up in yards of blue velvet. Her gown was so voluminous it hid her shape completely, but her features were lovely. Not that looks mattered, when a girl was heiress to a fortune.

Ranulf had made it a point to learn all he could about the Sommervilles before coming here. He’d known about Gareth’s broken leg and that the two sons of the house were away on their father’s business. These facts had made it unlikely the earl would offer to help fight Gowain. That was the last thing Ranulf wanted. Even with a larger force, it could take months to find Gowain’s hiding place and eliminate him. Time Ranulf didn’t have.

Every day, Gowain grew stronger and more daring. Soon he might become bold enough to attack Eastham or Malpas. Precious as his castle was to him, Ranulf was more worried about Malpas. Thus far, he’d managed to keep the area cut off and the outside world ignorant of what he was doing there. If word got out…

Jesu, he didn’t even want to think about that.

“Do not groan, Lord Ranulf,” Lady Alys said gently. “I promise to aid you in convincing me father.”

“I thank you for your good wishes, Lady Alys.” He’d learned she was a healer of some repute and unwed because, if you could believe it, her parents had left the choosing of a husband to her. Now he meant to be that man. “Will you have some of the roasted fowl?” Ranulf set himself to charm. No easy task, for she was a skittish thing. The meal was an extravagant one, fit for a feast day, but she ate little and drank even less. She also had an annoying habit of avoiding contact with him. Even in such lavish surroundings, with plenty of room for the diners, it was inevitable that hands brush or thighs touch.

Despite Ranulf’s efforts to capitalize on this, Lady Alys managed to keep her distance. Even more curious, she wore gloves. They were of the finest-quality leather, thin and pale as her own lovely skin. But gloves nonetheless. Mayhap she’d been burned or she suffered a skin rash. Not that he cared. He’d have taken her if she had two heads and no legs.

“Gareth, you need to stretch out and elevate your leg,” Lady Arianna said as the servants began clearing the tables.

“I must speak with Ranulf,” the earl replied.

“Why do the four of us not repair to my solar? You could be comfortable there and converse with Lord Ranulf in private.”

Ranulf could scarcely credit his luck. Dining with an earl and now invited into the Sommervilles’ inner sanctum as though he were already part of the family. The Fates had surely smiled on him…a blood connection with a noble family, a large dowry and a toothsome bed partner to initiate in all the ways he liked to be pleasured. He was less pleased when they reached the richly appointed solar and he heard what Lord Gareth had decided.

“I regret that I cannot issue a writ against Sir Gowain without sworn warrants of his deeds,” the earl said. “It may be that someone else has done these things and implicated Gowain.”

Ranulf ground his teeth together. “Your honesty and sense of duty to the law do you justice.” And I curse them both.

Lady Alys exclaimed, “Surely Lord Ranulf’s word is enough.”

“’Tis not a matter of his word, Alys.” Gareth frowned. “Have you forgotten what nearly happened to us?” He turned to Ranulf. “Years ago, my family was wrongly accused of treason, solely on the strength of rumor and the false witness of villainous men. We managed to outwit them and unmask the true criminals, but ‘twas a near thing. Though I am certain your proof is solid, I’d not outlaw a man without making certain he is guilty.”

“But, Papa…” Lady Alys began.

“‘Tis all right,” Ranulf said. He’d rouse the earl’s suspicions did he complain. “I will provide whatever you need.”

As Lord Gareth enumerated the proofs he would require against Gowain, Ranulf took a sip of the wine, rich, smooth Bordeaux wine, not the sour stuff they kept at Eastham. When he and Alys were wed, he’d eat and drink only the finest. He’d refurbish Eastham from cellar to turret. Of course, it would never be as grand as Ransford.

Hmm. Ranulf cocked his head, considering yet another course of action. If something should happen to her brothers, Ransford and the wealth of the Sommervilles would be hers. And his.

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” said the earl.

“Disappoint me? Never. Your caution and concern are proof the king chose wisely when he named you his justice. On the morrow, I will return home and begin gathering information.”

“If you and Lord Ranulf are done, may I ask a boon, Papa?”

“Of course.” The earl gave Alys a dazzling smile.

Lady Alys lifted a velvet bag from a nearby table and withdrew from it a stack of books. Kneeling at her father’s side, she handed him the top one. “I have finished my herbal.”